by Marina Adair
“What I know is that my niece, angel that she is, has taken to sleeping in your bed. If I remember correctly, right smack-dab in the middle of you and your sexy wife. Seems like a full bed makes for lonely nights.”
Brody ran a hand down his face. “Don’t even get me started. Now Caroline says she wants a dog for her birthday. One of those little fluffy accessories that shit in your car and piss on your boots.”
Hunter smiled. He knew exactly the kind of dog his niece wanted. Had shared a bed with one for three years. “Wait until you catch it watching you have sex.” He let loose a low whistle, and Brody sagged. “What you need is some much-needed alone time with that lovely wife of yours.”
Caroline was almost four and having a hard time adjusting to life without Big Daddy.
They all were.
Cash had cut back his tattoo business to part-time so he could help keep the bar going, Brody had taken over booking the local talent, and their youngest brother, Wade, was dealing with all the legal issues. So if Caroline asked for Hunter to babysit, then he’d babysit.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t give Brody a hard time about it first.
“It’s been five months. Five months! Do you have any idea how long that is for a man who shares his bed with a smoking-hot wife?”
Once upon a time, Hunter had had his own smoking-hot wife, and sharing a bed with Hadley had been beyond fun. Too bad they’d never been in the same place enough to play tangled-sheets tag all that often.
“I just want one night full of foreplay followed by mind-blowing sex, but my daughter is the human equivalent of the walls of Jericho. My hands are blistered, for Christ’s sake,” Brody admitted.
“Sounds like your teen years all over again,” Hunter joked, almost feeling sorry for the guy.
Almost.
Because not only did Brody have a smoking-hot wife, an adorable daughter, the dream career, and the fucking white picket fence—he’d also found a way to make it all work. So yeah, it had been a rough few months, but his cousin was living the dream.
“She bought a bikini, man. Just for this trip. It’s red and has little ties to hold it together. Little itty-bitty ties that wouldn’t stand up to a slight breeze, so don’t screw with me.”
“Someone has to. You seem pretty hard up. If some of the stress of this album was gone, I’d probably heal in time for you two lovebirds to make it to Saint Lucia. There’s this swimming hole that sits at the bottom of a clear blue waterfall, and at night it’s deserted. A bathing-suit-optional kind of situation.” Hunter leaned in and winked. “Just think what a couple in love, without a rug rat running around, could do with all the free time and—”
Brody ran an unsure hand over his face. “Thursday. Seven p.m.”
“You serious?” Hunter smacked the bar top, disbelief fading into anticipation. “This is great. Thanks, man.”
“Yeah, my pleasure,” Brody said drily, and Hunter ignored the eat-shit-and-die expression that went along with it.
“Where do you want to meet? Here? My house?”
“God no,” Brody said, looking as if he was rethinking the whole thing.
“Your office is pretty private. We can always meet there. Neutral territory.”
“That might work,” he said. “Seven o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
Brody looked as if he’d rather be anywhere but his office on Thursday. “My staff will be gone for the night, so don’t come expecting food or pampering. I’ll get you a face-to-face, but the rest is up to you. No matter what happens, you take Caroline.” Brody’s grin went smug. “The entire weekend. Two nights and three days. Take it or leave it.”
Hunter considered the extra few nights of babysitting and decided the trade was well worth it. Caroline was more mature than he was and acted like a monster only when she didn’t get her way. Not a problem when Uncle Hunter was around.
In Hunter’s world, ladies always got their way.
Realization sunk in that the last step was finally in motion. Suddenly, he felt like a kid who’d just got his first six string.
CHAPTER 3
“Now you’re just being stubborn.”
“If I were a man, you’d call it assertiveness,” Mackenzie said, but it was clear that Brody wasn’t buying it.
Nope, Brody and his weird Spidey sense were zeroing in on the embarrassing fact that the only thing Mackenzie was being was a big fat chicken. She was one question away from sprouting wings and taking flight, but she was okay with that. Everyone was allowed a fear or two.
Mackenzie’s was facing her past.
And by past she meant anyone who knew her before. And, okay, by anyone she specifically meant Hunter Kane. Admitting one’s problem was the first step in overcoming it, and she was in no rush to take the second step. “I need more time.”
“How much more time are we talking?” Brody asked.
“Maybe a few more months.” Or never. Never worked for her.
“I can bring it up in a few months, or you’ll be ready in a few months?” Brody asked, and damn, he was catching on to her strategy. “I only ask because a few months ago, you said you needed a few more months. And, well, here we are.”
“Now you’re just being pushy,” Mackenzie said.
“If I were a woman, you’d call it communicating,” he said and had a point.
Mackenzie had clearly communicated her wishes when it came to Hunter. Although her answer remained the same, Brody felt the need to readdress the situation, in case hell had finally frozen over. There might be a few snowflakes on the distant horizon, but they wouldn’t stick long enough to change her mind. Not right then anyway.
The only reason she was still sitting in his office was because Brody was the closest friend she had left, and she’d promised to hear him out before disappointing him—yet again.
And damn, if that wasn’t her second greatest fear.
“You can’t avoid him forever.”
“I’m not avoiding him,” she pointed out. “I just don’t see the need to rush into an awkward face-to-face.”
Brody’s tone turned gentle, sympathetic enough to have Mackenzie shifting in her seat. “It’s been a year since the divorce. Three since disappearing.”
Nashville was a big city. Surely, she could make it another few years. If she were really determined, she could make it a full decade. Because it had also been three years since the doctor visit that had derailed her life.
Since she’d learned that her mother’s blindness was also hereditary. And since Mackenzie’s life had spiraled out of control. She had been a rising writer in the music industry, creating songs that were paving her way toward success. Then the vision loss Mackenzie had experienced in her right eye became permanent and, over the following year, moved to the left, forever blurring her path.
“I finished rehab eleven months ago. I need more time to adjust.”
“You walked out of rehab eleven months ago,” Brody corrected.
“Right.” There is that, she thought, reaching down to pet Muttley.
She didn’t have to reach far, because Muttley was ninety-five pounds of poodle-mastiff mix who preferred to be on Mackenzie’s lap. Not the typical behavior for a Seeing Eye dog. Then again, nothing about Muttley was typical. He was the size of a bear, hated loud noises, and was a three-time guide-dog-school failure. But he had heart, and that’s what mattered.
“I can barely remember how many steps it is to the bathroom,” she added. “I don’t need to tell you how meeting with Hunter before I’m ready would set me back.”
“Or maybe it will be the thing you need to move forward,” Brody said. “I know the weight it will take off my chest to come clean.”
“I never meant for you to be stuck in the middle.”
“But I am.”
“I know.” And she hated that but didn’t know any other way. While Mackenzie wished things could be different, her music was the only thing she dared share with Hunter right now. Anything mo
re had the potential to take her under.
With a heavy exhale, she ruffled Muttley’s ears. The sound of his wagging tail thumping the floor echoed, cutting through the ever-growing silence.
Putting her best friend in an uncomfortable position was the exact reason she’d thought long and hard before reaching out to Brody in the first place. She’d needed an agent, and he was the best. She would never want to come between family but didn’t know who else to go to. It wasn’t as if there were job listings for blind musician-songwriters.
Brody had vowed to do whatever he could to help, but she doubted he’d meant lying to his family when he’d made the promise.
A light disturbance in the air brushed over her cheeks, carrying a faint hint of leather, testosterone, and frustrated man. Brody rounded the desk and nudged Muttley aside. It was a big nudge, followed by an even bigger bark, because Muttley fancied himself a watchdog in a guide dog’s vest.
But Brody wasn’t having any of it.
“Back off, Cujo,” he said, then squatted down in front of Mackenzie, resting his hands on the chair’s arm. “I’m not suggesting you rekindle the relationship, but Hunter has a right to know you’re okay.”
The exact reason she needed more time. She wasn’t okay. She would be, she’d make sure of it, but that day wasn’t today.
She was pretty sure tomorrow wasn’t either, but she knew it would come. It had to.
Mackenzie might be a runner, but she wasn’t a coward.
“I have a right to my privacy,” she said, smoothing her palms over her thighs. “I am sure he understands a person’s right to privacy.”
“And as your paid adviser, it’s my job to tell you when something isn’t working anymore.”
He captured her hands between his, stilling her nervous habit and gently brushing his thumb over her knuckles in a familiar and brotherly manner. “Hunter wants to collaborate with you. And I think it’s a great idea.”
“It’s a horrible idea.” Fear clogged her throat, and she jerked her hands back. Before she could break contact completely, Brody tightened his grip.
“It’s a great opportunity to put the past where it belongs and move forward. For everyone,” he said gently. “Imagine what you two could produce.”
She knew exactly what they were capable of together. Just like she knew exactly what she was capable of handling at the moment. And it wasn’t being confined in a small space with the one man who could remind her of all that she’d lost.
Hell, the thought of writing with him again sent her heart into a free fall. That he wanted to work with her, had specifically asked, terrified her as much as it pleased her. That alone was enough to say no.
Over the years, she’d fought hard to forget the way his arms felt around her while they’d strummed the same guitar. The passion and emotion that had come out of their music but never translated into their relationship. She’d never let it, because she’d known since she was eighteen that she carried the mutated gene and that there was a solid chance she’d end up like her mom.
And she knew, no matter how desperately she wanted to go back, to see him, those moments could never be relived. Not without sacrificing some of the headway she’d worked so hard to claim.
Hunter was a force of nature, picking up everything in his path and taking it on the journey with him. It was what made him so successful—in business and in life.
Mackenzie had a different life now. One that didn’t involve being carried anywhere. She needed to create her own path. He needed to live out his. Neither of them could do that if they refused to let go.
“It isn’t going to happen.”
“Savannah told me you’d say that. She also said to pass along that either you get a life that extends beyond occasional Sunday supper at our house and going to the dog park, or she was going to put you up on one of those dating sites.”
“I would just move,” she said, even though the thought of packing up and starting over again sounded daunting. She’d done it before—several times with her mom, then again after she was released from rehab—and hoped she’d never have to again. The last thing she needed was to let her past find her.
Or define her.
“Savannah would hunt you down and bring you home.” With a quick squeeze, Brody released her hands and sat in the chair next to her. Muttley took up residence on her feet, sprawling across them. “I know the past few years have been difficult—”
“Difficult?” She laughed, because one word could never describe what she’d been through. The changes and the struggle she’d been forced to endure. And she’d done it, survived even. Then she’d written a portfolio of songs about it.
More important, she’d made steady progress. Then three months ago, she’d hit a wall. One she didn’t know how to climb over without confronting her past.
“Okay, they’ve been hell,” Brody amended. “But Jesus, Mackenzie, you’ve had more than a dozen Billboard hits. I get calls every day from artists wanting to work with you. And while I appreciate the spike my cool-dad factor has taken from accepting awards on your behalf, not to mention seeing Savannah in a slinky dress, this needs to stop.”
“I know.”
“The only time you get out is when I have papers for you to sign. And you only agree to come after-hours, when my staff has gone home.”
She forced herself to breathe, then channeled her inner badass. “Only because you refuse to come to my house for our appointments. That was our deal. Read the contract if you’ve forgotten. You get thirty-five percent, which is virtually unheard of, by the way, and I get my anonymity.”
Taking another deep breath, she called for the courage to deliver the ultimatum that, if he took it seriously, could successfully destroy what little human connection she had left. “If the arrangement is no longer working for you, and you decide you would rather terminate our agreement, then I understand.”
Brody’s exhale was slow and tired. “Never going to happen. We’re family, and I hate upsetting you, but it kills me to see you so isolated.”
“Me too,” she whispered.
Brody pulled her to a stand and into his embrace. Slowly, her arms slid around his waist, and her forehead rested on his shoulder.
“I understood your need for privacy at first, but this has gone on too long. You’re going to end up some old lady with only a collection of clutch purses, porcelain plates, and that dog for a bed partner.”
They remained in that embrace for a time, both letting the words sink in. It wasn’t often Mackenzie allowed herself the luxury of leaning on others. She had learned from her mother how easy it was to become dependent. Mackenzie would never do that to herself—or anyone else.
But for a moment, she allowed herself to be held. Let herself imagine what it would be like to not be in this all alone.
“Muttley isn’t so bad,” she said, rubbing her face back and forth across Brody’s shoulder, wiping off the tears she knew had escaped.
“The dog snores worse than I do,” Brody said with a low chuckle. “And if you want to give your songs to someone else, I know Carrie Underwood is interested in ‘To Fly’ and Keith Urban wants ‘Friday Night.’”
She pulled back. “Those aren’t available. I wrote those for Hunter.” Brody was silent for a long moment, and a bead of unease began in her belly. “He doesn’t want them, does he?”
The unease grew with the silence until it was a big ball in the center of her chest, twisting and tightening, suffocating her.
She amended her earlier statement because this, right here, was her worst fear. That Hunter would outgrow her songs or get to a point in his career where he wrote all his own stuff. If he didn’t want her music anymore, then he would finally sever the last connection she had to him, the only thing that kept her writing. The constant that had pulled her through the darkest moments.
“He says unless he meets the writers behind the music, and I use the term writers lightly”—Mackenzie snorted at this—“then he won’t recor
d any more of their songs.”
“But my song was his first number one hit. I’ve had at least three tracks on every one of his albums. All number ones. And these new ones are even better. They’re perfect for this point in his career.”
“I know that, you know that. Hell, he even knows it, but Hunter’s playing hardball.”
Mackenzie stepped back until her heel connected with the foot of the chair, reached for the arms, and eased herself down. “Did he even listen to the new tracks? I mean, does he know that some of the industry’s biggest musicians are dying to get their hands on them?”
“He did. He does. And he doesn’t care. He made it clear he won’t record your songs unless he meets the writers who are able to ‘put to sound what his soul sings’ or some flowery artistic bullshit like that,” Brody said. “You know how stubborn he can be.”
Mackenzie knew better than anyone that getting Hunter Kane to change his mind once set was like steering a horse into a burning barn.
“Why change what’s working?”
Writing at home gave her the comfort she needed to write and the privacy she needed to allow herself to be vulnerable. Sitting in a studio for weeks on end with the band staring at her? Asking her what had happened? Dealing with the silent pity?
No thank you. She wasn’t ready for that.
“It’s not working anymore, honey,” Brody said gently. “Not for Hunter. And not for me.”
Her stomach twisted at the idea that she might never get to write another song for Hunter, hear his voice breathe life into her music. Every word she wrote was for him, from her heart.
Only he didn’t want them. Not on her terms anyway.
“Would it be so bad to see him again? To reconnect?” Brody’s voice dropped, as if he wanted to lessen the impact of the conversation.
Brody had always been that way with her. She’d been nineteen with no work experience and desperate for a job to help with her mother’s bills. Desperate for a life that wasn’t defined by appointments, rehab therapy, or limitations.
Brody had been the one to get her a job waiting tables at his dad’s bar. He knew her résumé was BS, even knew she was lying about her age, but he’d hired her anyway.