Keep On Loving you (13 page)

“You rat,” she said against his mouth.

He smiled against hers. Then he pushed his two fingers deeper into the tight clutch of her, and then he gave in and brushed his thumb against her takeoff button.

Seconds later, she flew.

God, he loved sending Mac on a thrill ride.

When she finally stopped shaking, she buried her face in his neck and he stroked the back of her hair as her breathing slowed. He felt her lips move against him. “I...I don't know what to say, Zan.”

He stroked her hair again and made his decision. “I do. I'm saying I don't have a condom and, anyway, I think I'm too old to get any more adventurous in the parking lot at Mr. Frank's.”

Her head shot up. “We're in the parking lot at Mr. Frank's!”

He winced at her near-shriek. “Nobody's around us. Nobody saw anything.”

She let her forehead fall to his shoulder, where she bumped it lightly, over and over. “Why did this happen again? What the heck are we doing?”

It happened because the chemistry between them was so damn strong. Because they'd always combusted when they were together...and he suspected that wasn't ever going to change.

But he guessed that wasn't what she wanted to hear, and he didn't feel like arguing now, when his dick was hard as a pole and his brain was still smoky with lust.

“For now,” he said, “what we're doing is ending our little reunion so you can get back to your other party. I'm going to watch you go inside and then I'm going to head to my grandfather's.”

Where he'd take the fucking coldest shower in the universe.

And that's how it went. But as he drove the mountain roads, cold air blasting in from his open window cleared his head and realization rushed in. He had found at least one answer.

What he wanted? In the short term, that was easy.

Mac.

This Mac. He wanted this maddening, prickly, tough-girl Mac in his arms, in his bed, her scent in his head, her taste in his mouth.

CHAPTER NINE

A
S
T
ILDA
APPROACHED
the door to the Maids by Mac office, a cup of Oscar's coffee in each hand, it suddenly swung open and she was jerked inside. Then Mac locked the door and towed her quickly to the privacy of the back storeroom.

“There,” she said on a sigh of relief.

Tilda eyed her friend and boss. “Um, hi?” She handed over one of the paper cups.

“Thanks,” Mac said, swallowing down some of the beverage immediately. “I need this. I didn't sleep last night.”

“Are you going to explain?” Tilda asked. “I noticed the front room lights aren't on and now we're crowded in with the Pledge and the Windex. I assume we're hiding?”

“You don't have sisters,” Mac said. “If you did, you'd know it was necessary. They're relentless and nosy and they've been leaving texts about wanting to talk with me ASAP.”

Tilda had been struggling with her own nagging worries after her date with Ash, but seeing the usually unflappable Mac so agitated was proving an interesting distraction. “Does this have something to do with your visit to Mr. Frank's last night and how you abruptly disappeared?”

Her boss and friend stared.

“Followed by your reappearance in a decidedly disheveled state?”

Wincing, Mac half closed her eyes. “You heard about that?”

“Mountain grapevine,” Tilda reminded her. “It flourishes at our favorite coffee place.”

Mac groaned. “It would be nice to be an idiot without a thousand people talking about it the very next day.”

“Idiot? You?”

The other woman waved her free hand. “Not using my head.”

Word was, she and her old flame might be taking up again. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I wouldn't even know where to start,” Mac admitted.

Tilda sipped from her own cup. “I hear this Zan is all kinds of gorgeous.”

Mac sighed again. “Hence, the idiocy.”

Ash flashed in Tilda's mind, his perfect features, his golden hair, his expensive loafers. The way he'd made her laugh and for a little while forget all her troubles. Was it so very bad for her to have enjoyed herself? Was it really such a terrible thing?

She released her own sigh. “Why can't a woman spend time with gorgeous?” she asked Mac.

Her friend leaned one shoulder against the shelving and sifted her free hand through her sleek dark hair. “Because it's asking for trouble, right? Because we work too damn hard to turn around and self-sabotage.”

“Self-sabotage?” Tilda thought of the way Ash made her feel beautiful, interesting, worth knowing. A spark of rebellion fired her blood. Perhaps she'd been looking at this all wrong. “Maybe we work hard enough that we deserve a nice time with a good-looking guy. Some... I don't know. Recreation.”

“Recreation,” Mac repeated, gazing at her over the rim of her coffee. “Hmm. That's an idea, you have. Recreation.” She took a sip, her eyes narrowing in obvious thought. “A nice time. Nothing serious.”

“Right.” Tilda nodded, optimism growing. “Amusement. Diversion. Plain old fun.”

“Fun...” Mac seemed to mull over the word, almost like it was unfamiliar. “You know, it's possible we might have been taking ourselves a tad too seriously.”

Yes, they'd been taking themselves too seriously, Tilda decided, feeling her own jangled nerves smoothing out. A date with Ash, with a man who made her laugh and feel good about life, about herself, wasn't a disaster at all! There was no need to blow the circumstances out of proportion.

Then Mac's voice lowered. “On the other hand, we just might be fooling ourselves.”

She looked so gloomy, and so weary, too, Tilda had to do something to lift her spirits. “You're my hero, did you know that, Mac?”

Her boss's blue eyes went wide. “Tilda...”

“After my mom died, when I told you my situation, you managed to give me more hours. But better than that, you gave me faith in myself. I was feeling pretty low, pretty rocky—”

“I know.”

“—but you assured me I could keep going. Remember? You said I was from strong mountain stock, just like you.”

Mac smiled. “We are. We're strong mountain women. Smart, strong mountain women.”

“You believed in me, and I believe in you, too. As a smart, strong mountain woman, I know you'll figure out the right thing to do for yourself.”

Her friend's smile brightened further and she tilted her head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Tilda gave a sharp nod. “As a matter of fact, I believe that good things are coming. Good things are coming to us both.”

She didn't know how long she'd hold on to that belief, though, because this was a first for her. All her life, even when her mother was alive, she'd been merely getting through, scraping by, making it only to the next day but not looking beyond that.

Sure, she was taking those online courses, but the truth was, she still had been looking only as far as the next footstep on the dark road. Not once had she glanced up toward the horizon.

But now she could swear she sensed the glimmer of dawn ahead.

Tilda tapped her cup against Mac's. “To us.”

Grinning, Mac tapped right back. “And to good things.”

* * *

M
AC
BOUNDED
UP
the steps to Zan's grandfather's house, ignoring any craven impulse to scuttle back to her car and call in sick for the day. When they'd settled her schedule, she'd promised to show this morning. The fact that the night before she'd allowed Zan to kiss and caress her to climax was no excuse to skip out. As Tilda's pep talk had reminded her half an hour ago, she was strong. Tough. She'd suffered through more difficult things than meeting the eyes of a man who'd taken her to heaven after an absence of ten years.

That didn't mean she didn't snatch the note he'd left on the front door with a surge of hope. Hope that stayed high when she read he'd had to go out, he'd left the door unlocked for her, and she should let herself in and get started sorting and packing.

A reprieve from his company—however brief—wasn't unwelcome.

He'd probably texted her the very same message, but she hadn't read the two he'd sent. Not because she wasn't tough...but because she'd yet to figure out exactly what she wanted to do about the Zan situation.

Ignoring him was impossible, since she'd committed to working for him. Slapping him silly was not a valid option, either, as she could have stopped things before they'd gone that far the night before. That left... See? She just didn't know.

Dropping her purse and coat in the kitchen, she glanced around, noting the unwashed dishes, the open cupboards, the cereal box out and the cereal inside getting staler by the second. Mess was her business, and walking away without doing something about it was impossible.

So before heading upstairs, where they'd decided to begin, she moved about the large, bright kitchen. Plates and bowls were stacked in the dishwasher, the cold coffee dumped out of the carafe and the carafe itself cleaned, and boxes of food were returned to the pantry.

She touched a cabinet door with her elbow and watched it quiet-close, then snatched up one of Zan's sweaters half falling off a chair at the kitchen table. It struck her, hard, that this wasn't unlike moments she'd fantasized about all those years ago. Mac picking up after her man. Mac picking up after Zan and the family they'd one day make. Without thinking, she brought his sweater to her nose and breathed in the same delicious scent of him that she'd been so close to in his car.

In Mr. Frank's parking lot!

That still astounded her.

But one touch from his lips and she'd been lost in passion. Their hands had been all over each other and she'd shut off her brain and allowed herself to revel in him instead. He'd been heavy and hard and all-man beneath her, an intoxicating feeling, especially because it was Zan, his low groan, his sure touch, her response not measured or considered.

With Zan, she'd been wild.

That was the worry. When a person went wild, they weren't thinking what could go wrong. They weren't remembering unhappy endings. They were living in the moment, which sounded great, until the moment passed and the big crash came.

Mac liked to look ahead these days. Proceed with caution after considering all the consequences.

Leaving the kitchen, she mounted the staircase and hoped that Zan had gathered the cardboard boxes as he'd promised. On the second-floor landing, her gaze caught on the open door to the master bedroom, the room he was using. Then she glanced down, realizing she still held his sweater in her arms, clutched tight to her chest.

Gah. Time to get rid of it.

So she strode into the room.
Set it down on the bureau, Mac
, she told herself.
Then back away.

But it was a mess in there, too. Clothes on the floor, drawers open. Through another door she could see a pile of used towels on the tile in the attached bathroom. On a sigh, she tucked the sweater away, closed all the drawers and moved to pick up the strewn garments, gathering them for a trip to the hamper she could also see in the bathroom.

Naturally, it was full.

“Time for a trip to the laundry room,” she told the wad of boxers and jeans and T-shirts. It had wheels—ingenius!—so she rolled it in the direction of the washer and dryer that she'd seen on this floor. There was another set on the main floor, too. Nice, not having to lug items up and down the staircase.

Another woman might have worried it was presumptuous to tackle the laundry. Another woman didn't know Zan Elliott, or, for that matter, any of the male species. The day a man objected to someone running a load of wash for him was the day she turned in her business license and her membership in the Men-Love-Being-Taken-Care-Of Club.

To the low hum of the washing machine, she made her way back to Zan's room, where she tackled the unmade bed. She tried not thinking about his long, muscled body on the sheets or his handsome head on the bunched pillow. When she picked it up to fluff it smooth, her eye caught on the item beneath its neighbor.

Mac and Zan: The Early Years.

He'd been reading the old scrapbook in bed?

Unwilling to think about that, with quick movements she finished tidying the room. Then she set the scrapbook on his night table and hightailed it to the next floor and the room with all the bookshelves. As promised, empty cartons were stacked in the space.

The encyclopedias would go first.

They were dusty and she wished she'd brought gloves with her, but she ignored the grime on her hands and dropped the first load into an empty box. She was ass-up adjusting them for the best fit when she felt a tingle at the base of her spine. Her face heating, she rose and spun.

As she'd suspected, Zan had returned. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, one ankle crossed over the other. A half smile tilted the corners of his lips as his gaze lifted to meet hers.

Oh, boy.

Her mouth remembered the hard press of his and all that came after, which made her nipples contract to tight beads and a spasm occur between her thighs. She wiped her hands on her jeans, hoping he didn't see her press her legs together to try to ease the ache at their center.

“Zan,” she said.

“Morning, Mac.” His smile widened. “You cleaned the kitchen. You made my bed. You put my clothes in the wash.”

She hung her head. “It's a compulsion. Comes in handy in my line of work, but the sisterhood might boot me out for straightening up a mess of your own creation.”

“I'll wash your car later,” he offered.

“So we're dividing up work on gender-based lines?”

“You started it, honey, and as it turns out—” he grinned “—I like things that are gender-based.”

He said that to tease her, of course. To get her remembering that other gender-based activity of the night before.

The heated confines of the car. His fingers sliding beneath her panties. Her melting response as he stroked her, his sure touch knowing all the places and all the ways to please her. Her skin prickled beneath her clothes and she felt her face flush again. Try as she might, she couldn't look away from him or stop the desire that flooded her blood and coursed through her body.

Oh, Zan.

There was something about him in that moment, his eyes warm, his pose relaxed, that grin all male and oh so confident that compelled her heated, needy response.

And she knew, then, what she wanted to do about Zan.

Good things are coming.

The truth was, she wanted to go to bed with him. For recreation. For fun. Because she worked hard and deserved to spend some time with gorgeous. A woman had needs and wasn't she allowed to seek their fulfillment?

But Mac also was smart, which meant she needed to protect herself by defining the situation for them both up front. As any mature person would, who had learned to be tough and frank and who might want pleasure but not at the expense of future pain.

That meant eyes wide-open and expectations clearly laid out.

With all that firmly in mind, she strolled forward. “So...I have an idea.”

“Yeah?” He still gazed upon her, all lazy male grace.

“Maybe we should do something about all this—” she spun a finger in the air “—heat.”

His brows lifted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mac hauled in a breath, then let the words fly. “Want to be sex buddies?”

He shot up, his brows slamming straight, his grin dying. “Huh?” he said.

Sue her, she enjoyed his look of surprise at her blunt question. He'd trampled the heart of that defenseless girl she'd been. Now he'd learn that she'd matured into a smarter, stronger, wiser version of Mackenzie Walker. Mac was a woman now who could reach for what she wanted on her own terms.