by Melody Grace
It was totally, perfectly Mackenzie.
He followed the sound of clattering pans into the small, blue-tiled kitchen, where Mackenzie was tasting something at the stove.
“I thought about going traditional, but it turns out, I don’t have turkey, potatoes, or any veggies,” Mackenzie said, looking over. “So I’m doing my classic, spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Is it safe?” Jake teased, and Mackenzie hit him lightly with a tea towel.
“Hey! I’ll have you know, I’m an excellent cook now. This recipe is the real deal,” she added, returning to the simmering pans. “My roommate in art school was from a big Italian family. I used to beg to go home with her on the weekends just to get a taste of Nona’s sauce. Here.” She offered Jake the wooden spoon, and he took a taste.
“That’s great,” he said, hit with the tomato flavor, warm with spices.
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.” Mackenzie grinned. “I couldn’t go around burning toast forever.”
“I can,” Jake said. “Ordering takeout is about the height of my skills in the kitchen.”
“We’ll see about that,” Mackenzie said, then noticed the Tupperware he was holding. She lit up. “Is that . . . ?”
“My mom’s famous pecan pie? Yup.” Jake set it down on the counter and stripped off his jacket. “You’re lucky, this was the last one left in the freezer.”
Mackenzie gave an appreciative groan. “Your mom makes the best pie. Don’t tell Summer I said that,” she added quickly. “But it’s true. You know she used to bring one over for my folks every year when they lived in town? It was so sweet.”
“She’s good like that,” Jake agreed. “She even tried to mail them to me, out at college, but they kept going missing. Somewhere, there’s a very fat postal worker.”
Mackenzie laughed. “Well, what are you waiting for? Open that bottle, and let’s get Thanksgiving started right. With dessert first!”
Jake poured them both a glass of wine and set the table, a safe distance away from Mackenzie’s enthusiastic chopping and stirring. She cooked the way she painted: by instinct, adding a dash of this and a sprinkle of that, pausing to taste with her eyes half-closed, contemplating.
“This is a cute place,” he said, looking around. Pans dangled from a rack over the range, and there was an antique china cabinet along one wall filled with mismatched plates and plant pots. “Did you come straight back to Sweetbriar after art school?”
She nodded. “I always knew this was home. I had this picture of a little gallery, right off the square. It took a few years, selling at farmers’ markets and gift shops, but I finally made it happen.”
Mackenzie looked proud, and she had every right to be. Jake knew she’d done all this on her own. Her parents had always been supportive—in an absent-minded way—but Mackenzie was the stubborn one. When she wanted something, she didn’t quit.
“What about you?” she asked, leaning back against the counter. “How was your appointment in Boston? Or, do you not want to talk about it?” she added quickly, looking concerned. “Because we can do that, too.”
Jake gave her a rueful smile. “It’s fine. She said pretty much what everyone else has been telling me. Healing takes time.” He said it casually and shrugged, like he hadn’t been agonizing over those words all night.
But Mackenzie could always see through him. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, reaching over to touch his arm. “I know you must be frustrated with the recovery.”
“I’ll get there.” Jake said it with determination. He had to believe it was true.
“I worried about you,” she said quietly, turning back to the stove.
“You did?” Jake stared at her, surprised. “When?”
She shrugged, stirring a pot. “Always. All those reports about injuries . . . concussions . . . Even back in high school you’d take the worst hits.”
“You never said.” He frowned.
“Yeah, well you would never have listened.” Mackenzie gave him a look. “You all thought you were invincible.”
“We were.” He chuckled, remembering the old team.
“Not anymore.” Mackenzie seemed to realize what she’d said. She flushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s OK.” He stopped her. “You’re right. I’m not. If this year taught me anything . . .” He trailed off, forcing a smile. “But come on, if I’m not a player anymore, then who am I? It’s not like I know how to do anything else.”
“Sure you do!” Mackenzie protested.
“Like what?”
“Well, you’re pretty great at bar trivia,” she said. “Your pool game could use some work—”
“Hey!”
“—but you make a mean martini,” she finished, and he smiled.
“So basically, I should go work for Riley at the pub then,” Jake said.
“You could figure it out,” she reassured him. “You know you can do anything you set your mind to and make it look easy. It’s actually pretty irritating.”
“Oh yeah?” Jake teased, smiling.
“Yup. If you weren’t my best friend, I’d pretty much hate you.” Mackenzie grinned back.
Jake’s chest tightened. “Best friend?” he echoed.
She turned away to grab some dishes down. “Maybe. The spot’s been open for a while, we’ll see if you’ve got the goods.”
He swallowed. Mackenzie had always been his closest friend, the one person he could share everything with, and even after all this time, that hadn’t changed.
But the way he was looking at her had.
Friends didn’t notice the way her tank top clung to her curves, or the purple bra straps peeping out beneath. Friends wouldn’t imagine gently tugging the rest of her hair down, loose around her shoulders. Or licking the sauce off the edge of her lips. Lifting her up on that countertop, and tasting her mouth again, kissing her slow, and hard until—
“It’s ready.” Mackenzie’s voice broke through his fevered thoughts. She tipped the spaghetti into a serving bowl, and ladled the rich meat sauce on top. “Grab the plates, will you?” she asked, flushed from the steam and totally oblivious to his cravings. “And since you’re the guest, I’ll even let you choose: Casablanca or High Society.”
“The last one,” he said, reining himself in. The last thing he needed was slow-burn passion, on the screen or anywhere else.
He didn’t need anything giving him ideas. Not when he already had so many of his own.
10
They gorged themselves on spaghetti and pecan pie, then collapsed in front of the TV, the fire flickering merrily in the corner. Mackenzie yawned, barely paying attention to the movie playing on screen. How could she, when Jake was sprawled just a few inches away?
She watched him, lit by the screen. She must have gazed at his face a thousand times, but still, somehow, it always seemed brand new. The strong line of his jaw, the smile that lingered on the edge of his lips—
Mackenzie stopped herself, reality crashing down on her.
She was doing it again.
Falling into the same old crush that had pulled her under a decade ago. Pining after someone who had never felt the same.
Doing exactly what she swore she wouldn’t that very first night he’d arrived back in town.
“What’s up?” Jake nudged her with his knee, and she realized with a jolt that the movie was over.
Mackenzie stifled a sigh. “Just thinking about those pie leftovers,” she lied.
Jake groaned. “Seriously? I won’t eat for days.”
“Right.” Mackenzie smirked. “I bet you a hundred bucks you’ll be hunting in the fridge for a midnight snack.”
“No bet.” Jake gave her an irresistible grin. “Want to just pack me up a doggie bag instead?”
“Pack it yourself.” She kicked him playfully, her feet bare, and Jake caught them, pulling her legs into his lap.
Her breath caught.
“Purple?” he asked, arching an eyeb
row at her toenails.
Mackenzie wriggled them. “I couldn’t decide between pink and blue,” she said, fighting to sound casual, even though her heart was racing.
“I like them.” His hands lingered on her feet, warm, and Mackenzie could have sworn that his thumb gently stroked the bare arch of her foot.
She bit back a sigh.
It wasn’t fair, to be consumed with this desire, while the object of her affection was lounging there, totally oblivious.
“So, you and Moose, huh?” Jake’s lips quirked in a teasing grin.
Mackenzie fixed him with a look. “Ancient history.”
“Aww, I think you’d make a cute couple.”
“Not funny,” she warned him. “And you wouldn’t be joking if you lived here. I bet you a hundred bucks that Debra, and Franny, and your mom would be fixing you up with anything that moved.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“Worse,” Mackenzie said lightly. “You’re looking at the spinster of Sweetbriar Cove.”
Jake frowned, and she realized she hadn’t mentioned her nickname for herself before. “It’s inevitable, don’t you think?” she said. “Give me a few cats and a muumuu, and I’ll be good to go.”
“You’ll find someone,” he said, with such quiet certainty in his voice that it made her chest ache.
“I haven’t yet.” She looked away.
“There hasn’t been anyone serious?” Jake asked, and Mackenzie bit back an empty laugh.
“Nope. I mean, I date. I’ve probably been on more first dates than anyone.” She gave a rueful smile. “You know what it’s like in town here, everyone’s got a nephew, or a college friend, or a stepsister’s aunt’s kid out of college. But . . .”
She paused, not ready to say the words that came after.
But despite all the hopeful introductions, nobody clicked.
But being on her own seemed better than half-hearted hookups.
But none of them were you.
“Well, it never worked out,” she said instead. Mackenzie gave a half-shrug. “Guess I’m not everyone’s flavor.”
“Their loss,” Jake said with conviction, and she felt a pang. It was his loss, but he didn’t see it that way. He never had.
Mackenzie shook her head. “What about you?” she asked, changing the subject. “Any football fans waiting for you back home?”
She realized too late that she didn’t want to know the answer, so it was a relief when Jake chuckled and shook his head. “No, not for me. I mean, I’ve dated some, but . . .”
He trailed off with a shrug. Mackenzie suspected that “some” was plenty, but she didn’t ask any more. She could already imagine the hordes of adoring women waiting in line for his charms—she’d caught the previews in high school, and that had been enough.
“You seem to have figured it out now.” Jake looked around. “The gallery, your art, you’ve really built a life here.”
He gave her an admiring look, and Mackenzie flushed. “I guess I realized I was never going to fit into someone else’s schedule. You know, 9–5 job, following orders—”
“You think?” Jake laughed, and she lightly kicked him again.
“It was touch and go for a while, trying to make ends meet when I first opened the gallery,” she admitted. “And I had to take a crash course in running my own business. I made such a mess of my books, Ellie Lucas had to come straighten them out,” she said, naming the girl whose family ran the inn, just outside of town. “But at least this way I make my own rules. If I want to close the store and spend all day up to my elbows in clay, I can. I just have to make sure I have enough orders to see me through,” she added.
“But things are going good now, right?” Jake asked.
She nodded. “I have a steady list of vendors, and the website works too. Plus, there are always tourists around. I make out like a bandit over summer with my nautical collections, and the red, white, and blue pottery. Still . . .” She paused, and Jake arched an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.
“Sometimes it feels like I’m playing it safe,” she admitted out loud for the first time. “Don’t get me wrong, I love making things that people enjoy, and the steady paycheck is great, but . . . I used to want to make great art. You know, something that makes you stop and really feel,” she said ruefully, thinking of the sculptures hidden in the corner of her studio that would never see the light of day. “My polka-dot sugar bowls are cute, but they don’t exactly shake you to your soul.”
“Those would have to be some sugar bowls,” Jake agreed.
Mackenzie looked away, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Anyway, it’s nothing. You’re right. I’ve got a good thing going.”
“Good can always be better,” Jake said easily. “Maybe you can find a way to do both. Find some of that soul-shaking magic.”
Their eyes caught again, and Mackenzie knew she didn’t have to go looking for any magic. It was sitting right there in front of her.
Out of reach.
“Maybe,” she agreed quickly. The fire had burned low, and she made to get up, but Jake beat her to it.
“Let me.”
She watched him place another couple of logs in the hearth, and nudge the embers into a shimmer of sparks, blazing high again.
She knew how they felt. A touch or two from Jake, and feelings she’d almost forgotten were possible came roaring back to life.
Desire, snaking low in her belly. Building in her bloodstream, a taste of something sweet and dangerously intoxicating.
Jake detoured to the kitchen. “You win,” he said, emerging with the pie plate leftovers. “You know me too well,” he added, flashing her a grin as he scooped her legs into his lap and settled back on the couch beside her.
Not well enough.
Mackenzie sucked in a breath and tried to gather her heated thoughts. Was it just her, or was he sitting closer now, his thighs pressed against hers, and his broad frame sprawled near enough for her to feel the heat, radiating stronger than that fire?
Her pulse kicked up a level, the steady drumbeat skittering, but Jake didn’t seem to notice the shift. He had a fork in his hand and was happily digging into the pie.
“Where’s mine?” Mackenzie asked, fighting to stay cool.
“Right here.” Jake’s lips curled in a tempting smile. He loaded the fork with pie then held it out to her.
She leaned in, and took the bite, her eyes never leaving his.
Oh.
Even he couldn’t have missed the heat that surged between them. Mackenzie forced herself to swallow, licking a crumb from her lips.
Jake’s gaze dropped to her mouth, and she could have sworn she saw something hungry there, that same need that had drawn her to him that Halloween night in the gazebo.
The same need that was spiraling through her now, making her blood run hot and one tantalizing thought echo, louder with every heartbeat.
She could kiss him, right there.
Mackenzie froze. With a pounding heart, she dragged her stare away.
What was she thinking?
Suddenly, the room was stiflingly hot—or maybe that was just her body, prickling with awareness and painfully attuned to every shift of Jake’s body, every breath. Their casual, friendly dinner had taken an intimate turn, and now—in the flickering firelight, with him so close—it was hard to remember why she was keeping her distance.
Because he doesn’t feel the same way about you.
Except, was that really true? He was the one tracing semi-circles on her bare foot, his other hand resting gently on her knee. He was the one giving a sleepy smile, and snuggling deeper into the cushions.
He was the one looking at her like she was the only woman in the world
Mackenzie’s blood thundered in her ears. She felt a giddy lurch in her stomach, that clench of exhilaration that always signaled a very, very bad idea.
“More?” Jake asked with a lazy smile. He held out a forkful of the pie again, and Mackenzie’s heart flipp
ed over.
“Please.”
Before she could take it back, Mackenzie leaned in. This time, she bypassed the fork, and brushed her lips against his mouth instead.
Jake startled, drawing a breath that she felt all the way through her. He froze, suspended there on the edge of her kiss, and for one terrible moment, humiliation loomed. Then, with a groan, he pulled her closer.
It was hot and sweet, and somehow, more right than any kiss had been before; Jake’s mouth pressed against her urgently, easing her lips apart before his tongue slid deep to taste her.
Mackenzie sighed in pleasure. She didn’t know what happened to the pie plate, or their wine glasses, all that mattered was Jake tugging her into his lap, her arms fast around his neck, her body crushed against his.
God, it was heaven.
She bent her head, letting the curtain of her hair fall around them, blocking out the world. She kissed him, savoring every moment; the sweetness of the pecans, and that masculine taste that was pure Jake.
The heat grew, lazy at first, but smoldering, liquid fire trickling through her veins until her whole body was ablaze. His grip on her grew tighter, and the kiss deepened, passionate and raw. She could have lost herself in it, let the whole world burn down around them, as long as he didn’t stop. Mouths, and hands, and low, ragged gasps; she was closer than she’d ever been, and she couldn’t get enough—
Jake pulled back. “Wait,” he said, his breath coming heavy. “We shouldn’t . . .”
He lifted her aside and practically fell off the couch in his hurry to put distance between them.
No!
Mackenzie fought for breath. Her pulse was still racing, her body on fire. That was the hottest, most epic kiss in the history of the world, and Jake was . . . stopping?
“I should go,” he said, pushing his hair back. He was avoiding even looking at her, already grabbing his jacket and backing towards the door. “I, uh, Happy Thanksgiving.”
The door was slamming shut behind him before Mackenzie could even say a word.
