I miss my next shot, but that’s less because I suck at pool and more because my brain is scrambled. But still, when I slide onto a barstool next to Fiona, my eyes across the pool table on Mac, I can’t help but smile.
I’m having fun. I can’t remember the last time I had fun. My kids are safe, my new home will be ready soon, and the sexiest man I’ve ever seen looks at me like he might think I’m sexy too.
I met Kevin thirteen years ago, when I was twenty-nine years old, and I wonder if it’s been that long since I had a night out like this. A night that’s just for me.
The boys win, and Jen and Candice take our spots to play them. Unsurprisingly, Jen is even better at pool than Simone. She tries to tell me something about angles, but I’ve had two drinks—not to mention the wine I had at home—and all I can do is nod along and pretend I understand what she’s explaining.
Feeling overheated, happy, and a little buzzed, I end up going to the bathroom before slipping outside for a bit of fresh air. It’s August and the air is warm, so I stand just outside the Grove and let out a happy sigh.
The door opens behind me, and I turn to see Mac exiting the bar. His eyes crinkle when he sees me. “You okay? I saw you slip out on your own and was worried you were running away from me again.”
“Needed some fresh air,” I explain, grateful that the dark is hiding my blushing face. “I’m wearing too many layers.”
Mac’s eyes flash as an eyebrow pops up. “I can think of a few ways to rectify that.”
I laugh, swatting at him. “You’re naughty.”
“Only when I want to be. Now, tell me the truth. You were out here because you just wanted to ogle my bike.”
Laughing again, I tilt my head up to meet his gaze as he approaches. “Maybe,” I admit.
He closes the distance between us and takes a deep breath. “I’m glad you came. Earlier, I was thinking maybe you wouldn’t show.”
“Is that why you had that spectacular fall when I walked in? Pure shock?”
Mac’s lips tilt, but his eyes grow lazy. “No, Trina.” He reaches over and hooks a finger into my belt loop, tugging me closer. “I fell over because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Heat rises up my neck and over my cheeks. He gives me another tug and I catch myself on his chest, fingers curling into his black tee. “No need for flattery, Mac.”
With one hand still hooked around my belt loop, Mac lifts another to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. He lets his fingers slide down the strand, then shifts his gaze to meet mine. “It’s not flattery if it’s true.”
Suddenly, I realize where I am. Half-drunk with a man I barely know, standing outside a bar his father owns. My two kids are at home in bed, and I’m here. Doing…whatever it is I’m doing.
“Look, Mac, I…” I take a deep breath.
Mac slides his palm over my neck, curling his fingers into the hair at my nape. He leans his forehead against mine, effectively silencing me. “If you’re about to give me some sweet rejection, do me a favor and just…don’t.”
I close my eyes for a moment and try to find the words to say what I need to say. I’ve been divorced for approximately three seconds. I spent thirteen years with Kevin and I don’t know myself anymore. I have kids and school and money and housing to worry about.
And a cat. I can’t forget the cat.
I can’t handle a man! Even if he looks like sex on legs. Especially if he looks like sex on legs. I’m a divorcée with two kids and boobs that are a lot less perky than they were twenty years ago. Why the hell would a sexy, badass, pottery-throwing motorcycle man like him want someone as normal and boring as me?
“Trina,” Mac says softly, lifting his head from mine. I open my eyes to meet his gaze. “Whatever’s going on in your head right now, I’m going to need it to stop.”
Annoyance sparks at his words. “You can’t just tell me to stop thinking what I’m thinking, Mac.”
His lips tilt. “I can, and I did.”
“Listen. I don’t know the type of women that you usually hang around with, but I’m not—”
He shuts me up with a kiss. His mouth takes mine as the pressure on my neck increases, and I tilt my head where he wants it. Then he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue across mine as a low, guttural grunt escapes his throat. The hand on my belt loop slides around my body to rest on my lower back. The heat of his skin, the pressure of his kiss, the way his tongue strokes and teases—it’s too much.
I melt.
Or maybe I implode.
Whatever happens, any thoughts of rejection fly away, and I forget all the reasons I can’t do this, because every part of me can only focus on how much I want it. My hands hook around his neck, fingers tangling into that tousled, dark hair as another groan slips through his lips.
I love those noises. I love that he’s making them with me. I love the way his hand presses against my lower back when I slide my tongue against his, how he tightens his fingers into my hair to bring me nearer.
Then his hand slides lower and he palms my ass to tug me closer. I gasp when I feel the steel in his pants. Mac breaks the kiss, moving his lips to my jaw, my neck, his teeth tugging at my earlobe.
“Mac.”
He pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes. “I fucking love the way you say my name.”
My insides turn molten at the intensity of his gaze, his voice. “How do I say it?” I ask, my voice barely more than a rasp.
He closes his eyes for a moment, his nose sliding along the side of mine. When he kisses me again, Mac’s lips are soft, tender. Then he speaks against my mouth, shaping the words as his lips brush mine. “You say my name like it means something.”
My heart thunders. My legs wobble. Mac’s hand stays splayed over my ass, the tips of his fingers just brushing the crease between my inner thighs and the swell of my curves. I’m going to spontaneously combust. His other hand moves from my neck down to my breast, and his thumb starts making slow, deliberate circles over my furling nipple.
Gasping into his kiss, I realize I’m clinging to him, sinking my fingers into his shoulders and grinding my hips against his hardness. His tongue slides over mine, exploring my mouth as that thumb—that thumb—continues its slow torture of my breast.
I want him to use his mouth. I want him to bend his head down and suck my breast through my top, tug my nipple between his teeth and make another one of those guttural noises. I want him to drag me to the side of the building, tear my jeans down and shove inside me. Every filthy, dirty fantasy I’ve ever had is a living thing inside me now, hot and needy and alive.
Then someone opens the bar door, and we scramble apart. The old man with the missing front tooth who had been dancing up a storm with Simone stumbles out, catching himself on the side of the building. He looks up at me, then at Mac, nods, and makes his way toward the road.
I put a hand to my forehead and chance a look at Mac.
His lush, kiss-bruised lips curl up at the corners.
“We should go back inside,” I blurt.
A pause extends between us, and I wonder if Mac might not want to go inside. If he might want to go somewhere else…with me.
But he lets out a breath and slides his hand across my shoulders to pull me close to his side. It’s the perfect place for me, and all I can do is hook my arm around his waist to hold on. Then he places a soft kiss to my temple, and my heart gives a mighty thump. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Let’s go back in.”
9
Trina
I wake up to the mother of all hangovers and a godawful smell. What the—
Vomit. There’s vomit on my carpet.
Did I…?
I blink. No. I didn’t get that drunk. I had five drinks. I counted! I remember everything, including a certain kiss that feels like a universe away from where I am now, and I know for a fact I did not vomit on my carpet. I left not long after the kiss, swept away by Candice in Mom Mode, who insisted we’d regret it if we stayed o
ut for one more drink.
I didn’t puke.
Which means…
“Mom…” Katie is at the foot of my bed looking pale, sweaty, and ashamed. “I’m sorry. I wanted to come to bed with you, and then I didn’t make it to the bathroom in time, and—” She interrupts herself, clapping a hand over her mouth.
You know when you hear those stories about mothers lifting cars off their babies with superhuman strength? Well, my hungover ass moves with superhuman speed. I throw my blankets off and don’t even blink when I realize I’m wearing a pajama shirt and nothing else. I scoop Katie up under her armpits and sprint to the en-suite bathroom just in time for her to spew all over the toilet.
“Get it all out, honey,” I say, pulling her hair back. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Her little body shakes as another retch convulses through her. Oh, jeez. Leaving my hand on her back running small circles over her, I reach for a washcloth and run some cool water. Then I run it over her head, her neck, trying to soothe my little girl.
After washing her up and tucking her in my bed, I get to work cleaning the vomit-soaked carpet, glancing once every few minutes at my daughter, fast asleep in a pile of blankets on my bed.
It’s hard not to feel guilty about going out last night when I have a pounding headache and a sick little girl. Watery light starts brightening through the curtains as dawn approaches while I spray some carpet cleaner on the stain to soak.
Giving Katie a kiss on her clammy forehead, I go out in search of my son.
He’s usually up by now. Toby is a morning lark through and through, just like me. But when I push open his bedroom door, I find him burrowed in a nest of blankets and pillows of his own. Sitting down on the edge of his bed, I push hair off his clammy forehead as he groans, looking so young it makes my heart squeeze.
“I don’t feel good, Mommy.”
Uh-oh. He hasn’t called me mommy since he was a toddler. He must be feeling really ill. My son curls himself around my hip, putting a hand across my thigh.
I stroke his hair for a few moments, then grab a bucket to set it near the bed. Then, my morning is swallowed up by sick kids and lots of vomit. My mother wakes to the sound of Toby retching into his bucket. She gives me a horrified look and gets to work helping me.
All those times I complained—either out loud or in my head—about being a grown woman living with her mother? Yeah, just…forget about those. Lottie is a superhero right now.
It’s not until the sun is well and truly up, the kids have had a bit of juice for hydration, and I feel worse than I did when I awoke that I’m finally able to sit down at the kitchen table. Mom puts a cup of coffee in front of me and feeds the cat while I sit, listening to birds titter as a beautiful day unfolds just out the window.
“You think they caught a bug at day camp?” I ask as my mother joins me with a coffee cup of her own.
“Who knows?” She leans back and lets out a long sigh. Then she blinks and glances at me. “How was your girls’ night?”
I let out a huff. Girls’ night feels like eons ago. Did I really half-drunkenly kiss Mac? Calling it a kiss doesn’t exactly feel accurate. It felt like sex. I shake my head. “It was fine. I’m not twenty anymore. I can’t drink like that. I had five drinks and I feel like garbage.”
My mother chuckles. She tilts her head. “Was Mr. Pottery there?”
Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t blush.
“Yeah.” My cheeks heat. Damn it.
She holds my gaze. “And…?”
“And what?” I play dumb, knowing it won’t get me anywhere with her.
I’m saved by a knock on the door, and that’s when I realize I’m still not wearing any panties. My T-shirt hits high on my thighs, so I sprint—well, hobble—upstairs to grab a pair of old pajama shorts.
Candice is in the entryway when I come back downstairs, frowning at me. “You’re not dressed.”
“The kids are sick.”
Her reply is automatic. “Oh, no! Can I do anything?”
Have I mentioned I love my sister? Why the heck didn’t I move here ages ago? I haven’t had this much help with the kids, ever.
I shake my head.
“I was coming to get you to go glaze our pottery, but I’m guessing you want to stay here.”
“Yeah.” Does it make me a terrible mother that I’m partly glad my kids are sick? Not glad they’re sick, but glad I have a decent excuse. The thought of seeing Mac when I look and feel the way I do…
“I’ll tell Mac you say hi.”
“That’s not necessary—”
“You do that, honey,” my mother interjects. “Tell him to stop by here sometime during the week too. I’d like to see him again.”
“Mom, no,” I practically shout, then frown. “Wait. ‘Again?’ What do you mean by ‘again?’”
Lottie, in classic Lottie style, totally ignores me. Why is it that I feel like a kid any time she’s around? I’m a grown woman! I’m forty-two!
“This Mac boy might be just what she needs. Don’t you think, Candice?” She shuffles back to the kitchen for more coffee while I swing my gaze to meet Candice’s laughing one.
My sister shakes her head. “Now you know what I went through for the past three months. She was insufferable when Blake and I first started seeing each other.”
“Careful!” Mom calls from the kitchen.
Grinning at Candice, I say goodbye, then go check on my kids again.
I don’t see anyone until the next day. I’m too busy taking care of two sick kids, and when Candice and Fiona stop by with big platters of food, soup, and a box with my mediocre pottery, I give them a grateful smile. “I haven’t eaten in forever. Thank you. The kids are sleeping, but the soup will be great.”
“Fallon made it from scratch,” Candice says, opening the fridge and propping it with her hip while she puts the food away.
Fiona lifts my slightly misshapen bowl, glazed in bright pink. “It was supposed to be green but somehow turned pink when it was fired in the kiln. Don’t ask me how.”
I snort. “That’s fine. I’m not exactly going to frame it or anything.”
“You should see what Mac made. It was gorgeous. He brought a few samples of different glazed pots and mugs to show us what was possible, and I think I’m going to order all new crockery for the café,” Fiona says, running her fingers over the uneven edge of my new jewelry tray.
“Apparently he’s famous in the pottery world,” I say, putting my new bowl in the cupboard.
“It shows. I think his stuff would fit the Four Cups’ aesthetic.”
“Definitely,” Candice says. “And with the extra money we made with the catering contract at the beginning of the summer, I’m fully supportive of upgrading.” Without me having to ask, my sister starts cleaning. She glances at me over her shoulder and nods to the messy mop of hair on my head and grubby athletic clothes I’m wearing. “Go shower. We’ll clean up and check on the kids.”
What would I do without them? Sometimes, I worry that moving the kids away from Kevin was a bad decision, but I’d discussed it with him prior to the move, and he seemed almost relieved that he wouldn’t have to take care of them fifty percent of the time. When we were married, he could barely manage a few hours without calling me to rescue him. He was happy enough to get a weekend a month with them.
Still, I worried that it was a bad decision.
Now, though, when I have more of a support system than I’ve had in years—decades? Ever?—I know coming to Heart’s Cove was the right thing to do. I take a long, hot shower, and come out feeling like a new woman.
Then I dress and head downstairs to find my mother, Candice, and Fiona lounging in the living room with tea and cookies laid out.
Fiona points to the plate of treats. “Jen made these. New recipe. Double chocolate with salted caramel. Amazing.”
I haven’t eaten a vegetable in forty-eight hours, but whatever. I pour myself a mug of chamomile tea and grab a cookie
, curling up on the couch next to my sister.
“How are you holding up?” Candice asks.
I glance at her and shake my head. “I was just thinking how grateful I am for you guys.”
Candice pats my leg. “We’re family, Trina. It’s what we do.”
I lean my head back on the sofa. “Yeah, but I’m still grateful for you all. I haven’t had help in a long time.” Staring at my tea, I shake my head. “I remember when Katie was born. Toby got some sort of stomach bug at the same time. He was nineteen months old and sick as a dog. Katie was three weeks old. It was totally overwhelming.”
Candice’s face scrunches up. “I remember that. I should have gone up to help you, but Paul was in the hospital, and…”
“It’s fine.” I wave a hand. After taking a sip of my tea, I let out a snort. “I remember this one specific day: I was breastfeeding Katie on the sofa. Toby was lying next to me, so sick I was considering taking him to the emergency room. Kevin walks into the house with his mother, and—”
I have to stop myself from talking, because the anger and shame well up inside me without warning. Tears build behind my eyelids, and I swallow them down with a gulp of tea. I meet Fiona’s eyes across the room.
“What happened?” she asks.
“His mother walked in,” I repeat, “and saw me on the sofa with Katie at my boob, and made this big song and dance about turning away in shock. Then Kevin—my fucking husband—told me I needed to cover up. In my own house! I was feeding our daughter and taking care of our sick son, and he had the nerve to tell me I needed to cover my own boob up. I wasn’t sunbathing topless for the whole neighborhood to see. I was on the couch in the freaking living room! My own living room! But his mother wouldn’t shut up about it. She even told Kevin’s sister, and the whole family made me feel like I’d done something wrong. I was postpartum and sleep-deprived and totally overwhelmed, and they made me feel ashamed for feeding my own daughter.”
“That dick,” Candice says with more vitriol than I’ve ever heard from her. “And his mother! How fucking dare she? She’s a mother herself!”
Dirty Little Midlife Disaster: A Motorcycle Hottie Romantic Comedy (Heart’s Cove Hotties Book 4) Page 7
