by Marina Adair
“Mackenzie—”
“Pity isn’t on tonight’s menu.” She took the bag back. “So why don’t you go find some of that fancy coffee you brag about, while Muttley and I locate the potatoes? They’re on the next row at the end, right?”
“Right,” Hunter said, unable to stop looking at her.
With a brave smile in place, she walked down the aisle, careful of the other customers, letting Muttley do his thing. And God bless her, she located the potatoes. Hunter told himself to go get the coffee, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen in place by the delicate, feminine scent that lingered behind her.
Mackenzie worked her way through the potatoes, distinguishing the russet from the yams. She weighed one in her hand, then went in search of another. With two winners selected, she turned around to put them in her bag.
Only Loafer-Wearing Douche was back, and instead of heading to a less crowded row, he pressed forward, clearly oblivious to the fact that between the other carts, Mackenzie, and a guide dog with a white harness and fluorescent yellow vest, there wasn’t enough room.
“Excuse me,” he said. “You’re blocking the aisle.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mackenzie said, the comment clearly hitting a soft spot. Hunter found himself holding his breath as she plastered her body against the potato bin, tugging Muttley closer. But not close enough.
Loafer-Wearing Douche made a big deal of giving her a wide berth and clipped another cart, sending his cart careening into Mackenzie’s space. Muttley was on it like King Kong to his Ann Darrow, charging the cart and putting himself between it and his woman.
The abrupt motion yanked the harness, sending Mackenzie’s arm in one direction and the potatoes in the other. Thankfully, the cart didn’t make contact, but Mackenzie grabbed the bin for balance, sending an avalanche of yams crashing to the floor.
Muttley barked and people vacated the aisle, including Loafer-Wearing Douche, leaving Mackenzie in the middle of an epic disaster zone. Surrounded by walking hazards. With nowhere to go.
Hunter rushed to her side, sure to clip Loafer-Wearing Douche on his way. “You okay?” he asked her.
“Coming to the market at rush hour wasn’t such a great idea.” Mackenzie knelt, her hands searching the ground, trying her best to clear the aisle.
Hunter crouched down to help her, but she shooed his hands away. Hers were trembling.
“I’ve got it.” She struggled to place the potatoes back in the bin, then went for another handful.
“And I’ve got you,” he said, gently taking the potatoes from her.
“For how long?” she asked, then immediately shook her head. “Sorry,” she said, her voice going soft. So soft he barely heard her. “It’s just if I’m going to learn how to do this, then I need to do it on my own.”
Hunter wanted to argue but knew that it would only back her further into the corner. Instead, he silently helped, watching as the fierce determination beat out the humiliation.
Mackenzie was used to going it alone. She’d been forced down that path her entire life. And here she was again, having the rug ripped out from under her. But instead of complaining, she faced her situation head-on.
She might claim she wasn’t the same girl he knew. And Hunter would agree. She was even more impressive.
When the last of the potatoes was cleared from the aisle, she gave him a sad smile. “I bet you wish you’d taken me up on the pizza. It would have been a whole lot easier.”
“Where’s the excitement in easy?” he asked. “Plus, cleaning up produce keeps me humble.” Hunter helped her to her feet and then whispered, “It’s also the perfect cover for checking out your melons.”
CHAPTER 12
“I don’t care how good you are with melons or peaches. You, Hunter Kane, are not charming your way into my kitchen. Or anywhere else, for that matter,” Mackenzie said sternly—to her closed bathroom door.
It was the only quiet place she could find to think, since after their impromptu shopping excursion Hunter had set up shop in the kitchen—where he was currently cooking up a cozy supper for two.
Muttley gave a little whimper, and Mackenzie stroked his head. “I smell it too, buddy.”
The tempting scent of Hunter’s aunt’s famous corn bread baking in the oven wafted under the door. Mackenzie’s mouth watered at the thought of a home-cooked meal. Her stomach fluttered with nerves, and a few irritating butterflies, at the idea of Hunter doing something so domestic in her space.
“That is what you should have said to him when he strolled into your house as if he owned the place.” With a frustrated huff, she slipped off her jeans, still damp from the rain, and pulled on a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. “Stop being a pushover and start taking charge of your life.”
Attitude thoroughly readjusted, Mackenzie stepped into her fuzzy pink house boots and opened the door. But when she bent down to pick up her dirty clothes, she noticed one of her tennis shoes was missing.
“Muttley,” she groaned, but she could already hear him jingling his thieving little butt across the bedroom. “Give,” she said and marched over to his doggy bed. It took less than a second before she felt a wet nose and shoelaces nudge her hand.
“Good boy. Now lie down.” She gave Muttley the sign to sit in his bed and think about what he’d done. He gave an argumentative little huff but curled up as told.
That wasn’t so hard, she thought as she leaned down to give him a good-boy ruffle of the ears. Except instead of his soft fur, her hand met leather. Drool-coated leather.
While she’d been giving herself a pep talk, it seemed Muttley had made short order of a cowboy boot, turning it into his own personal chew toy. An expensive, leather, Kane-size cowboy boot. Which Hunter had left by the front door when they’d arrived back at her house.
She gave a disapproving tsk at the canine-size holes in the buttery leather, but this time Muttley didn’t back down.
Nope, he barked, proud protector pride strong in his tone.
“No steak bone for you tonight,” she chided while searching for the other boot—which stubbornly stood at the foot of her bed, next to a duffel bag. A big, manly duffel bag that had no business being in her bedroom.
Sitting pretty, as if it belonged.
“Oh hell no.” She threw her hair in a ponytail, snatched the boots and duffel, and headed down the hallway—his crap in tow.
One overbearing male dealt with, one to go.
Feeling all kinds of confident, she entered the kitchen and tossed his duffel across the floor. It skidded to a stop. “I found that in my room.”
“I am sensing a pattern here,” Hunter said casually. “Next time you’re going to throw something at me, could it be silk or lace?”
“You’re lucky I didn’t throw these.” She held up the offensive boots.
“What did those boots ever do to you?” he asked, taking them from her, injury in his voice as, she assumed, he inspected the bite marks.
“They crawled under my bed.”
“They didn’t crawl,” he explained. “Everything around here seems to have its own place, and I wasn’t sure where you wanted my stuff, so I set it in your room to make sure it was out of the way until I could ask.”
That had her pausing, long and hard.
“Wow, uh, that was incredibly”—thoughtful—“observant.” A complete one-eighty from the guy who used to simply leave his things wherever they landed.
“You don’t need to sound so surprised. I may have gotten a bit caught up with all the hype back then, but I wasn’t a complete asshat.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did, and it was probably warranted.” He didn’t sound hurt, more accepting of the statement. “But I’ll have you know, when I traded in my bachelor status for something more domestic, it was because I was done with life in the fast lane. In fact, when we’re on tour, I usually opt for a condo over a hotel suite, so I can spend my downtime someplace grounding. Like a kitchen.”
“I’m glad you found your big-boy pants, but I’m not sure your staying here is going to work.” He hadn’t even been there an hour and already her carefully crafted schedule had been abandoned.
“All I’m asking is for you to give this a chance,” he said.
“This is my sanctuary, Hunter.” She pressed her palm to her chest, noticing how fast her heart was racing. “The only place I have where I don’t need Muttley to guide me, where I don’t have to worry about tripping over someone’s bag, and where I don’t have to wonder if I remembered my pants.”
“I understand how important your space is, Trouble.” He took her hand between his much larger ones. “Just like I understand how much you are giving up by letting me stay here, which is why I will mind my p’s and q’s.” He pressed her hand to his chest, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart when he whispered, “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.” Mackenzie slipped her hand from between his, because it was impossible to think clearly while he was touching her. Reason enough to back out of this entire deal. “And minding your p’s and q’s means you sleep on the couch, your things sleep in the office closet, and your boots never sleep under my bed.”
“Trouble, when we’re not working, I’m going to be so stealth you won’t even know I’m here.” She could hear his victorious smile.
Hunter didn’t have a stealthy bone in his body. In fact, the guy was so potent he could charm an entire stadium full of people with a single grin. There was no way she was getting through this unaffected.
Her disbelief must have been visible, because he chuckled. “I see I’m going to have to prove it to you.”
Hunter led her to the table, and something about the strong, confident way he took her hand made her smile. A genuine smile that came from somewhere long forgotten and warmed her from the inside out.
“I’d like to be proven wrong.”
This time he all-out laughed. “Trouble, if you were ever to get a tattoo, it would say, ‘Told you so’ in big bold letters. Right across your backside.”
He had her there. As much as Mackenzie hated to admit it, she could come off as a know-it-all. But going blind had a way of changing one’s perspective—on everything. Now it didn’t matter so much if she was in the right . . . It was the consequences of being wrong that kept her awake at night.
Every situation, every encounter, was an exhausting game of sink or swim. And after three years of treading water, Mackenzie was too damn tired to argue about which direction land was.
“Maybe I’ve changed too,” she offered quietly.
Hunter squatted beside her chair as if he was quietly studying her—something that usually caused her to shy away, but this moment called for honesty, so she let him look his fill. Let him see the discomfort his presence in her house caused, the embarrassment over the potato disaster, even allowed him a glimpse of just how incredibly lost she felt in her new world.
He’d come to her in search of that adventurous, take-no-prisoners spitfire from his past and found a struggling but determined songwriter whose inspiration came from long-ago memories.
“Then how about we start from the beginning,” he said gently, taking her hand between his once again—and her heart pounded at the simple contact. Although a good part of the thump-thumps came from the thrill of what his offer would entail. “Hi, ma’am. I couldn’t help but notice you sitting here all by your lonesome. I’m Hunter, and as fate would have it, I’ve got a batch of my aunt’s famous corn bread in the oven and two of the best steaks you’ll ever eat grilling outside.”
“Those are some mighty big words.”
“Only big if you don’t have the goods to back it up,” he said and—oh boy, did he just turn up the broiler? Suddenly she was feeling a little flushed.
“I also have some potatoes cooking in there as well.”
“Potatoes and I aren’t really getting along these days.”
“Which is why they will be smashed, the way all unruly potatoes should be treated, with roasted garlic and a lot of butter,” he teased, and just like that the embarrassment from the day evaporated. “And it would be a shame for even a bite of them to go to waste. So I was wondering if you would do me the honor of having dinner with me.”
A shy smile made its way across her face, but Mackenzie let him see that too. “Is there honey butter to go with that corn bread?”
“Does Georgia grow the prettiest peaches?” His words were laced with a warm humor that brought her right back to how things used to be between them. Fun, easy, so incredibly right a lump formed in her throat.
“Well then, I’m Mackenzie,” she said, that lump growing in size and intensity. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, which she felt all the way to her toes. “Now can I get you a beer to go with those steaks?”
“I tried that the other night and it didn’t work out so well for me,” she informed him. “I got a little tipsy, shared a few too many secrets, then passed out.”
“Sweet tea, then,” he said and stood, releasing her hand, and walked to the fridge. “What kind of assholes have you been hanging around? Plying a woman with liquor?” He gave a teasing whistle. “I hope the guy at least made sure you got home safely.”
“Oh, he did.” She pulled her feet up and hugged her arms around her knees. “But when I woke up the next morning, he was still here. Making himself right at home.”
“Of all the dick moves!” Hunter sounded completely outraged, and she could almost picture him standing with his hands on his hips, shaking his head like he was all piss and vinegar, but his eyes would be full of laughter. “I mean, what kind of jerk makes sure the girl gets to bed safely, then sleeps on the couch with an attack dog eyeing his jewels all night?”
“Even worse, he didn’t leave.” Even though it was all a part of his game, flirting with Hunter felt good. “Then he tried to sneak his boots under my bed.”
“Well, you won’t have that problem with me, Miss Mackenzie. No, ma’am, I am a gentleman to the core.”
“Good to know.”
As if to prove the point, Hunter walked over and set a glass of sweet tea on the table, then placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her back against his big, strong, I-can-shoulder-the-world chest. And when he spoke, the only contact they had was when his breath skated along her neck. “Because, Trouble, when my boots end up under your bed, there won’t be any sneaking involved. It will be your call, your timing, and one hundred percent your decision. And that’s a promise.”
“No, too Johnny Cash. I want more of a ‘Jack and Diane’ feel.”
“The great Hunter Kane wants to record a ditty?” Mackenzie asked, stifling a yawn.
“A pretty lady once told me that just because the music is simple, it doesn’t mean that the song can’t be powerful,” he said. “That song became my first number one.”
It was also the first song they’d written together. Oh, they’d written several since that time, including a few over the past week, but none of them meant as much as the first.
Mackenzie laid the guitar down and rested her head against the sofa. Her fingers were sore from playing, her mind nearing creative meltdown, and her body ached from being locked in such close proximity for a week with a man who made her motor hum.
And her more delicate parts tingle.
True to his word, Hunter hadn’t kissed her again. That didn’t mean that he hadn’t done his fair share of flirting and touching. And touching and flirting. Sometimes together, sometimes individually, but always potent enough to make her toes curl.
Today had been the worst. Hunter had started with breakfast in bed. Meaning he’d picked up chocolate doughnuts—her favorite—and eaten them while lying against her headboard. He’d just lounged there, sipping his fancy coffee, while Mackenzie figured out how to decently get to the bathroom without anything on but an old T-shirt and red undies.
He’d offered to he
lp her get dressed, even volunteered to assist with lathering her up. Mackenzie had ignored him, shoving him off the bed and taking all the sheets with her. Hunter had chuckled, and her body had sizzled.
They’d worked through lunch and had supper in the studio, Hunter scooting in closer beside her as they worked on a song titled “Tangled Up.” He grazed her thigh with his, his breath tickling her shoulder as the song grew—along with the tension—until she was certain she’d implode with a single touch.
“I think we should take a break,” she said. And by “take a break” she specifically meant “get some space that doesn’t smell of sexual frustration.”
Not that Hunter got the memo.
Nope. Instead of backing down, he amped things up, taking her right hand in his. “And break the momentum?”
Yes. And maybe break the magnetic force that is drawing me to you.
“We can pick it up later.” Only when Mackenzie went to stand, Hunter’s fingers started a slow and delicious path up her arm to her shoulders to her neck, continuing to work his way back down. Her brain turned off and her body went tingly at the sensation of his ever-so-talented fingers strumming all the right chords until every girlie part she owned gave a breathy oh my.
She was entering dangerous territory. Her warning bells were blaring, Get out before it’s too late! Her body was saying, Enjoy the connection, what’s the worst that can happen?
And her heart? She didn’t even want to acknowledge what it was saying, only that she was afraid it was already too late.
“We should call it a night,” she said. Which was exactly what she was going to do—as soon as Hunter finished tinkering with the song’s verse.
After all, his fingers were moving along her shoulders in rhythm to the song, and it would be rude to interrupt his creative process. So Mackenzie closed her eyes and listened to the sound of his voice in her studio as he worked with the lyrics.
The melody led her mind to summers as a teenager. Inspired emotions and images, not from her own life but from the ones she had stored while watching other kids her age lift their wings. Cruising with your girlfriends, the windows low, Tim McGraw on high. Summers at the lake. Bonfires. First kisses on the tailgate of a green ’55 Chevy. A feeling of floating freely through time.