She followed him down the hall. The house itself seemed to welcome her with creaks of wood under their feet. He pushed a door open. Feeling as though they were stepping through a metaphorical door as well as a physical one, she looked around and blinked.
Inside were a set of bunk beds. Posters of Nirvana and the Red Hot Chili Peppers flanked one of Cindy Crawford in a swimsuit. The corners curled around the tacks that held them up and they were faded from the sun and time.
“This was your room.” She didn’t bother to pose it as a question. The ghost of a younger, more-innocent Mack prowled the shadows.
“Mine and Ford’s. I knocked out the wall between my pop’s old room and the room the twins shared.” Something in his voice drew her gaze to him. A sad nostalgia settled around him like a cape.
“You had a happy childhood, didn’t you, Mack?”
“I suppose so. In the middle of it, all I could see were the defects, but looking back, it was simple and easy and good in a way I only understand now that life isn’t any of those things.”
She grazed his arm with her fingers. The light touch was enough to pull him from his morose memories to fully focus on her.
“What about your childhood?” he asked.
“You mean besides the dogs and the stepfather and my brother dying?” Sarcasm dripped from her voice as a warning for him to give up the personal line of questioning.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She’d made enough mistakes in her immediate past to quit railing at things she couldn’t change as a kid.
His hand rose, and she braced for contact, but he drew it into a fist, turned to the accordion style closet, and pushed the two doors apart. He pulled out a small object but kept it hidden from her view. “You promise not to laugh?”
“I won’t.” Ella tried to inject sincerity.
He held out his hand, and it took her a second to recognize the object sitting on his palm was a giraffe. A Van Gogh version of a giraffe. A giggle slipped out, helped along by her second beer. Mack groaned and closed his hand around the little metal giraffe, but she pried his fingers open and took it.
“You promised not to laugh.” His accusation was hampered by a good-natured smile. Maybe the two beers had had a similar effect on him.
“It’s cute in an ugly sort of way.” She studied it front and back.
“It was my first effort,” Mack said. “I know it’s terrible.”
Except as a first effort, it wasn’t all bad. She’d at least recognized the species. She set it on the dresser, but one leg was shorter than the others and it wobbled. “What else have you made?”
“I made something for Jackson and Willa as a surprise. I’m not sure it’s good enough though.”
“Let me see it.” Ella made grabby hands toward the darkened maw of the closet, wondering what other treasures were hiding. Like she wondered at the depth running beneath Mack’s stoicism.
He pulled out another metal sculpture and set it on the dresser next to the giraffe. Side by side, the progression in skill and talent was clear. It was two feet tall and obviously a dog on its haunches, its tongue lolling. The beads of metal and delicate welds gave the metal life. She might not like dogs, but she could appreciate the details.
“It’s River.” She ran her fingers along the curve of one ear.
Mack’s gaze was on his feet, his toes scrunching in the carpet. “At least you recognize her.”
“It looks finished. Why haven’t you given it to them?”
His shrug was that of a boy unsure of himself and not the brash and confident man who strode the garage floor in charge of everyone and everything.
“I don’t know. Afraid they’ll laugh, I guess.”
“I laughed, and you don’t mind.”
“Yeah, but you’re different.” He was studying the likeness of River.
What did he mean? That she wasn’t family? That she wouldn’t be around long enough for her to matter? That he didn’t care what she thought? Yet, the way he said it made her think it was a compliment and not an insult.
Unable to decipher his meaning and unwilling to question him, she peeked over his shoulder. “What else are you hiding in your closet?”
He pulled out a few more projects. Mostly different types of animals but a few cars as well. They were like high-end Hot Wheels. She ran one across her hand. The metal wheels were on tiny axles. “You could sell these.”
He barked a laugh. “Where? And who would buy them?”
“We could put them on the website and sell them along with the T-shirts. Or you could put them on consignment at the Quilting Bee. They take all sorts of commissioned artwork from local artisans.”
“I’m the furthest thing from an artist.”
She ran a finger over the dog’s arched back. The precision with which he’d fashioned it was awe inspiring. “You don’t have to do anything now, but think about it. It would only add to the allure of Abbott Brothers.”
“Allure? There’s nothing alluring about us or the garage.”
“I would dare to disagree.” Ella cocked her head and injected some challenge in her voice.
“You find the garage alluring?” His tone was mocking. He took a step forward and she took a step back. He was backing her into a corner in more ways than one. How much should she admit to this man?
“Not the garage.” Her back hit the wall. “But the people in it.”
She had bought into the garage as some sort of monument or homage to her brother. But it had turned out to mean far more to her than that. More than she wanted to admit.
“You’re not what I expected. At all.” His voice was low and rumbly and set off a rockslide in her stomach.
Although he stood between her and the door, she didn’t feel trapped. “Good. I like to surprise people.”
That much was true. From the beginning, if someone had told her she couldn’t do something, it only fired her determination to see it through.
“You’ve been more than a surprise; you’ve been a revelation.” His glance toward her mouth was like handing her a roadmap with a giant X on Kissytown.
A kiss was a terrible idea. The level of professionalism they maintained in the garage was shaky at best. Kissing Mack would muddy already-murky waters. Oh, but she wanted to. She wanted to lean in, fist his T-shirt right over his heart, and pull him toward her until their lips met in a kiss that was sure to short out the electricity for miles in all directions.
Her body took up a chant of “Do it!” as if it had been taken over by a group of beer-pickled sorority girls egging on a sister in an ill-advised escapade.
“I should go check on Megan.” Her voice cracked.
“Should you?”
Megan was a grown woman who could damn well take care of herself, right? She glanced toward the bunk beds. Would they fit? Before she could find out, Mack stepped away. The moment dissipated, yet the sexual tension crackled.
She walked out of the bedroom, and he lay a guiding hand on her lower back as if she needed help finding the way. His hand splayed wide. She swore each finger was leaving an indelible mark on her.
He drew the fabric of her shirt into his fist. She stopped because she had no choice in the matter. She looked over her shoulder. The hallway was dark. Only the faint light of the den diffused to them, casting his face in stark shadows.
He tugged her into his chest, her back to his front. She closed her eyes and bit her lip to keep from sighing or, worse, moaning. He felt even better than he looked. She fought the urge to snuggle into him and rest her head back on his shoulder.
“I should let you go.” His mouth was close to her ear. The hairs of his beard tickled and sent vibrations through her body, crumbling her already-weak resistance.
When she didn’t move, he shifted to lean against the wall, turning her and situating her between his legs. She sagged against him, her hands on his biceps, her gaze focused on his chin.
“This is not a good idea,” she whispered.
“Nope.”
“In fact, it qualifies as a terrible idea.”
“Yep.”
“If you agree with me, then why won’t you let me go?” She needed him to be the strong one, because she was too weak where he was concerned.
“You’re free to walk out whenever you want. But I don’t think you want to, do you?”
“What I want and what’s smart rarely overlap.”
Smiling the smile that weakened her knees, he rumbled a laugh that muffled whatever excuses remained. She surrendered.
She inched her hand up his arm to his shoulder, stopping a moment to appreciate the bunched muscle, before proceeding to his jaw. She skimmed her fingertips along the hair of his beard. It wasn’t soft, but bristly like the man himself.
“I’ve been wondering what your beard felt like.” She couldn’t keep her mouth shut.
“Have you? I’ve been wondering what your body would feel like against mine since the night of the New Year’s Eve party at Sutton’s.”
“You couldn’t stand me then.”
“You’re right. Which made my dreams that night all the more disturbing.”
She tilted toward him and halved the distance to his mouth until only inches separated them. “Tell me your dreams.”
“Maybe someday, but not tonight. Tonight, I want the real thing.”
His lips brushed hers with an unexpected tenderness. Tactile awareness streaked through her body. The soft cotton of his shirt offered a foil to his tickling beard. Even if this was as far as the kiss progressed, it would rank as her best.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and speared a hand through the back of his hair. He moved his hands to her hips and pulled her to her toes. An obvious erection pressed against her belly. Her answering moan would leave her mortified later, but he felt too tempting against her in the moment.
His tongue darted against her lips, and she opened for him, meeting him halfway. One of his hands moved to her buttock and squeezed. She arched and pressed into his palm. A minute or an hour passed while hands roamed and lips explored.
He gripped her butt with both hands and lifted her off the floor. She broke the kiss with a gasp and wrapped her legs around his thighs for balance. He walked into the den, flipping the light off with his elbow, and settled on the couch with her straddling his lap.
“Comfortable?”
She made a noise more from surprise than acquiescence, but before she could process the change in scenery and the fact his erection was now exactly where she wanted it—pressed between her legs—he kissed her again. This time his kiss was rougher. She answered his impatience with desperation, settling against him and rotating her hips.
She pulled her lips from his and trailed them across his cheek to his ear. “Is this what you dreamed about?”
“Getting warmer.”
“Warmer? I’d say it’s darn near an inferno.”
His cheeks stretched into a smile, and she pulled away to observe the rare event. He was beautiful. Although he was strong and dominant, he didn’t need to prove either trait like some men. He didn’t scare her.
She leaned in to kiss him, fisting his hair in an attempt to curb the intensity of the moment. The opposite occurred. He roamed his hands over her lower body, slowly but surely stoking her desire until it raged out of control.
She tugged on his hair and rolled her hips against him. Being the aggressor was a new role for her, but it fit with the woman she was aiming to become—in control of all aspects of her life.
He slapped one side of her butt, the sting through her jeans not painful but shocking. And arousing. He did it again, this time on the other side. Another flare of need went off in her lower belly. But the arousal was troubling. In two moves, Mack had reasserted his power.
“Wait,” she whispered against his lips. She couldn’t think with their bodies melded like the metal he welded. She pulled away, her breasts cursing her selfishness at denying them the hardness of his chest.
“What is it?” His hands were on her thighs, and he squeezed.
“What are we doing?”
“Making out? Maybe more?”
“I need to go. I should go.”
“If that’s what you want.” His voice turned cool, and he dropped his hands from her body.
She scrambled up, her limbs clumsy and disconnected from the part of her brain telling her to walk away. The space that had been filled by their need and gasps and kisses hollowed into nothing.
He didn’t get up or turn a light on. She stumbled toward the front door and fumbled with the lock and handle. She was at the point of throwing herself against it in a bid for escape, when his hand covered hers. She stilled, trapped by the heat of him at her back.
It would be easy to lean into him and take what she wanted, or would she be giving him what he wanted? She’d vowed to never allow a man domination over her again. Could Mack do anything but dominate every situation and relationship?
His hand left hers to throw a bolt a foot from the top then turned the knob and released her. She stepped out, but stopped with one foot on the porch steps. She would see him at the garage and needed to normalize the situation.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She kept a false, untroubled smile in her back pocket for awkward occasions. It had gotten her through worse. This time though, her lips trembled. “We can talk about the car show then. Is that alright?”
The beats of silence between them lasted too long. Finally, he said, “That’s fine. Go on and be careful driving home.”
She scampered down the stairs and to her car. When was the last time she’d been this gauche and awkward with a man? Since never.
As she pulled onto the parish road, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing toward his house. He stood in the doorway, a dark shadow full of mystery and temptation.
Chapter Eleven
Mack walked his thirty-second commute to work as dawn streaked light across the sky. His sleep had been light and interrupted by dreams of Ella and Ford and his pop all tangled up into a knot of emotion that bound his chest until he couldn’t breathe. He’d finally given up his ghosts.
Routine had him readying the coffeemaker, the smell a small comfort after his disastrous night with Ella. Acknowledging the sexual tension between them with action had been bad enough. Her abrupt rejection had been worse.
Facing her today would be a test. His plan was to act like nothing had happened. Why relive his humiliation? He’d pretend he hadn’t had his hands on the best ass either side of the Mississippi. He’d pretend her lips hadn’t been on his and that she hadn’t sucked his tongue inside of her mouth and pulled on his hair like she’d wanted to conquer him. He’d pretend he hadn’t had to retreat to his bedroom after she’d left and take care of himself like a teenager. Twice.
He rubbed his gritty eyes and readied himself for a long, stressful day with Ella around tormenting him in ways he’d pretend didn’t exist.
With a steaming cup of black coffee in hand, he settled into his office to return emails and handle some general accounting. They had three cars lined up for restorations, and various cars on the schedule for repairs of one sort or another. He stared toward Marigold’s car in the second bay. He would put Willa and Jackson on it today. Working together, they could knock it out in a day and a half unless there were complications. Which there usually were. Complications were the theme of his life.
A clatter at the back of the shop signaled Jackson and Willa’s arrival. Their entwined laughter reverberated against the concrete of the empty shop. A twinge in his chest had him pressing the heel of his hand against his breastbone.
He wasn’t jealous. On the contrary, he was ecstatic his twin younger brothers had found partners in spite of the curse all Abbott twins were inflicted with. Maybe it was an old wives’ tale or maybe the love they’d found was stronger than the curse, but Jackson and Wyatt were the first set of Abbott twins in at least five generations to settle down.
Jackson
and Willa had run off to the justice of the peace and gotten married without telling anyone, which the aunts were still torn up about, but they’d have their chance to get gussied up when Wyatt and Sutton tied the knot. It was turning into the biggest shindig either side of Cottonbloom had seen in years.
Had the curse jumped to him? He hadn’t come close to finding a woman he cared about more than the cars under his care.
Jackson walked into his office and plopped down in a chair with a cup of coffee. “You want me and Willa on Marigold’s transmission?”
“Yep. You think you can get a salvage or a refurbished one at a good deal?”
“I would think so. Those Chevys are a dime a dozen. I’ll give Jeb a call and see what he has in stock. It won’t take long. When’s our next restoration coming in?”
“Tomorrow. A 1973 Dodge Challenger.”
Jackson whistled. “I want that assignment.”
“Depends on how fast you get Marigold’s car done,” Mack said with a taunting smile. Injecting a competitive challenge between Wyatt and Jackson had never backfired like it had with Mack and Ford.
“I’m on it.” Jackson stretched himself out of the chair and called for Willa. They met at the bumper of Marigold’s car and talked in voices too quiet to carry, but Mack could tell it was about the transmission. Although the dynamic had changed after Jackson and Willa had become involved, the garage had never suffered for it.
Yawning, Wyatt walked through the door rubbing the back of his head. Mack didn’t want to know what had kept Wyatt up late. It would be too depressing, considering the way his night had ended.
“What’s up, bro?” Wyatt asked on his saunter to the coffeemaker.
For the first time, Mack wished the question wasn’t rhetorical, and he could pour out his troubles and confusion to someone. Wyatt returned with a steaming cup of coffee to prop himself in the office doorway.
“How’s the wedding planning going?” Mack asked.
“I’ve been tasked with getting you and Jackson fitted for tuxedos. And Sutton’s mother asked me not so subtly whether or not you’d shave. I told her you’d be coming out of hibernation any day now.”
Set the Night on Fire Page 13
