Mac's Angels: The Last Dance: A Loveswept Classic Romance

by Sandra Chastain

  Then he would come out, fix her with that blue stare, nod like a robot, and leave.

  She’d tried being nice to him, reminding him they’d gone to high school together and sat by each other in Algebra II and Trig. She’d tried ignoring him. She’d tried glaring at him and even, one embarrassing day, flirting with him. Nothing made a difference.

  He didn’t speak to her. Not at all, not ever, not under any circumstances. It was extremely weird, and it drove her nuts.

  Caleb was way too casual about it.

  Don’t send me to Louisville with him, she’d begged. He hates me.

  No, he doesn’t, Caleb had said. I’m positive he doesn’t hate you. You two just need to work it out between you.

  She didn’t know how to work it out, but she refused to let Sean get to her. This job was the big chance she’d been waiting for—her opportunity to get out of Camelot and see new places, rub elbows with interesting people, become somebody independent of Levi and Caleb. Her own somebody.

  Judah Pratt saw her potential. The singer-songwriter had asked for her specifically. And okay, yes, maybe Judah’s interest in her was largely carnal, but an opportunity was an opportunity. She’d only been in his Chicago apartment for half an hour when it arrived: he’d announced that he would hire Camelot Security, but only if he could have Katie.

  He’d said it just like that, too. Only if I can have Katie. A week later, the memory retained the power to send shivers skittering up her spine.

  Or it usually did. It was a little hard to get swept up in her Judah fantasies with Sean sitting next to her, emanating stony disapproval of … something. Her being assigned to work with him. The way she breathed. Her boots. Who knew?

  “Katie?” Caleb interrupted her reverie.

  “What?”

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  “Sure.” She rewound her brain, hoping to locate some phantom memory of what he’d said when she wasn’t paying attention. Nada. “What did you say?”

  “When did you stop listening?”

  “Uh, payroll?”

  “Never mind. The upshot is, you’ve still got your old job when you come back.”

  “Yeah, but after I completely blow your socks off, you’ll need someone else to do my old job.”

  “Please don’t try to blow my socks off. Be safe.”

  “Right, right.” She turned into the gas station. “I’ve got to go.”

  “One last thing.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to keep your distance from Pratt.”

  “Caleb—”

  “No, I’m serious. Sean, I need your help here. Keep the guy away from my sister. I don’t trust him not to take advantage.”

  Katie pulled to a stop beside a pump, her blood boiling. There was overprotective, and then there was stifling. She loved Caleb and all, but she wasn’t about to let him smother her to death.

  Sean had turned to look at her. He had the most astonishing eyes. Dark, dark blue, with thunderstorms in them.

  She lifted her chin. “That isn’t necessary,” she told Caleb.

  “I think it is.”

  “No, it isn’t. If Judah wants to take advantage of me, I’m all for it.”

  Sean blinked.

  “Katie,” Caleb said, a note of warning in his voice.

  “Stop. You don’t want to have this conversation any more than I do, so just drop it, okay?”

  Sean got out of the car. Katie watched him go, uneasy but resolved. It was hard enough to defeat her own internal censor. She didn’t need two men dog-piling on to judge her ability to make decisions about her own freaking sex life.

  Not that she had a sex life.

  “Believe me, I would love to drop it,” Caleb said. “But I don’t think I can.”

  “Try. I’m a grown woman. I have condoms. I think I’ve got this under control.”

  Sean tapped on the passenger-side window and pointed toward the gas tank. Katie popped the fuel door for him, and he swept one open palm in the direction of the gasoline options. “The cheap stuff,” she said, loud enough for him to hear her through the window. He nodded and turned his back on her.

  “I don’t imagine you care,” Caleb said carefully, “but I think your sleeping with Judah is a bad idea.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “It’s unethical.”

  Now that was just unfair. Six months ago, Caleb had asked Katie if she thought it would be unethical for him to get involved with a client. She’d thought about it and told him no—that it depended on the situation, and in the situation he and Ellen had been in, it was fine.

  She’d come to the same conclusion about this Judah job. It would be one thing if Judah were traumatized by fear, quaking in his boots and relying on Katie to keep him safe, but that just wasn’t the case. She was along for the ride. Why not make the ride a little more enjoyable—especially when Judah had made his interest in climbing aboard more than clear?

  Maybe it wouldn’t be the smartest move of her life, or the most romantic, but “romantic” wasn’t what Katie was looking for from Judah. If she had to pick one adjective to describe what she was looking for, it would be “torrid.”

  Or “inadvisable.” She’d never had inadvisable sex before. She’d had Levi, the high school sweetheart who’d given her every single one of her firsts: first kiss, first sex, first orgasm, first wedding, first abandonment, first divorce.

  Considering that Levi had walked out on her almost two years ago—two long, transformative, sexless years—and the ink had finally dried on her divorce papers a few weeks back, “torrid and inadvisable” sounded like just the ticket. Katie wanted to throw herself headlong into new experiences, skate the edge of recklessness, flirt with disaster.

  All while behaving safely and responsibly, of course. No need to get Caleb’s panties in a twist.

  Her brother was silent. He seemed to be waiting for a reply to a question she wasn’t sure she’d heard him ask. She tried out another “Mmm-hmm.”

  “I didn’t even like the guy,” he said.

  “I noticed that.”

  “You can do better.”

  Judah had unruly black curls and huge, dark eyes. He had a low, sexy voice that she loved to listen to when she was tired, lonely, and in need of a glass of wine.

  And maybe it was starry-eyed of her, but she felt as though she already knew him from his music. When he’d said he wanted her on the case, she’d hoped it was because he shared that feeling of familiarity, and their deep, instant connection would lead to awesome conversation and multiple orgasms.

  But really, she’d settle for a less-than-mystical experience if it meant she finally got some action.

  “I don’t think I want to do better,” she said.

  “Fine.” Caleb sounded resigned. “I’ll stay out of it. But I’m going on record as strongly disapproving.”

  “Got it.”

  The gas pump shut off with a hollow mechanical thump, and Sean turned to the machine to wait for a receipt, shoulders hunched against the January chill. The wind ruffled his short blond hair and turned the tips of his ears red. He had to be freezing his ass off out there.

  Katie was hoping Louisville would be warmer than Camelot had been lately. It was only a four-hour drive, but Kentucky was the South, right? Gray skies and freezing rain had been haunting central Ohio for so long, she could hardly remember what the sun looked like.

  All week, she’d been dreaming of Kentucky bluegrass. Totally unrealistic, given the time of year and the fact that she was about to spend the weekend in some dank, beer-piss-smelling nightclub, but she couldn’t turn the daydreaming off. Her mind had a mind of its own.

  “Let me talk to Owens,” Caleb said.

  “What for?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Is it about work or my personal life?”

  “Also none of your business.” His voice had gone all clipped. She wasn’t getting anything else out of him.

  She t
ried anyway. “C’mon, Caleb. It’s my phone.”

  “Put him on.”

  “Yeah, fine. Okay.” She jimmied the phone out of its cradle and leaned way over to open the passenger-side door a crack. “Caleb wants to talk to you.”

  Sean took the phone, and she closed the door, not wanting any more cold air to get into her toasty car than necessary. He walked ten feet away and lifted the phone to his ear.

  She imagined what he’d sound like if she could hear him. He had an unusual way of shaping words. Every syllable came out perfectly enunciated, as if he had nothing better to do than tumble the sounds around his tongue.

  She liked listening to him talk. Yet another reason it chapped her hide that he wouldn’t speak to her.

  After a minute, he disconnected the call and folded himself into the car. He was too tall for a compact. Too broad, too. He brought the cold air in with him, and she could feel the chill coming off his black leather jacket and soaking into her right shoulder.

  “You good to go?” she asked, putting the car in gear and releasing the emergency brake.

  He nodded, eyes straight ahead.

  “You wanna drive?” They’d already begun rolling toward the exit. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  If he thought she was funny, he didn’t show it. Instead, he waved her on, settled back in his seat, and closed his eyes.

  Sean Owens: World’s Most Boring Copilot.

  One of her favorite Judah songs came up on the stereo, so Katie cranked the volume and started to sing along, bouncing gently up and down in a low-key car dance.

  Caleb couldn’t spoil this for her, and neither could Sean. Nervousness be damned—she was on a mission. She had sixty miles left to drive, a job to do, a future to claim.

  Plus, if everything went according to plan, she was going to get laid this weekend.

  This trip was the single most exciting thing to happen to her in a long time.

  Read on for an excerpt from Mary Ann Rivers’s

  The Story Guy

  Tuesday, 4 a.m.

  I scroll back down through the photos and description again, looking for a reason to avoid contacting the seller, but there isn’t one. Blond, beautifully made, and I can tell, even though the pictures were taken under bad lighting with a shaky hand. I nearly convince myself that this mid-century dresser is exactly what I want, but I don’t click the link to the seller’s email. It’s true that in the very worst case, I drive somewhere unfamiliar and stand awkwardly in someone’s entry way or garage or shed while I struggle to find a polite way to refuse. It’s imagining that potential moment, thick with polite embarrassment, that prompts me to close the listing. The solemn main menu of the MetroLink homepage blinks back.

  My cell phone lights up the corner of my bed where it’s slipped under the sheets. There’s only one person who would call me at this hour.

  “I think you keep me as a friend so you have someone to talk to when you’re with the goats.”

  Shelley laughs. “You’re not wrong. The ladies rarely have much to say, and Will won’t talk to me until he’s had more coffee.”

  I stretch out on the bed and watch a moth settle itself into the shadows gathered on the ceiling. I can hear the muffled and mysterious noises of Shelley’s task, a bleat from one of her little milking goats. “I might have been asleep this time, you know.”

  “Carrie.” Shelley laughs, sounding a little far away since I’m probably on speaker. “I know you.”

  “You do.” She does.

  “Yesterday was hard,” she says, her voice gentle. It was hard. I am sleepless at an unreasonable hour fit only for happy women and happy men tending their spoiled goats.

  “I’m not sure what was so hard about it, exactly.”

  “Did you call your parents?” she asks.

  “I did.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Not much. They were disappointed, naturally, but understand. As always. In half a minute they started re-planning the trip as a second honeymoon for themselves.”

  “Haven’t they already had, like, four second honeymoons?”

  “Six, actually.”

  Shelley laughs. “I love that. Your parents are like the patron saints of happy marriages.”

  “You’re not doing so bad yourself.”

  “Hey Will, didja hear that? We’re happy!” Shelley laughs again, and I hear Will grunt, but then there is also a suspicious little bit of breathy quiet coming over the line.

  “Guys! That better be the goats kissing. Jesus.”

  “Sorry. Hey, Carrie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Of course. People have breakdowns at work over nothing all the time.”

  “Stop that. It’s not nothing.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Shelley is my colleague at the Metropolitan Library, where I’m happy, where I love the kingdom of teen collections over which I reign, except today, when in the middle of everything, I wasn’t. Shelley was reconciling my circulation report. Like always. Like every Tuesday. We were talking about me taking vacation time.

  “I mean, sure. That sounds nice.” Shelley enlarged my circulation report and corrected a cell in the spreadsheet with an efficiency that reminded me of wren tucking grass into a nest.

  “Nice?” My thumb painfully picked up a sliver of wood from the teen collections desk, where I was gripping the edge too hard. That must be why my voice had been so hard.

  “Yeah, nice. I’ve never vacationed with my parents, but you like yours, right?”

  I do like them, actually, but something felt a little numb around the edges of my thoughts. Why? “Yes.”

  “Awesome. Block out the days. Go, cruise, take pictures of Alaskan icebergs—”

  “Glaciers. Not icebergs. Glaciers.” The sliver was deep and drove deeper as I tried to work it free. I’m certain that’s why there were tears in my eyes. I felt Shelley push in close to me, saw her dark fall of hair in my periphery. But I continued to work the sliver, because I knew if I looked at her, I’d break apart, right there in teen collections, for no good reason I could understand.

  “Hey,” she whispered.

  I shook my head. Pushed the sliver in farther.

  “Carrie. Look at me. Come on.”

  “Can’t.”

  She laughed, just a little. Because Shelley is happy. Because what else is there to do when you recognize the signs of an inexplicable breakdown? “Carrie. Seriously. Also, there isn’t anyone here right now. It’s okay.”

  When I met the obvious sympathy in her gaze, it’s how familiar she looked that unfastened the sob from my throat. Or at least that’s what I told myself, swiping the tears away. “Fuck.”

  “Oh, Carrie.” She gently lifted my glasses away, making it worse. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Is something going on with your parents?”

  “No. I just talked to them. They’re great, as usual. Looking forward to the trip.”

  “Here? Is it something here at the library—work stuff?”

  “No. It’s awesome here.” I stuttered over another sob. “I love it here.”

  “It’s my fuckup with the glaciers, right? What’s the difference, anyway? Are icebergs little glaciers, like baby glaciers that will be big glaciers someday but have to heave up on a continent or something?”

  My confusion momentarily eased up my breathing. “What?”

  She passed me a tissue. “You don’t want to cruise with your parents, do you?”

  I looked at my sliver, but couldn’t see it because my thumb was now so mangled and sore. The numb-around-the-edges feeling had spread out over everything. “No,” I whispered. “I don’t think I do.” I looked back at Shelley, who was leaning against the counter, head in hand.

  “Finally.”

  I sat down on a stool, suddenly exhausted. “What do you mean?”

  “What are you going to do ab
out it?”

  And I’m still not entirely certain what she meant, except that I couldn’t go with my parents on a cruise to Alaska. Now, I listen to the little sounds raining through the line from Will and Shelley’s tiny milking barn.

  “Carrie?”

  “I’ll be okay, Shelley. It’s a funk, that’s all. Lady of a Certain Age funk.”

  “Hmm. There are certain … cures for such a thing, you know.”

  “Oh, I know you know, Shelley,” I say, hearing Will laugh in the background, “but I think we’ll save that talk for another time.”

  “Try to sleep, Carrie. Really, even just a little before work.”

  “See you in a few hours.”

  I slide the phone away and try to focus on finding the moth, but it’s hidden itself too well.

  All I can hear through my open windows is the hum from the streetlights. The bar anchoring the apartments next door had last call more than an hour ago. It won’t be long before my next-door neighbor, a third-shift nurse, stumbles into her apartment and cranks on her shower, the hot water banging its way up from the basement.

  The computer on which I was browsing for furniture I have no room or use for has made my lap hot and my eyes tired, but I just drape my body into a new position over the duvet and adjust my glasses. The breeze is just cool enough to feel good combing through my short curls, luffing the T-shirt I’ve worn to bed.

  I hover my arrow over another menu item on MetroLink. Other than “Furniture for Sale,” it’s the only option contrast-shaded purple, proving I’ve visited it before. “Men Seeking Women.”

  I love MetroLink personals, but not the way my friends do, as a source of entertainment at the expense of the lovelorn who can’t afford or won’t subscribe to a “real” online dating site. I read only the men’s personals, and I read them the way I might ritually eat a favorite candy bar. I start with the Casual Encounters section and all of the horny out-of-town businessmen and drunk college boys posting dick pictures and rough invitations.