False Start (The McKay-Tucker Men Series Book 1)

by Marianne Rice

  What if the woman had hairy warts on her face? Hell, he could handle ugly.

  What if she was obnoxious or annoying or a gold digger? No, his mother wouldn’t hook him up with someone so pathetic. She seemed very excited for the date. Too excited.

  Shrugging out of his coat, he spotted the maître de’ who resembled one of those dorky guys in The Office. God, since when did he turn into such a desperate man that he succumbed to his mother’s matchmaking?

  “I have a reservation for…Mack,” he sighed. He hated the nickname, but his mother made had already made the reservation…before she even asked—or rather, told—him about the blind date.

  “Yes, your dinner companion is already here. Please, follow me.”

  The maître de’ led him through small rooms tastefully decorated in a Victorian theme. Small tables covered in white damask linens, elegant candles and festive poinsettias added to the romantic ambiance of the inn. Not the kind of place he dined in. Not the vibes he wanted to send out to a woman who agreed to a blind date set up by a near seventy-year-old woman. He wasn’t into hearts and flowers and didn’t want his mother’s new project to think otherwise. He pulled at his tie and, for the fortieth time in the past ten minutes, regretting agreeing to this dinner date.

  And then he saw her. His eyes bulged, as did another part of his anatomy.

  Sitting alone at a table tucked in the back corner of a dimly lit room, the flicker from the fireplace casting dancing shadows and streaks of light across her chestnut hair. She sipped her water and fidgeted with her ring while staring out the window into the black night.

  Damn. His mother was right. Almost right. Maybe not love at first sight but definitely a whole hell lot of lust at first sight. And second sight. The lust thing never went away.

  “Your table, sir. Enjoy your evening.”

  She smiled up at the maître d’ and then looked at him. Her smile froze and then turned. She stood and called after the maître d’s retreating back. “I think you have the wrong table!” Embarrassed at her own outburst, she bit her lip and scowled at Connor.

  “You’re definitely more attractive when you’re fidgeting.”

  “You really enjoy inviting yourself to dinner, don’t you? You’ll have to leave, I’m meeting someone.”

  He pulled out her chair and pressed gently on her shoulder, inhaling the sweet, lemony scent of her hair. “Sit. You’re making a scene,” he whispered into her ear.

  She sat. “Seriously, Connor, I’m meeting someone.”

  “Me too.” He pulled out the chair across from her and sat, never taking his eyes off of her.

  “Good. Go find her.”

  “I already did.” Hell, yeah, he did.

  Sighing, she rolled her eyes. “Don’t you think it’s rude to leave her stranded?”

  “I do.” His eyes roamed her face, taking in her strawberry pink lips and chocolate, almond shaped eyes. Damn, he never had a sweet tooth until Meg Fulton crashed into his world.

  “Then go.” She shooed him away with her hand, but he didn’t budge. His knees brushed up against hers under the table and an uncontrollable shiver of awareness vibrated through his body.

  “I believe I’m your date tonight.”

  “Hardly.” She frowned. “Actually you probably know him. Mack, Betsy Tucker’s son?”

  “Ah, yup, I know him. Great guy. Smart, handsome, charming. Quite the catch. You’ll have a wonderful time tonight.”

  A black-tie waiter came over and asked Meg if she’d like a drink.

  “No, thank you, I’m still waiting for—”

  “Actually, we’ll have a bottle of Merlot.” Connor named the brand; the waiter nodded and left.

  “That was quite rude.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Would you have preferred white? The red dress made me think you were in the mood for a rich, dark wine.”

  “I’d prefer to have Mack here when I order.” She crossed her arms, unknowingly revealing glorious cleavage, and looked across the dining room expecting the maître de’ to bring someone else. He only got a quick glimpse, but it was enough to have him seeing hearts and roses. Damn. Maybe he was a hearts and flowers kind of guy.

  “Okay,” he sighed. “No more teasing. I’m Mack.”

  She stared at him, snorted, and looked away again.

  “Connor McKay. Mack to my mom. And only her. I hate the nickname.”

  That got her attention. She started to speak, and by the scowl on her face, not something pleasant, when the waiter came by with their wine. He poured a sample for Connor, who tasted and approved, and then filled their two Waterford glasses with the rich burgundy liquid.

  Connor picked up his glass and indicated to Meg to do the same. “To blind dates.” He gently tapped her glass and sipped his wine. When he set his glass down, she still had hers midair, but finally decided to take a sip.

  “You’re Mack? Betsy is your mom? Annie is your sister?”

  “Yep, yep, and yep.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I believe I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  She set her glass down and leaned forward, again revealing soft, satin mounds of flesh. Connor pried his eyes away from the V her dress formed and moved them back up to her dark, exotic eyes.

  “Why, in the three months I’ve known Annie and your mother, haven’t they told me you were related?”

  “Ask them.” He shrugged.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Annie was your sister?”

  “It never came up. Everyone knows we’re related, so it’s not like I go announcing it.”

  Picking up her wineglass, she stared deep into the merlot, sipped it and then brought her gaze back to him and laughed.

  “Your mother is trying to play matchmaker.”

  “Hence the blind date.”

  “Only it really isn’t. She knew I would never agree to go out with you and that’s why she avoided answering so many questions.”

  She was talking to herself, processing his mother’s scheme, but Connor still felt insulted.

  “And why the hell would she think you wouldn’t go out with me? What the hell is so wrong with me anyway?” He didn’t mean to sound so aggravated but couldn’t help himself.

  Startled, she put down her glass and apologized. “That was cruel. I’m sorry. I’m wondering why your mother assumed we’d hit it off. And why did you agree to go out with me when it’s obvious we have conflicting interests, opinions, and ideas?”

  “First, she didn’t give me a name. I didn’t realize you were my date. Second, we probably could hit it off if you weren’t so hell bent on hating me.”

  She looked stunned and apologetic at the same time. A few months ago, he donned her the Ice Princess, but after getting to know her, while not very well, he realized it was all an act. Meg Fulton was nowhere near as bitchy as she liked to come off.

  “I’m sorry, Connor. Look, you don’t have to go through with this. I appreciate you driving all the way out here, but—”

  “Oh, no. You’re not backing out. We’re here. Let’s eat and make the best of our evening.” He wanted to take her back to his place and rip the red dress off her smoking body and make her appreciate what kind of interests he actually had, but he didn’t think it would fly over so well.

  They skimmed over their menus; he ordered the rib eye while she ordered salmon. She evaded all personal conversation during their last not-quite-a-date, so he did what he thought best and talked about himself as a child. She obviously wasn’t digging him as an adult, but she loved his family. He banked on the connection winning her over, or so he hoped. By the time their meals came he had her laughing over the image of eight-year-old Connor bringing his mother his idea of breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day—volcano cake and gray eggs.

  “I don’t know why the coffeecake exploded. I’m pretty sure I followed the directions, but I gotta admit it made one fine looking volcano.”

  “I’m sure it made your mother very happy. It’s
the thought that counts.”

  “Oh yeah, my little ol’ matchmaker mother was wonderful about it, ate every last crumb, eggshells and all, but made me clean out the mess in the oven.”

  Meg swirled her wine and took a slow sip while giving Connor an intense stare over the rim of her glass. Gently setting her drink down, she picked up her fork without breaking eye contact. The evocative stare was meant to intimidate. Connor knew, he’d used it many times before, but he didn’t think she had any clue how sexy it looked on her.

  “So tell me why you hate the name Mack.” She toyed with her chocolate mouse and licked her fork clean. It must have been the sight of her tongue that made him cave and tell her.

  Slowly he leaned back, finished off the last few sips of his wine, and sighed. “My dad, Randy McKay, better known as Big Mack, was huge. Over six and a half feet tall, close to two-fifty. I was born a month early. Tiny guy. My mom and dad’s friends called me Little Mack. Randy died when I was only six, but I have a few memories of him.”

  “I’m so sorry. You must miss him terribly. So why don’t you like being called Mack? You’ve obviously made up for being a preemie. You’re huge.” She blushed and lowered her eyes. He decided to be gentlemanly and not comment on her choice of words.

  “Most of my memories are of him yelling at Ma. He never physically hurt us, but he emotionally abused her. I was just a little kid, but I remember him saying mean stuff to her all the time. He picked on me too. Didn’t believe I’d measure up to much.”

  He didn’t like talking about his father. He considered George Tucker his real father, but he actually felt comfortable with Meg and didn’t mind sharing a piece of his past he kept buried.

  “Ma still defends him to this day. Says he was stressed about not being able to financially support his family, different times back then. Of course, Ma finds the good in everyone.”

  “Even you,” Meg teased.

  Connor smiled, pleased that Meg would joke with him.

  “But you still let your mom call you Mack.”

  “Yeah.” He sipped his coffee and watched her eat the last forkful of dessert. “She doesn’t do it often, but I don’t make a big deal about it.”

  “Because it’s all she has left of your father. And despite it all, she still loved him.”

  He set his coffee cup down and stared at her.

  “And you love your mother a lot.”

  “Now aren’t you the observant one.” He forced a grin, but his insides clenched. The woman was amazing. Sensitive, intuitive, intelligent, sexy as hell, yet extremely insecure, and she knew how to inadvertently stir him up.

  “I rent my house from Tucker Properties. I don’t suppose you have a hand in that?”

  Connor nodded. “Sometimes I’m up to my neck in it, but my brothers, mostly Cole, do the brunt of the work. I help out when I can.”

  For the next hour, they sipped coffee and Connor enlightened Meg with stories of growing up on a farm and having George Tucker as his new dad. Delivering his first foal, getting bucked from a wild mare, and Annie’s tears when she first realized Wilbur did not go off to live on a pig farm but he was actually on her plate next to her eggs. He talked. She listened and asked questions, all to lure him away from prying into her life. So she wanted to remain a mystery. It would be enough for tonight, but next time, and there would be a next time, he would find out exactly what turned Meg Fulton on. Literally and physically.

  After paying the check and helping her with her coat, he put his hand in hers—she surprisingly didn’t pull away—and walked her to her car where they stood facing each other, oblivious to the cold. He loosened his tie and felt beads of sweat form around his neck and back. Hell, it was like reliving junior high all over again. He wanted to kiss her, but their last kiss ended in a catastrophe. But this time her eyes were wide open and sending off vibes brighter than a Vegas billboard that she, too, was interested in more than simple dinner conversation.

  He ran his hands through his hair and laughed. “Damn, Meg, I don’t want to scare you off, but damn, I want to kiss you right.”

  She bit her lip, played with the cuffs of her coat, all while averting her eyes from his. Well, she didn’t hit him and didn’t say no, but she didn’t say yes either. Not use to begging, he stepped closer, their coats buffering actual bodily contact, which was probably a good thing, or she’d really be scared.

  She didn’t step away.

  Connor cupped her chin and tipped her head. He stared at her full, pink mouth for a long time, waiting for a response. After holding out as long as humanly possible, he lowered his mouth to hers and hovered over her lips, expecting her to pull away.

  She didn’t.

  He kept his left hand at his side, although it ached to reach for her, while his right hand gently stroked her neck. He watched her eyes slowly close and her head tilt up to him. Taking it as a yes, Connor lightly brushed his lips against hers. Their breath mingled in the cold air making clouds of steamy passion around them. He cupped her face with both his hands and then moved them behind her neck and into her thick hair, still keeping his lips soft on hers.

  Tasting.

  He restrained himself to light, simple tastes of her lips. Chocolate, wine, coffee, Meg. Perfection. She tasted amazing, but he wanted more. His head felt light and his body would have trembled if it hadn’t been so conditioned.

  Meg’s hands stayed on his chest. Steadying herself or getting ready to push him away, he wasn’t sure, but he liked the pressure of her hands on his body, jealous of his heavy coat. Someday, someday soon, he’d feel her hands on his flesh.

  Not wanting to come on too hard, too fast, he reluctantly pulled his lips away from hers and softly kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her forehead, and then wrapped her in a hug. Feeling like the Grinch whose heart had suddenly grown too big for his chest, Connor abruptly pulled back. More intimacy flooded the light, feathery kiss and strong hug than if he had stripped her down naked and taken her in his backseat.

  Intimacy wasn’t his thing. Sex, yes. Intimacy, no.

  She opened her eyes and looked down at her hands still on his chest and then stepped back. “Thank you for dinner, McKay. I actually had a nice time.”

  “Hey, don’t throw actually in there,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood.

  She smiled shyly. “Well, I wasn’t expecting to enjoy your company. But…I did.”

  “Would you like to enjoy my company some more?”

  She gaped up at him, shocked.

  He stammered, not meaning the double entendre, “I mean, would you, uh, want to go out again…with me. Like on a date.”

  “Oh, um…really?” She toyed with her coat again, her sure tell sign of nerves.

  What was he? Sixteen? Why did his body betray him with nerves? But she shook with nerves too. It wasn’t fair how she looked adorable and he came off sounding like a total ass.

  “Sure, you know, grab a burger or something.” Better to shrug off the mind-blowing kiss as a casual end to a nice date.

  “Yeah, okay. I’m pretty busy with the holidays coming up, so maybe after that.”

  She was giving him the brush off? Hell, if he could read the signs the woman gave off. “Sure. Whenever. Drive safe.” He closed her car door and watched her drive away.

  Damn, he was an idiot.

  Chapter 8

  The bright red numbers glowed in the night and kept changing while she tossed and turned. Meg didn’t know who she was more nervous about talking to: her daughter, Betsy, or Connor.

  Emma had always been too intuitive. She would read right through Meg and know she enjoyed dinner with Connor, that she actually liked him. And Betsy. Sweet, dear, little ol’ Betsy had manipulated her. Meg cringed and hugged her pillow tighter as she recalled venting about Connor to Betsy one day.

  “The man infuriates me on purpose!” Meg yelled as she paced around the stable while Emma finished her riding lesson. The leaves had just begun to change, and the air was cool but not uncomfortably
chilly.

  Betsy sat on a stool and cleaned out Buster’s hooves after her morning ride. “Have you ever thought maybe the man likes you and enjoys teasing you?”

  Meg stopped and turned to look down at Betsy and snorted. “Are you kidding? I’m sorry, Betsy, I didn’t mean to be rude, I just don’t have anyone to talk to. Emma considers him God’s gift to the universe, and Annie tells me he’s harmless. I don’t know her very well either and am not comfortable complaining about a member of my staff to another teacher.”

  She sat on a bale of hay and dropped her head in her hands. “I’m sorry for dumping on you. You’re so easy to talk to and for some reason I feel I can confide in you.”

  “Of course you can, dear. I rather enjoy our talks and would never repeat a word of what we discuss. Trust me, I’ve heard Annie’s share of venting over him.”

  Meg lifted her head. “Really? I mean what a relief. Not that I want him harassing any of the other teachers, but to know I’m not the only one he’s had a problem with…”

  “Oh, he and Annie have had their share of problems.”

  Meg had wanted to ask about them, but figured it would be hypocritical.

  Looking back at their conversations over the past few months, she started piecing together the clues. How comfortable and sisterly Annie had been with Connor, the knowing glances Betsy would give her anytime she mentioned Connor. She learned he had a sister and twin brothers. One lived locally and graduated college a few years ago, the other off in grad school.

  She closed her eyes and moaned, recalling how many times she did mention Connor. Betsy must have interpreted her constant reference to him as interest and her wheels went into motion.

  And then there was Connor.

  Handsome, charming, funny Connor McKay. He made her laugh, but she also felt the love he had for his family. And the kiss. Oh. My. God. The kiss. Not that she had much to compare him to, but wow. If she hadn’t held on so tightly to the lapels of his coat, her knees would have given her away and dropped her to the pavement.

  His soft, warm mouth had been magically skilled. The light kisses had made her heart flutter and her insides ask for more. When his tongue had touched hers, she was sure he could hear the rush of blood flowing through her body. Thankfully, the dark parking lot had hidden the effect his kisses had on her, for she was as red as the cherry that had topped her dessert.