* * *
Things weren’t suddenly all hunky-dory after my declaration that I could kick his mama’s ass, but they were at least on their way to being better. About two minutes after that, my stomach growled loud enough to echo around the empty room and Mac took me out to another almost silent lunch at a dive that sold killer tacos.
Then, without discussing it, we drove back into Manhattan, the radio playing the whole way. By the time we hit the Lincoln tunnel, my hand was on his thigh and my fingers threaded with his. And I knew everything was going to be okay.
“I can’t believe I forgot to tell you my big news!”
I drop my purse on Mac’s kitchen island while he sifts through the pile of mail he picked up on our way in.
“You are looking at the official creative director of the brand new WHL magazine.” I twist a finger in my cheek for some jaunty emphasis.
He looks up from the mail and arches those lush eyebrows. “Impressive. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir.” I smile at him.
His hands flatten on the counter as he takes in my cheerful expression. “Did you want to…” He doesn’t finish.
“Did I want to what?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Isn’t this the kind of thing people like to… I don’t know… celebrate?”
I love how he asks this like he’s not an actual person. I hide my smile as best I can.
“Yes, I reckon it is.”
Mac steps back from the counter and glances around as if searching for something. “Okay. We should probably…” he trails off again.
“Go to a themed restaurant?” I bite my cheek to keep from laughing when he holds his breath. “I totally agree. Preferably one where the staff will sing to me.”
He lets out the breath and narrows his eyes at me. “You’re fucking with me.”
My mouth spreads in a wicked grin. “I am.”
“So, you don’t want to celebrate. Or you already did.” His jaw ticks. “I wasn’t here.”
I’m not going to let him beat himself up for whatever he thinks he did to me.
“Yes, we celebrated at the office and, no, you didn’t miss anything. And, while I might pay good money to see the staff at Benihana try to sing happy birthday to you, I have no desire to subject myself to anything of the kind, thank you very much.”
This earns me a scowl.
“If you insist on helping me celebrate, though, I’ll let you kiss me.” I bite my lip and his eyes go straight there. But he doesn’t move from behind the island. It’s as if he’s not giving himself permission to put the last week behind us. So I do it for him and walk right over until my chest is pressed to his torso and my palms are flat on his pecs.
I blink up at him and that’s all it takes. His lips crush mine and he’s kissing me like it’s been a year, not a week. He sucks on my bottom lip and then his tongue is sliding against mine, making me sigh into his mouth. I get his hands on my hips where he flexes his fingers so tight I might have marks tomorrow, but I don’t care. He’s claiming me, telling me with his lips and tongue and teeth how he missed me—all the things he can’t bring himself to say with words. How he hates what separated us and how he’s not sure how to navigate what lies ahead. And I hear it all, understand it all, and return every stroke and nip to tell him it’s okay and that we’ll figure it out together.
We’re both panting when we finally pull apart. He squeezes my ass and I lean into him, grabbing onto his biceps so I don’t fall over. God, I missed the feel of him beneath my hands, all that taught, hot skin and rock-hard muscle—not to mention the ink I haven’t yet traced with my tongue like I’ve been meaning to.
I burrow into his chest and hear the beating of his heart where my ear presses against his t-shirt. We stay like that for a few minutes, content in the security of one another until our heart rates slow.
“This is the best celebration ever,” I murmur into his right pec.
His chest hums. “I’m sure you’ve had better.”
“Not true.” I smile against the cotton of his shirt. “Although my high school graduation party might come in at a close second. It’s kinda hard to beat an impromptu battle of the bands between a Rascal Flatts cover band and Savannah’s top zydeco quartet.”
Mac pulls back and looks down his crooked nose at me. “I’m afraid to ask.”
I nod. “You should be.”
I release him, backing up to hoist myself up onto his island and then set his mail pile on my lap so he has to touch me while going through it. I hand him the first letter and he rips it open, his eyes still on me and his lips curled in a half-grin. He gives really good grin. It may even be better than his growl. Maybe.
“Don’t you ever celebrate anything? Like maybe selling a half-million-dollar chair or something?”
He tosses the letter aside and grabs another one from my lap, completely ignoring my exaggeration of his prices.
“Not really. Never been much of the type.”
“Never?” This makes me sad for him.
He does one of his signature half-shrugs. “Barely graduated high school. When I did, my pops and I sat at the kitchen table and had a beer together.”
My nose scrunches up at that. “Seriously?”
His eyes come to mine again. “Yeah. It was perfect, actually. It was his way of telling me I was a man, just like him.”
I hum, considering that while Mac goes back to the mail.
I want to ask what his mother thought about that, but I’m not sure I want to know. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who’d celebrate a graduation with a Bud Light, though.
So, instead, I ask about his dad.
“Were you close to him?”
He doesn’t look up from the envelope in his hand when he answers with a simple, “He was my best friend.”
My heart constricts. “Can I ask?” I don’t finish because I don’t want to lie and pretend I don’t know how he died, but I still want to know what happened.
His jaw tenses, but it’s the only indication that he’s bothered by my question.
“Accident. Passed two and a half years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” I lay a hand on his forearm to stop him from moving. I’m not just extending my sympathies, I’m apologizing for asking the question.
When he looks up at me, his eyes don’t look sad, though. They look troubled.
“Promise me you’ll tell me immediately if my mother tries to contact you. At work, at home, at the fucking grocery. Promise me you won’t talk to her and you’ll tell me right away.”
My blood races through my veins at the abrupt change in topic.
“I promise.” My voice is almost breathless.
He watches me for another second before he nods and goes back to his mail.
But his words from earlier tread through my mind. “She doesn’t care who she destroys in the process.” It has me thinking Mac wasn’t changing the subject at all—he was connecting all sorts of dots instead.
Twenty-Five
“Secrets are like gas. They all come out one way or another eventually.”
– Cookie Rutledge
The next few weeks fly by in a whirl of meetings, new hires, and moving crews creating a whole new WHL art wing on the ninth floor. All our social media accounts are up and running and the website is already showing sneak peeks of what’s to come in this new era of WHL.
My transition into the role of creative director is made a tiny bit easier by the fact that my predecessor, the creative director of the outdated Warbey’s Home Living, announced his intention to retire even before the magazine was put on the chopping block. He’s just wrapping up the last issue and then he’s off to Maine to run a bed and breakfast with his wife.
But just because I’m not viewed as a cannibalistic usurper doesn’t mean the art department staff isn’t wary. Or bitchy. Or bastardy. I still hear the whispers and I know I’m facing an uphill battle to prove I deserve this position. New York Poppy
has been working overtime, strutting around the office in immaculate suits and sky-high heels with perfect freaking grammar, a kill-or-be-killed attitude, and not a trace of Georgia accent to be found.
These people don’t know my work first-hand. Yet. But I take it as a positive sign when I stroll past an open laptop two weeks after the official start of WHL to see two web designers checking out the work I did on South by South Journal last year. That rebrand boosted circulation by forty percent and saved the magazine from going under. I have to remain confident that I’ll win these people over.
That doesn’t mean, however, that I’m any more comfortable bringing my relationship with Mac out in the open.
It doesn’t escape my attention that the prototype copies we have lying around are almost always opened to the spread of him in his forge looking all stupid hot and making me want to publicly claim him as my man—either that or go to his studio over lunch and jump him. I keep telling myself that they can look all they want, as long as he’s in my bed several nights a week. Or I’m in his. Or we’re on one of his couches. Or his kitchen island. You get the point.
We haven’t had the “relationship talk,” and there’s really no need. I’m trying to keep my heart from getting ahead of itself, which is a tall order, but self-preservation is a must. We’re not at a place yet where we’re inseparable or we keep tabs on each other twenty-four/seven, but we’ve found a comfortable groove where we both know we mean something to each other and I’m not left wondering if I’m just one of many. It goes without saying that with my incessant talking and oversharing, Mac’s in no doubt as to whether I’m seeing anyone else.
Since I went to New Jersey and brought him back to Manhattan, there’s been an unspoken cementing of trust between us. Mac has been slowly opening up about himself and his past and I hold each small revelation like it’s something precious. But, of course, he does it in his own Mac way.
He chose the cereal aisle of Morton Williams to tell me that he was introduced to blacksmithing when his dad told him he could either choose between that, auto repair, or jail—promising that he’d turn Mac into the cops himself for busting up the window of a car when he was seventeen if he didn’t learn to make himself useful. Mac chose blacksmithing because fire and hammering on shit sounded more exciting than power tools—or prison.
It was in the middle of a him putting my bookshelf together in my living room that Mac told me how his dad got his mom pregnant when she was a rich co-ed slumming it in Jersey at a house party with some of her friends. And how she thought it would be exciting to run away and play house with a good-looking working-class son of an immigrant who didn’t have two pennies to rub together but was madly in love with her.
And I was making a pitcher of sweet tea in Mac’s kitchen when he shared that he went to live with his mother when his parents divorced and that the house filled with expensive furniture and staff was the loneliest place he’d ever been in his life. And that being disowned by his mother when he chose to go live with his dad at fourteen was worth losing any amount of money or opportunity if it meant getting out of that house.
So, yeah, there’s no need for a relationship talk between Mac and me. I’m pretty sure I know where I stand, even if I’m still trying to guard my heart.
My cell phone buzzes and I’m not surprised to see a text from Elle.
Elle: Tell me it’s okay to spend $100 on fruit.
I laugh as I plop down in my office chair and toe my heels off. The door is closed so nobody will see me, thank God. I’m tuckered out from keeping up what Mac likes to call my shark persona.
I’ve come to look forward to Elle’s calls and texts in these last few weeks. I’ve also tried to relax myself around her, to let the accent slide and let some of my… quirkier attributes out to play, but it’s still kind of hard when she’s so polished and perfect.
When Mac reappeared in Manhattan, she offered me her firstborn child as repayment for finding him. She’d been trying to contact him that entire week and was worried he was going to miss a contractual obligation she’d arranged for some of his work. I declined her offer for the kid but took her up on drinks out instead. We’ve been chatting on and off since.
Me: That depends. Is it covered in chocolate?
Elle: No. It’s imported ginseng fruit from China. You’d have to see it to believe it. It literally has a baby’s face on it.
She attaches a picture and I laugh out loud. It really does (look it up if you don’t believe me).
Me: I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you if you DON’T buy that.
Elle: I knew I could count on you!
I chew on my lip as I decide how to respond. I heard Mac play a message from Elle this week about a charity auction on Saturday. It was the same one they referenced weeks ago at the photo shoot. I was sure he’d mention it—maybe even invite me—but he hasn’t said a word, and I keep putting off asking about it.
Since we started going out, we really haven’t spent all that much time, well, going out. Sure, we pop in for a bite to eat at a random sushi restaurant or we grab some groceries at a corner mart, but most of our time spent together is either at his place or mine. And I know it’s my own fault—I do.
I don’t try to arrange outings or drinks out with my friends because I’m still so afraid of backlash from work if anyone finds out. And I keep telling myself it’s no big deal that we stay in—it just means more hot sex for me. And Mac doesn’t even like people, anyway.
Well, maybe that’s a little harsh. He’s just not comfortable standing around making small talk or pretending to put up with people’s bullshit. He says that’s what Elle and Jonathan are there for. From anyone else, it would come off as elitist and rude, but from Mac it just sounds practical.
And, besides, he can make people uncomfortable. The fact that he doesn’t say much of anything causes other people to come to the conclusion that they did something wrong or it makes them feel like they have to work hard to fill in the silence.
But Mac is who he is. He got to be this way from looking at the game from all angles and deciding that if his words and actions don’t come from a genuine place, they serve no purpose. To him it’s like lying. And I’ve got to respect that. As long as he doesn’t keep the warmth and goodness lying beneath that exterior hidden from me, it’s all good.
I look back at the phone and see that Elle has messaged a follow-up consisting of a bunch of question marks.
It’s not like I can go to the charity thing with Mac anyway; there will be photographers and probably more than a few celebrities. I ignore the small voice inside that says it would still be nice to be asked. But I’m being stupid. Mac is probably dreading the event and just assumes I’d dread it as much as him.
I bring my thumbs back to the phone to type my reply.
Me: Nothing. Why?
Elle: I’m supposed to go to this dreadful club opening in Soho and I need a wing-woman so I don’t kill someone.
Me: Don’t go overselling it, Elle.
Elle: Please. I’ll even let you dance.
She’s obviously been paying attention. I’ll finally get to fulfill my mission to dance at a real New York City nightclub! That’s better than some stupid charity event anyway, right?
Me: Sold!
Elle: Thank you! You won’t back out on me, right?
Is it possible perfect Elle Valentine has vulnerabilities like the rest of us? That’s kind of reassuring.
Me: No way. Cross my heart.
Elle: You’re the best. Talk later!
I massage the arch of one foot with the toes of my other, making a mental note to wear boots to this dance club on Saturday.
As I look around my new office with its rose quartz walls and ivory leather club chairs, I take fresh stock of my life as a New Yorker. Sure, I miss Savannah and everyone from home, but I’ve got everything a girl could want here: a swanky new job, a hot boyfriend, a great apartment, and some new friendships to boot
. Kate and I have even made a point to do lunch a couple times a week so we don’t let things slide like I let happen when I moved out. So maybe Kate and Naveed still don’t know about Mac, but I’ll tell them soon.
In fact, I make a vow right this minute to tell them the very next time we get together. I know they’ll be happy for me and they can both keep a secret. There. See, I couldn’t ask for things to be any better.
My life is officially perfect.
* * *
“Gotta get going,” Mac says in a smoky tone against my neck.
I blink my eyelids open and hum, threading my fingers through his hair.
“Did I fall asleep?” I ask on a yawn.
“Mm hm.” He nuzzles the corner of my mouth and his whiskers brush against the sensitive skin.
It’s Saturday and we were both working last night until the wee hours, me on project assignments and Mac on something he hasn’t let me see yet. I’m learning he has a unique process—which is certainly not unusual for an artist—but it rankles a bit when I want to see what he’s doing and he won’t let me. I have yet to be allowed into the forge while he’s working and I’m dying to see the man in action.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’ve had a daydream or two where the pottery scene from Ghost was reenacted with Mac’s sweaty bare chest behind me as he guides my hands in some serious banging. You know, the hammer and anvil kind, you perv.
We met up at my place after breakfast and his workout, but I must have fallen asleep on my couch while I was listening to music and cleaning out my inbox.
I stroke his soft hair and then let my hands wander down his back. Just as I’m about six inches under his t-shirt hem, he reaches back and stills my hands.
“Would much rather be doing this, believe me, but I’ve got a thing.” He pulls back and I see his eyes are, indeed, hungry.
“A thing?” I pretend I have no idea what he’s talking about.
He grunts. “Charity gig. Elle says they need me there.”
Game Changer Page 22
