by Marina Adair
Hunter had been around territorial males enough in his career to recognize one. And know how to deal with him.
“You hungry?” He went to the cupboard and pulled out a bag of kibble he’d seen earlier. Filling up the bowl, he said, “How about we eat some chow, get to know each other, maybe even play some ball?”
Muttley peeled back his lips and let out a loud whoof, and Hunter began to worry that the only balls Muttley looked interested in were between Hunter’s legs.
“Right, well, that isn’t going to happen, so why don’t we get back to playing friends?”
Muttley’s eyes darted around the room, landing on the shattered mug in the trash, then back to Hunter.
“I apologized for scaring her, and then I offered her breakfast, but she turned her nose up at the coffee and disappeared into the bathroom.” With a dismissive snort, Muttley headed out of the kitchen and down the hallway. “You might be there awhile. She didn’t seem in a rush to come back out.”
Unconcerned, Muttley made three circles—his eyes never leaving Hunter—and laid his body against the bathroom door as if prepared to wait an eternity for his mistress to appear.
“Right there with you, pal,” Hunter said, tossing the paper towel in the trash.
As luck would have it, the trash can was next to a stack of unopened mail and her phone. If Mackenzie didn’t want to talk about what she’d been up to since he’d seen her last, then Hunter would do a little exploring on his own.
He swiped her phone screen to get a look at her playlist, wondering if his albums were in her favorites, except he became distracted by an unanswered text from last night. It was from some guy named Arthur.
Had it been from a Mary or Delores or Jenny, Hunter wouldn’t have paid it a second glance. But it was from Arthur and began with the word Darlin’. So, yeah, he may have “accidentally” opened the text.
Only when he opened it, a computerized female voice came from the phone.
“Yesterday at seven-oh-nine p.m.,” the phone began, and Hunter pressed his hand over the speaker to muffle the sound. “From Arthur. Darlin’, it is time for supper. Chicken is on the grill and corn bread is in the oven. Table’s set for two and door’s open.” There was a beep. “Would you like to reply?”
Hunter checked the bathroom. With the door still shut, he whispered into the phone, “Yes.”
“Go ahead with reply.”
“You are one confident prick,” Hunter began. “Too bad for you, Darlin’ was sipping bourbon with me on the porch swing last night.”
He watched the text appear on the screen.
“Would you like to send message?”
Hunter looked at the ceiling and, after a long moment, said, “No,” then set the phone on the table. With a final glare at the screen, he headed to the office, which sat off the main room and housed a baby grand.
Pushing the door all the way open, he walked into a home studio that was beyond impressive. A dozen or so instruments lined the wall, the piano sat in the middle of the room, and a big overstuffed chair rested next to a window, drenched in sunlight. There was her first guitar, a gift from her mama, leaning against the windowsill, and vases of bright flowers were scattered through the room. So many fresh-cut flowers it smelled like a rose garden.
Gone were the computers and digital production boards he’d gotten accustomed to. Instead there was sheet music, a mic, and an old-school soundboard. Mackenzie’s studio had been designed by an artist for an artist.
What caught his eye, though, was one of the sheets of music. Not one on the piano, but some chords and lyrics scribbled in an open journal, which sat next to her chair. Handwritten and incomplete, but two beautiful pages of music, begging to be uncovered.
To be played.
Hunter sat in the chair and picked up her guitar, resting it on his knee. Then he looked at the journal and began playing. A grounding warmth washed over him as he strummed the opening chords. The melody was soft and soulful, a complex combination of familiar and unexpected that drew him in and held on long after the song had ended.
Just like its composer, he thought with a smile. Because while the scribbled notes on the sheet were too masculine to have come from Mackenzie’s hand, the music absolutely had.
But it wasn’t only the chords that had him convinced. No, that honor went to the words scrawled in the lines. His heart rolled over in his chest as he read the raw honesty in the lyrics. They spoke of a love without limits, without restrictions or prejudice. A love that went beyond circumstance, to a level that was as forgiving as it was understanding.
The notes were strong, deliberate, and purposefully unique, but the lyrics . . . Christ, the lyrics. There weren’t a lot—it was a work in progress, and he could tell by the different colors on the page that the process had spanned months, maybe even years—but there was enough there for him to know it was Mackenzie. Right there on the page for him to see.
Her hopes. More important, her fears. He could feel them all as he gently strummed the strings, played the notes she’d kept to herself. He reached the end of what he knew in his heart was a hit and started over, understanding more and more about her with each note he played.
Mackenzie had always been a mystery. She never seemed to need anything or anyone. She was content to stand alone, take on whatever life threw her way with a brave smile. And it was that brave smile that had him so determined to stick around.
Hunter had never been good at sticking, but he wanted this more than he wanted another hit album. And that was saying something.
So before Mackenzie walked in and caught him peeking through her private journal, Hunter set down the guitar and removed any trace of his snooping.
He was just leaving the studio when he spotted a note resting against a vase of roses that were so big it was clear they weren’t of the average flower-shop variety. Nope, these were special-order flowers with a single purpose: to charm.
It was a play from Hunter’s own handbook. A rookie play but an effective one. As he well knew.
And the note? Made from high-quality card stock with silver edging and some fancy AC monogram branded into the front, it was bold, masculine, and enough to make his eye twitch.
He picked up the card and flipped it open. The sunlight pierced the hundreds of holes, which all had a place and purpose. Neighbor Arthur knew how to cook and write braille and had Darlin’s personal number and a key to her place. So what? The dude was clearly long-winded and a pushover.
Mackenzie didn’t like pushovers. Plus, she shared a history and connection with Hunter that couldn’t be surpassed.
Unfortunately for Hunter, Neighbor Arthur also had a signature that was identical to the scribbles in Mackenzie’s journal. Which meant she already had a writing partner in her life.
And it wasn’t Hunter.
CHAPTER 9
When Mackenzie came out of the shower, she found Muttley sleeping on the couch and the rest of the house empty. Back to normal, she thought, grabbing the bag of doughnuts off the counter.
She stood next to the stove and sank her teeth into the first one, moaning as the powdery goodness melted in her mouth.
“Gawd. So good.”
Taking another bite, she considered sitting at the table, then shrugged it off. It seemed silly to sit there all alone. Especially when she could have enjoyed her meal with Hunter. But he’d left, which was what she’d wanted. So then why did she feel this ping of disappointment?
Not wanting to think about what that could mean, Mackenzie decided she needed some chocolate with her breakfast. Which required a short walk to the Bark ’N’ Bean, the local dog-friendly café a few blocks from Mackenzie’s house, and perhaps conversing with other humans.
Her therapist would be so proud.
She grabbed Muttley’s harness. “Time to go be social. I was thinking a walk to work off the cupcakes you had last night, then breakfast.”
A loud snoring filled the room.
“You don’t snore, budd
y,” she reminded him, then jingled his harness. “This is where you hop up off the couch and prove those teachers were wrong and that you are the best guide dog in Tennessee.” Nothing. Not even a tail swishing against the cushions of the couch. “At least you can pretend to earn your keep.”
It seemed Muttley was more interested in holding down the couch. Not that Mackenzie blamed him—pretending was exhausting.
“Your choice. But don’t whimper to me when your butt gets big and the lady doggies don’t come sniffing around anymore.”
Mackenzie plopped down on the couch and slipped on her tennis shoes. Muttley didn’t budge, except to stretch out his legs even farther, taking up the entire length of the settee.
“We have to stop by the Bark ’N’ Bean and see Tia,” she said, and Muttley hit the floor with enthusiasm.
He had his vest in his mouth and was standing at the front door before Mackenzie had her shoes tied. Nothing got Muttley moving quite like the mention of his first doggy-mommy. Well, except the promise of treats.
Tia Flynn managed the Bark ’N’ Bean. She was also one of Muttley’s favorite humans. Not only were her pockets filled with treats for her favorite canine customers, but she had a soft spot for difficult dogs. Which was how she had been hand selected to train Muttley.
Tia was also Mackenzie’s health-care advocate, and part of Mackenzie’s rehabilitation was to meet with her twice a week in a public place.
Mackenzie had become a pro at finding reasons to avoid their little get-togethers, but instead of the content feeling that usually came with a day spent in solitude, the prospect suddenly felt suffocating. The good news was she’d make her meeting today—and do it with a smile.
When she stepped into the crisp spring air and the sun hit her face, she didn’t have to pretend. The morning chill seemed to make everything better, clearer. It was as if she could breathe again.
Leaves rustled in the canopy of black oaks above as Muttley led her through her quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of downtown. The streets were lined with Queen Anne–style homes and historical bungalows, and most of the residents were either retired or young families. The pace of life was slow, traffic was light, and a sense of community was as sweet as the blooms on the crape myrtle trees.
But it did nothing to quell the irritating unease that grew every time a car drove past or a rock got caught underfoot.
Mackenzie pushed through the door of the café and was met with a warm blast of sugar-sweetened air. She took in a deep breath and allowed her body to relax. Then she heard the hum of the customers, the clattering of silverware, and the uncertainty came back.
She’d been so focused on fresh air she’d forgotten that today was Saturday, and the place was packed. It was a seat-yourself kind of café, and Mackenzie was afraid she’d seat herself on someone else’s lap. Or worse.
“Crap,” she mumbled and turned to head right back out the door.
“Leaving so soon?” Tia called out from somewhere behind the counter.
Mackenzie closed her eyes, knowing she was stuck now. Muttley barked.
Tia walked over and made a shushing sound, and Muttley immediately dropped to his butt and hit his best-in-show pose.
“Now you behave,” Mackenzie whispered to Muttley, who panted happily.
“Tables five and seven are open,” her friend said, not giving a single direction to remind Mackenzie where tables five or seven were. Not that she needed it. Table five was in the corner, next to the window and out of the way of any major foot traffic.
“Table five sounds nice.”
“Whoops, someone just snatched it.”
“Story of my life,” Mackenzie grumbled, picturing the table in the center of the café. “Table seven it is.”
“It needs to be cleared. Just a coffee mug and a plate, but a fresh water bowl is already there for Muttley. I’ll meet you in a sec.”
“Thanks,” Mackenzie said, grateful for that tip.
Tia wasn’t blind, but she’d grown up with an autistic brother who benefited from an emotional support dog and dedicated her spare time to helping others in similar situations. Her superpower was to recognize dogs with the right temperament for service training and understand the obstacles the impaired faced every day.
She didn’t pity Mackenzie. In fact, Tia rarely gave Mackenzie any special breaks—one of the reasons she made such a great sponsor. Tia was conscious of what Mackenzie was up against and was always willing to lend a helping hand—as long as it wasn’t used as a crutch.
Feeling bold, Mackenzie walked to table seven and—would you look at that—carefully navigated around the table without knocking anything over. With a proud snort, Muttley settled at her feet.
He was on his best behavior. In hopes of snagging a treat, he kept all four paws on the ground, choosing to rest only his head on Mackenzie’s lap.
Mackenzie gave him a nice cuddly ear rub when Tia came over. “What can I get you?”
“A double chocolate chunk muffin,” she said. “Heavy on the chocolate.”
“That sounds ominous.” Tia pulled out the chair and sat down, purposefully ignoring Muttley, who was vibrating with excitement over the impending treat. “Does this have anything to do with the shiny truck with the mud tires and lift kit parked in front of your house last night? And this morning?”
Mackenzie’s face heated. “You saw his car?”
“I think everyone who drove past your house saw the car. But I didn’t know your houseguest was a him.” Tia leaned forward. “Spill.”
“Not much to spill. It was a guy I used to work with. More of an old friend. He gave me a ride home, then stayed the night to make sure I was okay because I’d had a drink or two.”
“That’s a long explanation for some guy. Unless?” There was a long beat of silence. “Oh. My. God. I know that look.” Tia snapped her fingers. “It wasn’t just a guy, it was the guy.”
Tia had spent a lot of hours over the past year working with Mackenzie and Muttley. In that time, they’d both opened up about their pasts, shared their secrets. Some dark, some hilarious, but all of them told in confidence.
The quiet life Tia had left behind in northern California hadn’t been one of her choosing. So one night, she’d packed up her car and made her way to Nashville, searching for a radical life makeover. One that included living loud and following her dreams of starting a training school for guide dogs.
Mackenzie had been fleeing the heartache that came from losing everything she held dear. She had known she’d needed to change things up as soon as Hunter proposed to Hadley. Being secretly in love with your best friend was one thing. Being secretly in love with your married best friend? Talk about tempting karma.
Neither one had ever revealed what they were running from, just why they were running. But that too was about to change.
“He ambushed me at a friend’s party,” she said, silently flipping karma the bird.
“You, at a party? Socializing with people other than your agent? Wow, talk about a gold-star week.” Mackenzie would take that gold star and leave out the part where it was Brody’s party. “But being ambushed?” Tia grimaced in sympathy. “How did that go?”
“I kissed him.”
Tia choked on her own air. “I’m sorry. That is so not what I thought you were going to say.”
“Trust me. The shock is mutual,” Mackenzie whispered through the embarrassment. Although embarrassment wasn’t enough to dull the residual tingling. “I told him I liked him and then I kissed him.” Mackenzie held up a hand. “And before you get all girlie on me, he didn’t kiss me back.”
There was a complete beat of silence. “You made it clear that you were kissing him?”
“The only other clue I could have given was sticking my tongue down his throat.”
“But he spent the night? Doesn’t sound like a total disaster.”
“He slept on the couch and only hung around because he wanted to talk about collaborating with me on a project.
” Mackenzie took in a big, humbling breath. “As for kissing me back, he said I was too complicated.” Or had he said he didn’t want to complicate things? Bourbon-brain made remembering all the details difficult, but either way it stung. “We finished the night with him stating he wanted to be friends.”
“That long silence is me rolling my eyes, because what a jerk,” Tia said. “He’s missing out.” She paused to instruct Muttley through a series of commands, ending with ordering him to give her a high five and then lie on the ground. All of which he did without question.
Show-off.
“I mean, what kind of guy takes a drunk girl home, a drunk girl who’d just kissed him, and then sleeps on the couch?” Tia asked.
“I can’t be certain, but I think they call them nice guys,” Mackenzie joked, knowing that Hunter was as good and as nice as they came.
“Nice guys are like unicorns. I hear about them, people swear of their existence, but I’ve lived in the birthplace of the southern gentleman for three years now, and I have still never seen one with my own eyes.”
Tia rested her hand over Mackenzie’s but didn’t say a word. The longer the silence, the more self-conscious Mackenzie felt.
“There must be something magical about him, because you’re here and I didn’t have to threaten you.” Tia laughed. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to come over and bribe you with the new Nicholas Sparks movie in order to see you again.”
“No bribe necessary.” All she needed was an empty house that smelled like a big, sexy good old boy with an interest in lace to get her moving.
“How is Muttley doing?” Tia asked, still ignoring the dog in question, who was displaying model behavior.
“He got into the dishwasher again last week to clean the dishes, and he still hides under the covers whenever the garbage truck comes. But last night he rode on the floor of the truck the entire way home,” Mackenzie said with pride, but from the sounds of Muttley’s panting, Tia still hadn’t given up the treats. She was a tough-love kind of person.