“As you should.” I nod in agreement, then kick off my sneakers and strip out of my jeans. “Should I leave them on, or lose them?” I question with my thumbs in the waistband of my boxers.
Her tongue wets her bottom lip, causing it to glisten—and my cock to throb.
“Leave them on.”
“All right.” I remove my fingers. “How do you want me?”
At my question, her eyes flare. She quickly schools her features and crosses her arms over her chest.
“On your stomach,” she instructs.
Turning my back to her, I get onto the table and lie down on my stomach, cursing my hard-on when my weight presses it into the unyielding mattress. Resting my face in the cradle at the top of the bed, a million fantasies play out in my mind as I wait for the first touch from her hands.
When I hear her feet pad across the carpet and get closer, my body fills with anticipation. I hear her sharp inhale as her finger touches one of my scars.
“What are these from?”
“Gunshot,” I say quietly, knowing she’s looking at the three small scars on my right shoulder. I was shot during a drug bust gone bad.
“I didn’t notice them before.”
“You were a little preoccupied,” I remind her, trying to lighten the mood.
She doesn’t laugh or reply at all.
Feeling a drop of wet hit my back a moment later, my eyes tighten. Fuck.
I sit up and take her into my arms without thinking. I hold her against me as she cries, overwhelmed that she’s upset over me.
“I’m sorry.” She pulls away before I’m ready to let her go, ducking her head and wiping the wet from her cheeks. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I’m not going to complain that you let me hold you,” I say.
Her eyes meet mine.
“How did it happen?” she asks.
I ignore the question, just like I’ve been ignoring the constant pain in my chest since I moved away from Seattle and to New York City.
“It’s not important. Let’s get started,” I say, trying to keep the bite out of my tone. I know I don’t succeed in that endeavor, because she flinches. “Sorr—”
“You’re right.” She cuts me off and looks away from me, making me want to kick my own ass around the room. “We should get started. My next client will be here soon.”
Without a word, I move back to my stomach and close my eyes. Feeling her oil-covered hands slip across my back makes it almost impossible to relax. I want to apologize for being harsh and for shutting her down when she was obviously only concerned for me, but I can’t get the words out. I’ve never opened up to anyone. I can’t imagine that Mackenzie wants my burdens dragging her down.
“I was arrested once,” she says out of the blue minutes later.
All the muscles that had started to relax tighten again, but she ignores my reaction and continues talking while gliding her hands across my skin.
“It was stupid, really. I skipped school one day and went to the park to hang out with a group of friends. We were all just being kids, not doing anything bad, but we were having fun. So much fun that I thought the moment should be recorded for history’s sake. Like an idiot, I carved my full name and the date plus ‘Peace, love, and happiness’ into the top of one of the wooden tables in the park.”
She laughs softly, and I smile at the sound.
“Two cops showed up at my house a few weeks later, asking where I was on that date. At first, I had no idea what date they were referring to, but that didn’t last long. They had photos of my handiwork. Those made it perfectly clear that they knew where I had been. My dad, as you can imagine, was not impressed that his daughter had skipped school to deface public property. So he told the officers to arrest me.”
“Your dad had you arrested?” I ask, incredulous, through a smile.
She laughs. “Yes, and that day I had the privilege of sitting in a jail cell for a few hours before my mom found out what happened and came to get me out.”
“Was she pissed?”
“Pissed isn’t even close to what she was. The minute I saw how mad she was, I begged one of the officers to keep me locked up. I had never heard her screech so loud in my life. Thankfully, I haven’t heard that god-awful noise since then.”
I can hear the smile in her voice, so I tip my head to the side to get a look at her face. Christ, she’s beautiful. Seeing the smile she’s wearing causes my breath to freeze in my lungs and my chest to ache.
“Needless to say, I never skipped school again—or defaced public property.”
“Was that the only time you’ve been in trouble with the law?”
“No . . . that’s just the only time I was arrested.” She smirks, and my stomach muscles tighten while my cock starts to come back to life.
“Tell me.” I roll to my back so that I can see her face as she talks.
Her hands lift away; then she makes some kind of internal decision and puts them on me again, beginning to massage my pecs and shoulders.
“On my twenty-first birthday, my friends thought it would be smart for me to start drinking at a legal age by ingesting tequila.”
“Christ.”
“Yeah, that about sums it up. That night, I ended up shirtless in Times Square, singing ‘I’m a Little Teapot,’” she says.
My hands flex at my sides at the idea of anyone seeing her the way I have. God, what the hell is she doing to me?
“Thankfully, the officer who got the call about a girl singing and running around topless in Times Square took pity on me when I puked all over him. Instead of arresting me like he could have, he made my friends take me home. He followed us all the way there, then gave us a warning that the next time we wouldn’t get off so easy.”
“You got lucky.”
“Believe me, I know. That is also the last time I ever drank tequila. Now if I even get a whiff of the stuff, my stomach turns and I find myself running for the nearest bathroom.”
“I hate hot dogs,” I tell her, wanting to share something about myself. I feel the need to, even if it’s about something stupid.
“You hate hot dogs?”
“I can’t stand them. When I was six, my parents got divorced.”
“I’m sorry.” Her hands go still and her soft eyes meet mine, causing something in my chest to get tight.
“Don’t be. Some people are better apart. Believe me, my parents are those people.”
“Is that why you hate hot dogs?”
“No,” I laugh. “My dad took me for the summer the first year after they divorced, and he had no idea how to cook. So we had hot dogs at every meal. Hot dogs and eggs, hot dogs and mac and cheese, hot dogs in spaghetti. I swear, if someone would have drawn my blood after that summer, my cholesterol at six years old would have been through the roof.”
“Poor kid.”
“Yeah. Since then, I can’t even look at a hot dog without wanting to get sick.”
“That sucks. There is nothing better than sitting out under the sun at Mets stadium, drinking a beer, and eating a hot dog while watching a game.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that, gorgeous. I might drink a beer, but you will never see me eating a hot dog.”
I notice how her pupils dilate when I say the word gorgeous.
Just when I think I’m getting somewhere, she quickly looks away.
“You should flip back to your stomach so I can finish working on your back.”
“All right.” I roll to my stomach, and for the next half hour we are both completely silent. She works my muscles from my shoulders to my calves. I don’t fall asleep even though my eyes get heavy. I want to stay awake the whole time so I can soak in the feeling of her touch, the way her hands glide over my body. I try to memorize every single second since I’m not sure when her hands will be on me again.
“All done,” she says softly when a chime sounds in the room.
I lean up on an elbow.
“I’ll let
you get dressed. Just come out when you’re ready.”
Even though a part of me knows that the smart thing to do would be to let her walk away and come to me if that’s what she wants, I know I can’t do it. I want her, and I want to figure out why she keeps acting like she doesn’t want me, too. I can see it in her eyes and by the way her body reacts to me. She does.
Taking her hand before she’s out of reach, I sit up on the side of the bed. “Go out with me tonight.” I hate how vulnerable I sound to my own ears.
“Go out with you?” she repeats.
I wonder why the hell she can’t seem to believe that I want to spend time with her.
“Have dinner with me.” I pull her a step closer.
Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth before she releases it and gives me a nod.
“If that’s a yes, I’m going to need to hear you say the word . . .”
“Yes.”
“Good.” I rub my thumb over the pulse at her wrist and feel it beating hard. “I’ll pick you up at your place at six.”
“I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”
I want to insist on picking her up, but I can tell by the look in her eyes that she won’t give in. Knowing I need to pick my battles right now, I don’t fight her to get my way.
“All right, we’ll meet at the restaurant,” I agree. I give her the name of the place I have in mind before she leaves the room.
Once I’m dressed, I head out into the main part of the office and find her laughing with a guy—not just any guy, a good-looking guy who is standing way too damn close.
I clear my throat and watch as her head swings my way. My instinct is to puff up my chest when the guy looks me over, sizing me up.
“Wesley, this is my friend Edward. Edward, this is Wesley.”
I take the guy in. He’s tall, with the body of an athlete. His hair is short and his jaw is clean, which fits with the suit he has on. He looks like a sleazy banker.
“Nice to meet you.”
Edward lifts his chin, and I do the same in return before looking at Mackenzie. I move toward her with purpose, needing and wanting to stake my claim on her in some way.
“See you tonight,” I tell her as I drop a kiss on her cheek.
I feel her breath come out in a puff across my ear. I lean back, searching her gaze and feeling self-satisfied when I see that her eyelids have lowered and her face has gotten soft.
“Yeah, I’ll see you tonight,” she whispers.
I swear it takes everything in me to leave her there with another man. It kills me a little when I hear her office door shut and lock behind me once I’m in the hall. Then I remind myself that she’s not mine. That still doesn’t stop the caveman in my head from growling. Mine.
Chapter 4
COMPLICATED
MAC
Stripping out of my clothes, I take a seat on the side of my bed in my tank top and panties. I scratch my hands down my face, thinking about tonight. I have a date. Not only do I have a date, but I have a date with Wesley. I couldn’t believe it when I looked up and found him standing in my doorway this afternoon wearing jeans, his leather jacket, and boots. His hair was mussed like he had run his hand through it a few dozen times. I had thought that I was imagining him since I had just taken his number out of my desk and dialed it—but I hung up before I pressed the last number. It wasn’t until he said my name and stepped toward me that I realized he was really there.
Flopping back onto my bed, I close my eyes. I think about the scars on his shoulder and his tortured expression when I asked about them. There was something about it that made me want to crawl into his lap and hold him, to tell him that it would be okay. I don’t know what happened to him, but I know that whatever it was still affects him. He shut down completely when I brought it up. That stung. I didn’t know how to react or what to say, so I pulled away in response.
Only that wasn’t working for me, either. I didn’t like the distance or weird energy that settled over us like a wet blanket just then, which is why I told him about being arrested when I was younger. I wanted to make him smile or, better yet, laugh. I didn’t expect him to open up to me and tell me about a piece of his childhood in return, but he did. That made the connection I feel with him grow a little more. It also made it easy for me to agree to go out with him. Well, that and the fact that he looks at me like I’m already his.
At that thought, my skin tingles and my body hums. Intellectually, I know I shouldn’t find it as hot as I do that he seems so possessive about me, but my body has other ideas. There is something powerful in knowing that I can cause those kinds of emotions. When he saw me talking to Edward, I thought for a moment that he was going to storm across the room, pick me up, toss me over his shoulder, and carry me away with him.
I swallow, and hard anxiety hits the pit of my stomach. Reality crashes down around me like a ton of bricks. The last time I thought I had a connection with someone, I was very, very wrong. Am I just as wrong this time around? I need to stop thinking of this thing between us in terms of something serious. I should just think of it as a little bit of fun. No-strings-attached fun that won’t lead to me being brokenhearted. I shouldn’t assume anything more. We are just two people who are attracted to each other and who have over-the-top, out-of-this-world chemistry.
“Mac?” Libby’s singsong hello floats from the living room, cutting into my wayward thoughts.
I sit up on the side of the bed.
“I’m in the bedroom!” I shout back, wondering why it’s necessary to inform her of that—our apartment is less than five hundred square feet. She would have found me eventually, even without looking.
“What’s up, sister dearest?” She comes into the room with her long, dark hair tied up into a neat bun and her makeup done perfectly.
“Nothing much,” I answer, watching her dump her purse on her twin bed, which is directly across from mine.
She starts stripping out of her slacks and fitted blouse—something that she always does the moment she gets home, which makes me wonder why she bothers wearing things that are obviously so uncomfortable. “Do you feel like ordering a pizza and watching a horror flick?” She turns to look at me once she has on her baggy sweats and an even baggier T-shirt.
“I’m actually going out in a bit. I’m meeting a friend for dinner.”
“Oh, can I come?”
Oh lord. How do I answer that? Libby often comes out with me when I’m meeting friends, so I know if I tell her she can’t come, she will have a million questions for me—questions I’m not ready to answer.
“Never mind. I don’t feel like getting dressed again,” she says as she heads toward the bathroom, taking her hair out of the bun as she goes.
Sighing in relief, I play it off like I’m disappointed when she comes back out. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s freezing out. They said it’s going to snow. I don’t want to be stuck outside wearing heels if it’s snowing.”
“You could just wear regular shoes . . .” I point out the obvious.
She rolls her eyes at me, making me smile. I don’t know how Libby does it, but she manages to wear heels even though she’s on her feet all day doing makeup for the who’s who of New York City at the posh upscale boutique where she works.
“I own one pair of rain boots and one pair of sneakers—and they are both still brand new and in the box they came in.” She lies down on her bed, then rolls her head toward me. Her eyes scan my face. “Are you okay?”
“Yep,” I say. Maybe I answered a little too quickly, because her eyes narrow. She lifts herself up on an elbow and rests her head in her hand.
“You’ve been weird since before Thanksgiving. What’s going on?”
There is a six-foot-two gorgeous, giant man taking up my every waking thought, I think but don’t say.
“Nothing’s wrong. Just a little tired.” I shrug one shoulder.
“Hmm.” She studies me like a speck of dirt under a microscope.
Needing to avoid the interrogation I feel coming, I stand and head for the bathroom.
“So tell me about Wesley.”
Dammit! I pause and turn to look at her over my shoulder. “Wesley?” I feign ignorance.
She huffs out a breath. “Yeah, Levi’s hot friend Wesley. How do you know him?”
Bunching my eyebrows together to give her the full effect I ask, “Know him?”
“You know what? Never mind.” She sits up, then pushes herself off the bed and starts for the door, grumbling as she goes.
“Libby . . .”
“No.” She shakes her head, turning to face me. “You, me, and Fawn used to be close. We used to tell one another everything. Now I feel like everything is some big secret. It’s annoying.”
“It’s complicated,” I admit.
She frowns. “Life is always complicated. That’s what family is for—to help you uncomplicate things, to talk things out, and to be there,” she says. Before I can open my mouth to reply, she continues. “All I’m saying is if you guys don’t want to share what’s going on in your lives, then I won’t be sharing what’s going on in mine.” With that parting shot, she leaves me standing in our bedroom, feeling two feet tall and riddled with guilt for not opening up to her.
I should tell her and Fawn about what’s happened between Wesley and me. But the idea of doing that and having to risk seeing the pity in their eyes later if things don’t work out leaves me feeling torn. I hate that they witnessed my crush on Edward, that they saw firsthand how desperately I tried to get him to see me, how I went out of my way to spend time with him. I looked like an idiot, pining over a guy who was never more than a friend, who never led me to believe that we could be more. I’m supposed to be the oldest one, the experienced one. Instead, I’m the one who wasted two years of her life on a crush. A crush on a guy I now feel nothing for. How crazy is that?
When Edward came to my office today, I didn’t get butterflies like the ones I get whenever I see Wesley. My pulse didn’t kick into overdrive. My palms didn’t itch to touch him. My mind didn’t scream at him to kiss me. I really don’t remember any of those things ever happening before when I was around Edward. In fact, in hindsight I have no idea what I saw in him in the first place.
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