by Marina Adair
“And what if he asks you about how you feel now?” Savannah asked, and Mackenzie shrugged. “Do you know how you feel? About him?”
Sadly, yes. She felt the same way she always had when it came to Hunter. She was hopelessly in love with a man she couldn’t be with. Time may have passed, her life had been flipped on its head, but her feelings for him hadn’t changed in the slightest.
“I am such a loser.” Mackenzie dropped her head to the countertop. “It has been three years, and I still can’t move on.”
“Love doesn’t work like that. It’s forever.”
“Even when you wish it wasn’t?”
“Especially then. You can either hide from it or face it, but it isn’t going away.”
Mackenzie had hidden from it before, and look where that had gotten her—relying on Savannah’s home-crafted courage in a mason jar to get her through the night. She wasn’t sure that confronting it would end any differently, but at least there wouldn’t be those annoying coulda-shoulda-wouldas haunting her.
Savannah gave Mackenzie’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You okay?”
“I will be,” she said, lifting her head. “But ice cream might help.”
CHAPTER 7
Hunter owed his cousin. Big-time.
Not only had Mackenzie stayed through dinner and dessert, she didn’t seem in any rush to cut and run. Even though Savannah and Brody were taking their sweet-ass time putting the munchkin to bed—something about covering the floor with wee-wee pads—Mackenzie hadn’t reached for her purse once.
Bedtime would have been the perfect excuse for her to make her exit, no questions asked. Instead, she’d sauntered out to the front porch, asking if he was coming, since, apparently, she was ready to talk. Although they hadn’t done much talking.
Nope, it was forty degrees, a light drizzle coating everything in sight, and Mackenzie sat on the porch swing, sipping her julep as if it were summer in the Caribbean instead of March in Tennessee.
From Brody and Savannah’s place in Oak Hills, Hunter could make out the bright lights of Broadway flickering in the distance and the blue bulbs of the bridge reflecting in the smooth waters of the Cumberland River below.
It was so tranquil and stunning he’d often considered giving up his loft downtown to move up here. Be near Brody and his niece—and away from the chaos and noise that filled the city.
His gaze landed on Mackenzie.
Talk about stunning.
Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and a few curls had escaped and were dancing in the wind. She had her feet tucked beneath her, those elegant fingers wrapped around her empty glass, as her eyes stared out on the horizon. She looked relaxed, completely at ease, and so damn beautiful it was hard to look away.
So he didn’t. He took the time to study her, noticing the subtle changes in her face. Her cheekbones were more pronounced and her lips still full and lush, but the laugh lines didn’t seem as defined as they’d once been. The elegant slope of her neck drew him in, feminine and silky, her pulse pounding at its base.
“What are you looking at?” she asked, her gaze never leaving the horizon.
“You,” he admitted quietly. “How did you know? Can you see shapes and shadows?”
Hunter knew from Susan’s situation that there was a wide spectrum for those deemed legally blind: everything from the ability to see up to twenty feet away, to light perception, to complete darkness. Susan had lost her central vision, leaving her with some peripheral awareness.
“No shapes or shadows, just blackness. But I can feel your breath on my cheek, sense that you’re watching me.”
A nauseous feeling churned in his gut at the reality of her life. And how challenging it would be for a woman who’d spent her early twenties confined by her family situation to finally gain her freedom only to be thrown into complete darkness, with no hope of escape.
It was Mackenzie’s worst nightmare. Yet she’d managed to come out the other side stronger than before. More in tune than ever.
“During supper, it felt like you could track me. Track everyone in the room.”
“I didn’t want to ever be caught off guard, so I practiced following sounds and voices until I was good enough that nothing could surprise me.” She turned her head his way, and proving her point, those bright green eyes locked on his. “Which is why what you and Brody pulled was mean.”
The hit was a lot like the woman. Honest and direct. “I wouldn’t call it mean, more of a step in the right direction.”
She snorted. “I haven’t seen an ambush like that since you and your cousins cornered Ben Backster in the alley behind the bar for trying to look up my skirt.”
They’d done a lot more than corner the prick, but she didn’t need to know that.
“Every time you leaned over to serve a tray of drinks, he’d decide to rest his head on the table, sideways, to get a better view of what color panties you had on. You were the reason Big Daddy changed the dress code for waitresses: ‘Skirts must cover more than butt cheeks.’”
Hunter had written the rule, then forced Big Daddy to implement it. His cousins had given him shit for months.
“My skirts were not that short,” she said, and speaking of skirts, the breeze picked up, causing her current skirt to flirt higher up her thighs. “I think you’re being dramatic.”
Hunter averted his gaze. “I think you’re drunk.”
“I don’t get drunk,” she explained, her tone so serious Hunter found himself laughing. “But can you stop moving the swing? I don’t do so well with motion anymore.”
“The swing isn’t moving, Trouble. That would be the first sign that maybe you should hand over the booze and slow down a little.” When she didn’t, he snatched her glass and set it on the patio table.
“I’m tired of slowing down. Last week, Muttley got so impatient he tried to drag me across the street.” She crossed her arms, showing more than enough cleavage for Hunter to know she was drunk—and chilly.
“Well, if you were slurring your words then, like you are now, maybe he misunderstood your command.”
“Maybe I am a little tipsy, but nothing I can’t handle.” She went to stand, and Hunter pulled her back down before she tumbled over and right out of her strappy sandals and onto her very fine ass.
“A little?” He wrapped an arm around the back of the swing and pulled her to his side. “It only took two glasses for you to stop scowling at me every time I opened my mouth, and this looks like your third.”
“I wasn’t scowling,” she argued, but her smile said she was happy he’d noticed her displeasure. “I was concentrating on what you were saying.” She dismissively waved her hand in his direction and nearly smacked him in the chest.
He caught it beneath his and trapped it there. “Trouble, your scowl packed enough ice to cryogenically freeze my nuts. Now it’s just warm and bright, telling me you’re well past drunk.”
“That must have been some scowl.” She patted the swing for the throw Savannah always kept outside, but since she was two sips from shit-faced, her aim was off in left field.
Hunter picked up the blanket and tucked it around her body, noticing more of those curves he’d been trying to forget.
“I’ve always said you had quite the mouth.” He waited for her to get comfortable, then rested his hand on her thigh and transitioned seamlessly into implementing his plan. “Speaking of which, we need to talk about the album.”
With a cute little sigh, Mackenzie rested her head in the cradle of his shoulder. “Yeah, we do.”
“What, no argument?”
“Nope, you smell too good,” she murmured into his neck. “And come tomorrow, when I’m not so . . . drunk”—she threw up air quotes—“I won’t have this chance again.”
And Hunter knew that, even though it was a shitty move, if he didn’t push now, he’d never get this chance again. “There’s still a lot for us to talk about, a lot of feelings to lay out in the open, but the bottom line is . . . I n
eed your help, Trouble.”
“You don’t need anyone’s help,” she said with a yawn.
“Not true.” He needed her more than he could admit. “I need yours.”
“Can’t happen. The thought of getting downtown every day, navigating a busy office building, learning a new floor plan . . .” She shivered. “That sounds about as inspiring as rehab.”
Hunter had never considered how the little everyday things he didn’t have to think about were just more obstacles for her to overcome. Thankfully, he was excellent at finding solutions.
“I can pick you up, and we can use a familiar place,” he suggested. “Maybe the back room at Big Daddy’s.”
“I have a driver I use when I need to, but the bar is too loud and busy.” She shook her head. “You’ll do fine on your own.”
“I don’t want fine.” He’d tried fine. Found it incredibly boring. But nothing about Mackenzie was boring. Hell, she could send his world spinning with one look.
Hunter placed a crooked finger under her chin and looked down into her face. Holy hell, he’d forgotten how potent those mossy pools could be.
“Not when it could be incredible with you,” he finished.
“It would be incredible for a while, but”—she shook her head—“eventually it will end, and nothing would ever be incredible again.”
Will end, as in a definitive expiration date. Not what he wanted to hear.
“It doesn’t have to. This can be whatever we want it to be, last as long as we choose.” And he hoped she’d choose the long-term. Because even though he was still working through his anger, he’d take her at his side any day over the alternative.
He’d lived through losing her once, wasn’t interested in a repeat.
“What if I choose wrong?” she said, and to his horror, her eyes went misty. “What if I choose wrong and ruin everything?”
He wanted to tell her that as long as they were honest with each other, there wasn’t anything that could go wrong. But then the misty turned to more of a glisten, and he was pretty sure she was one sniffle away from real tears. And suddenly he wasn’t sure how to handle the turn of events.
Tears didn’t scare Hunter. He’d learned the power of embracing waterworks in the sixth grade when he’d found Carrie “Full-C” Callahan crying over her English grade behind the schoolyard. Instead of walking past her, like his buddies had done, Hunter had asked her what was wrong.
Ten minutes of tears and a hug later, he’d become the first kid in his class to round second base. And junior year, when Carrie’s boyfriend dumped her for a gymnast, Hunter made that home run. Not that there were going to be any home runs with Mackenzie, besides the chart-toppers they’d make.
No, tears weren’t a problem. Tears led to talking, which led to hugging, which for Hunter usually led to a whole lot of lip action and hip traction and—Sweet baby Jesus, when did his mouth get so close to hers?
Had she moved, or had he? Not that it mattered, because one little dip of the head and he’d know exactly how much bourbon was in those juleps. And talk about the wrong way to start this partnership off.
Kissing his cowriter was a big no-no. Kissing Mackenzie Hart when she was feeling cornered was a fast track to never seeing her again, and—fuck, her hands somehow had slid down his chest to fist in his shirt.
And why was it when he needed one of his nosy family members to interrupt, there were none to be found? Even her dog had passed out on the edge of the deck, back to them, face buried beneath his big paws, leaving them virtually alone.
So they sat there on that porch swing, a breath apart, for a long-ass time. Nothing ’round them except the cool Tennessee breeze and the growing sexual tension.
It was as if the universe was saying, Go for it, Hunter. Take a taste.
His dick was saying something infinitely worse. But his head, the one he tried to use when it came to Mackenzie, was telling him that if he played this wrong—and by wrong he meant kissing her—he could blow whatever this was before it even began. And leave tonight wondering if he’d ever see her again.
“As long as we’re honest with each other, everything’s going to work out perfectly,” he assured her.
“You promise?” she whispered, reminding him of that lost girl he’d first met in the bar all those years ago.
“Yeah, I promise.” But if she pressed any closer, things were bound to get screwy. And wouldn’t that just make everything a hell of a lot more complicated.
“Good,” she said, tightening her fist and tugging him toward her. He’d like to say he put up a fight, but then he caught a hint of her scent and, damn, she smelled good. Like mint and tangled sheets. She tasted even better, he realized, as her lips ever so gently brushed his.
Once. Twice. Only to go back for another pass.
This one a little firmer.
“What are you doing?” he asked, holding himself stock-still, as opposed to Mackenzie, who was making moves he hadn’t seen coming.
“Skipping the cake and going straight for the icing,” she said against his mouth, and Lord help him, all he could picture was Mackenzie covered in icing.
And her lips. Her incredible lips. Full and soft and, whoa now, working his with a shy confidence that blew his mind. Mackenzie Hart was kissing him on his cousin’s front porch swing, and Hunter would be a liar if he said he wasn’t dying to kiss her back.
To take what she was offering, because he’d be the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet to be on the receiving end of a woman like her. Only what he wanted and what he wanted were at odds.
He’d come here to talk, to get back to the place they’d left off. Only now they’d taken a detour, a sexy-as-hell detour, which he was pretty sure would lead to a dead end. He was confident, even, that skipping straight to the chemistry would be like pulling the pin on a grenade: a few seconds of excitement before everything blew to hell.
The only way this would have a happy ending was to keep things as simple as possible. Sure, he’d come because he needed her help on the album, but things had changed.
And he had a feeling she was feeling the same shift. Which was why he had to take this slow. Start with the thing that had connected them originally. The one thing that made her feel safe and alive.
Music.
“Mackenzie,” he said without all that much conviction, so he put his hands on her hips.
“Yeah.” She opened her eyes, and they were warm and heavy-lidded.
“Maybe we should start with the cake, work our way up to the icing?” Or better yet, go back inside and talk about things that didn’t include icing and kissing.
“I always took you for an icing kind of guy.”
“Yeah, but there’s something to say about savoring the cake.”
She sat back, uncertainty flickering across her face. “Why? What’s wrong with my icing?”
“Nothing’s wrong with your icing.” He laughed. “I don’t know enough about your icing to have an opinion.”
To prove his point, he did not look at her cleavage when she jerked back and crossed her arms. “Well, I can tell you that my icing is top rate. In fact, most guys would say my icing rocked their world.”
“Well, I’m not most guys,” he lied. “And you’re not most girls. You’re—”
“What?” she said, those eyes sparking with challenge. “I’m what, Hunter?”
“First off, you’re drunk.”
“Not that drunk.”
“Drunk enough.” And no way was he going to open himself up to being tonight’s bold move and tomorrow’s big regret. Been there, done that, wrote a song about it. “Second, your friendship is important to me, and I won’t do anything to complicate that.”
“That’s the same speech you gave me when we first met, then when my mama passed,” she said, and he could hear the embarrassment in her voice. See it in the way she wrapped her arms protectively around her. “Let’s see. First I was too young, then I was too sad, and now I’m what?” She stood. “T
oo much of a complication?”
“That’s not what I said.” He reached for her hand. “The problem is, you’re too special.”
“I never knew being special could feel so humiliating.” She pulled away, her chin high, her shoulders back, her eyes sad as fuck. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it seems I have a mint julep calling my name.”
CHAPTER 8
A pounding woke Mackenzie from a dead sleep.
She opened her eyes and, for one terrifying second, couldn’t figure out her surroundings. The sheets were knotted around her, holding her prisoner, and the world was completely black. She strained her eyes even further, trying to make sense of why she could feel the warmth from the morning sun radiate through the window when the room was dark enough for it to be the middle of the night.
Her head spun painfully, and panic gripped her by the throat as she reached for the light switch, but nothing happened. Then the sharp edges of frustration churned in her gut as she tried again. With the same results.
She squeezed her lids tight and breathed in deeply, only the churning worsened and the pounding settled behind her eyes. Then she wished like hell it was the middle of the night, because that would mean the sun hadn’t risen, rather than she couldn’t see it.
She also wished she’d stuck with tea and her usual MO of pretending everything was just fine. In her attempt to eliminate the coulda-shoulda-wouldas in her life, Mackenzie was left with a big Oh no you didn’t!
But, oh yes, she had.
She’d gone big, then gone home, and she could still feel the bitter bite of humiliation. Had she not been intoxicated, she would have recognized the hesitation in Hunter’s tone. Could have evaluated the pros and cons of kissing America’s Sexiest Man, who happened to be the former love of her life.
Convincing herself that the nauseous feeling in her stomach was nothing more than a hangover, Mackenzie lay back down.
Big mistake. Being horizontal was like being adrift at sea in one of those tiny inflatable rafts in the middle of a hurricane.
“This is why I don’t drink,” she said, tossing the covers over her head. The motion offered nothing in the form of help, unless she counted the small comfort of familiarity. It was strange how habits stuck with a person, even when they no longer held a purpose.