Liv became a single-celled being. Every sense was tuned to the slow dragging of his fingers in her hair, the ragged breathing that traveled from his chest to hers, to the dip and pull of his mouth against hers.
She gave in to temptation and slid her hand up his arm, slipping her fingers inside the sleeve of his T-shirt. She felt him shudder, and suddenly his mouth wrenched from hers and began a hot descent along her jaw as his hands slid down the sides of her body. When his lips touched the tender spot where her pulse pounded, she let out a moan and squeezed the bulge of biceps beneath her fingers. He flexed just enough to make it obvious. She smiled and squeezed the muscle again and was rewarded with the flick of his tongue into the small cleft of cleavage visible above her shirt.
“You smell good,” he rasped, moving his mouth to her ear.
“I smell like a bakery.”
“Exactly.” The tip of his tongue touched her earlobe. “You always smell like cookies or vanilla ice cream or something.” His mouth kissed a path back to hers. “It drives me crazy.”
This. This was what it meant to be kissed. This was what it meant to get lost in light and sound and sensation until everything disappeared but his lips, his taste, his scent, him. This was what she’d been missing without even knowing it.
It was also how mistakes were made. She should care, but she didn’t. She should stop, but she couldn’t. Her brain, her entire world could focus on one thing only—the feel of his hands on her face, his lips on hers.
By the time he finally eased his mouth away, they were both panting from heat and longing. Liv’s eyes fluttered open. She found him watching her, tenderness in his expression, wonderment in the small tilt of his smile. His hand tugged hers higher so he could press a kiss to her wrist before placing it over his heart.
Oh wow. That was . . . that was the most romantic gesture she’d ever experienced. “Mack . . .” All she could get out was his name.
“I like it when you say my name like that.”
He pulled her mouth toward his again.
And then they froze at the sound of stirring in the bedroom.
Mack let out a little groan and lifted his head to listen. After a moment with no more sounds, he lowered his forehead to hers. They stayed that way for a long, quiet beat. Collecting their thoughts.
Liv’s were a frantic mess. Confused and frightened. He wasn’t supposed to be like this—sweet and tender. He was supposed to be Braden Mack, conqueror of women, sarcastic man-child. He was safe that way.
“Can I ask you something?” he rasped.
“Okay.” Her voice barely worked.
“How do chickens have sex if they don’t have vaginas?”
“Oh my God.” Liv pushed him away with a laugh—a grateful laugh—and grabbed the nearest throw pillow. She whipped him in the head. “Go home.”
He laughed and lunged for her, grabbing her around the waist before she could get away. He hauled her against his chest and reclined on the couch, drawing her with him. “You have to tell me,” he said. “Imagine how bad those Google results would be.”
She sighed. “They rub their cloacas together.”
He rubbed his hands up her arms. “You should come over tomorrow night.”
“I find the segue there a little disturbing.”
“You can make me cupcakes.”
“Really? Jeez. What an offer.”
“You’d be returning my favor. I watched the girls. You can put that culinary school education to use in my amazing kitchen.”
“I can’t believe this, but I’m about to say yes.”
He hooked both arms around his head, probably because he knew it put his biceps at their best, bulgiest advantage. “It was washing the dish that did it, right? I know I’m right.”
She crawled off him. “Stop while you’re ahead.”
He grabbed her hand as she stood. “Hey, Liv?”
She looked down, ready for another smart-ass comment and, frankly, desperately in need of it. “What?”
He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “My chest is yours anytime you need it.”
This was the Mack that scared her most. This sweet, charming version of the man who tried so hard to pretend he didn’t have a care in the world. This was the version of Mack she could fall in love with, which was the kind of foolish, naive thought she should be chasing off with a broom like she did with Randy. For all she knew, he’d shown this side of himself to a dozen Gretchens in the past year alone.
Her heart didn’t seem to care, though. Not when he was smiling at her like she was the only woman in the entire world or, better, the only woman he wanted to be with.
That was a man she could convince herself to trust.
And that was the worst kind of man of all.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Malcolm looked tired and annoyed when Mack sat down at their table in the diner at seven thirty the next morning. Mack hadn’t called anyone else because this wasn’t something he could talk about with the rest of the guys.
“What’s the big emergency?” Malcolm yawned.
Mack glanced around furtively before answering. “Liv is coming over tonight.”
Malcolm stroked his beard. “I see.” He shook his head. “Actually, I don’t see. What’s the big emergency?”
“I don’t want to screw this up.”
“Mack, you’re the one who has taught the rest of us everything we know about the manuals. You’re not going to screw this up.”
“I’m not talking about sex, douchebag.”
Malcolm smiled. “Neither was I. So just tell me what the problem is.”
Mack pursed his lips and looked away. “I’m not sure if she’s . . . if she’s really into me.”
A puff of air burst from Malcolm’s mouth. “I’m sorry. I just, I need to make sure I understand. You’re worried because, for the first time ever, you have to actually work for it?”
“I’m sure that’s super fucking funny to you, but I’m a goddamned wreck. Gretchen threw me off my game. I’ve never been dumped before, and I have no idea what I did wrong with her. And Liv is . . .” Mack scrubbed his hands over his face.
A waitress brought coffee and asked whether they wanted to order food. They waved her off.
“Liv is . . . ?” Malcolm said.
Mack had the sinking feeling that he’d never really understood how hard it was to be on this end of the book club until now. For years he’d been cajoling everyone else to spill their guts if they wanted to save their relationships without ever truly believing he’d need to take his own advice someday.
“She’s skittish. Distrustful. Just when I think she’s opening up to me, she closes herself off again. I don’t want that to happen again after tonight.”
“You really like her,” Malcolm said, his voice carrying an element of holy shit. Mack’s mood darkened.
“Look,” Malcolm said, leaning on his elbows. “You know how this works. If she’s scared and determined to keep her distance from you, then she’s going to be vulnerable tonight because sex is a big deal. Be prepared for her to show up as her normal sarcastic self.”
That made sense. It was exactly what he would’ve told any of the other guys. Still . . . “What do I do, then?”
Malcolm gave him an are you serious look. “You know the answer to that.”
Sure. He knew what he’d say to anyone else. “Be what she needs in the moment.”
Malcolm nodded.
But those words suddenly meant nothing to him because Liv was taking everything he thought he knew and throwing it on its head. He’d left her apartment last night feeling like the jagged edge of a knife. She’d slayed him with that snuggling fantasy and her unguarded words. I just like the idea of having someone to lean on sometimes. It was the loneliest thing he’d ever heard someone say, and the scary thing was, he’d know
n exactly what she meant. He would never admit it to his friends, but Mack had spent many nights alone in his gigantic house cursing the silence and staring at the empty space on the other side of the bed.
“It’s harder than you realized, isn’t it?” Malcolm said, interrupting his thoughts.
Mack drank his coffee.
“You really have no idea why Gretchen dumped you?”
“I mean, she had reasons, but they were bullshit.”
“What were they?”
“It’s embarrassing.” Mack knew it was a stupid thing to say before he even said it.
“How many times has one of us said the exact same thing, and you’ve told us we had to get over it?”
Mack picked at the corner of his forgotten menu. “I know.”
“You’ve heard every humiliating aspect of all our lives, man. It’s your turn.”
“I know.” He puffed out his cheeks and let it fly. “She said she felt like I was wining and dining her according to an instruction manual. That it was too perfect.” That still burned. “How can something be too perfect?”
“Because perfection is the opposite of authenticity, Mack.”
He gulped at that because it too closely mirrored what Gretchen had said. Eventually they want it to feel real.
“I don’t know who to be with her,” he admitted quietly, shamefully.
“Just be yourself, Mack.”
But what if that was the one thing he couldn’t give her? If he were smart, he’d cancel tonight. She deserved better. She deserved someone who wasn’t doing the one thing she hated most: lying to her.
He would just have to be what she needed. What she wanted.
Braden-Fucking-Mack.
* * *
* * *
What the hell was she doing?
Scratching an itch. That’s what she was doing. And nothing more. At five past eight that night, Liv turned onto Mack’s street and slowed to look for house numbers in the dim lighting of the street lamps that cast a warm, yellow glow upon the manicured lawns of the subdivision where he lived. She’d figured he lived in luxury, seeing how he was willing to pay a thousand bucks for a cupcake, but even Liv was unprepared for the overt displays of wealth that dripped from every house she passed. Massive brick and stone houses rose two stories high over elaborate landscaping, their facades illuminated by discreet floodlights designed to show off their attributes without being obvious.
She’d known enough rich people in her life to know there was rarely a noble reason for such ostentatious displays of wealth. The owners of these homes either had a point to make or had something to hide.
The latter, she knew, was always worse.
A half mile up the street, she finally found a stone mailbox with his address. She turned left into the paved driveway and drove beneath a soaring canopy of mature trees. A short distance beyond the trees, his house rose above the lawn.
The front door swung open as she slowed in front of the portico. Mack walked out wearing a pair of golf shorts and a T-shirt that hugged him in good places. He jogged down the few steps and greeted her at her car. Her heart did the thud-thud thing, but she shot it down.
Tonight was about physical release. Nothing more.
“Hey,” he said, holding open her door. Before she knew what was happening, he bent and dropped his lips on hers. “Got anything to carry in?”
Speechlessness was not a natural state of being for her, but it had grabbed hold now. “Cupcakes in the back seat,” she stammered.
“I got ’em.”
Liv followed him inside and tried not to gape at the luxury. The entryway soared eighteen feet and was centered by a circular staircase. A marble floor was cold beneath her feet when she slipped off her shoes.
“You find it okay?” he asked conversationally, carrying the covered plate.
“Yep.”
“Kitchen is this way.”
This time, speechlessness was not the problem. “Holy shit,” she breathed. “You have to be kidding me.”
This was the kitchen of her dreams. A real chef’s kitchen. A gas range with eight burners and a double oven. Oh, the things she could do in here.
“You like?” Mack’s amused voice cut through her culinary fantasies as he set down the plate.
“Why do you need a kitchen like this?” she snapped, cranky for no apparent reason other than her nerves.
“Because I have to eat?” He winked.
“Do you even cook?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Frozen pizza. Sometimes I even shove a lasagna in the microwave.”
Those were fighting words. Mack knew it too. His grin could’ve melted ice.
“You do cook,” she said, realizing she’d been played.
“Of course I can cook. I’m an adult. Feeding myself is part of the deal.”
She rolled her eyes.
“How about a drink?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Mack pulled a chilled chardonnay from his refrigerator, uncorked it, and poured two glasses. He handed one to her and let his fingers linger against hers.
“I might need something harder than this,” she said, backing away.
“I can help with that.”
Laughter bubbled up from her chest with a buoyancy that broke the tension. She wanted to kiss him for that reason alone. “That was some bush-league sexual innuendo, Mack. I expect better.”
He chuckled in that low, manly way of his as he shoved the cork back into the top of the wine bottle.
“You seem pretty good at that, though,” she said.
“Good at what?”
She nodded at the bottle. “Sticking long things into tight holes.”
He belly-laughed—an honest-to-god, open-mouthed burst of surprise that lifted his entire face and felt to Liv like winning the lottery. Unexpected, thrilling, and totally life-changing.
Mack brought his glass around from behind her but left one hand on the edge of the counter, forcing him to lean just enough that her nipples brushed against his chest. His voice and his eyes teased. “And you think I’m bush-league?”
She shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “I might be a little rusty at the plate.”
“Haven’t rounded the bases in a while, huh?”
“I could stand to practice my bat handling.”
“Want a home run tip?”
“Always.”
He leaned again. “It’s all about how you grip the wood.”
“Is this where you teach me about finding the sweet spot?”
He winked. “It happens to be my all-star specialty.”
Liv fanned her face. “Damn. Is it hot in here or is it just my vagina?”
His laughter this time made her heart hop like a caffeinated rabbit. Still smiling, Mack leaned against the island behind him, one hand propped against the countertop and the other cradling the wineglass. It looked ridiculously fragile in his strong, thick fingers. The picture he presented was of unapologetic, effortless masculinity. And she had just enough swooning girly girl in her to appreciate every inch of it.
“This is an awfully big house for a single man,” she said.
He looked around before returning his gaze to hers. “I won’t be single forever.”
“What if the future Mrs. Mack doesn’t want to live here?”
His eyes registered genuine surprise. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“I know it’s crazy, but some women like to have a say in their own homes,” she teased over the rim of her glass.
“I can adjust. I plan to treat the future Mrs. Mack like a princess, so whatever she wants, she’ll have.”
Liv snorted. “You really have read too many romance novels.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “And you really haven’t read enough.” Mack sipped his wine. “You want a tour?”<
br />
No, Liv wanted to say. Because she didn’t want to learn anything else about him that would suck her even more deeply into his dangerous whirlpool of stereotype-defying surprises. She didn’t want to see more pictures of his family or find out which room he envisioned for the nursery one day.
“Come on,” Mack said, pulling away from the counter. “I’ll show you my book collection.”
Liv let out an exaggerated groan. “Shoot me now.”
Mack reached for her free hand and wrapped her fingers in his. “You need a little romance in your life.”
He tugged her gently to follow him back down the hallway. They turned left at the staircase and walked into a den where floor-to-ceiling bookcases in dark wood boasted an entire library of not just romance novels but books on politics, history, sports, and science. Damn him. She needed him to be a mindless playboy, not a man of deep thought.
A pair of overstuffed leather chairs bracketed a brick fireplace. One looked more worn-in than the other, and an unwelcome image flashed through her mind of Mack reclining there, feet up on the ottoman, reading a book on the fall of the Roman Empire.
On the mantel above the fireplace, a line of family photos caught her attention. She let go of his hand and walked closer to them. She brushed her fingers over a gold frame containing a photo of a smiling man holding up a fish. “Is that your dad?” she asked quietly.
Behind her, he cleared his throat. “No. My uncle.”
“Do you have any pictures of your father?”
“Not in here.”
The catch in his voice brought her around. This was why she didn’t want a tour. She couldn’t afford to think of him as a grieving son who still got choked up just thinking about his father. She sidestepped him and crossed the room to the section of bookcases where he kept his romance novels.
“Which one is your favorite?” she asked, tilting her head to read the cracked spines.
“This one.” His arm reached over shoulder to a shelf just above eye level. His long fingers plucked a well-loved book from the collection and held it down for her.
She took it from him and read the title aloud. “Mistletoe Dreams.”
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