Kissing his cowriter was a big no-no. Kissing Mackenzie Hart when she was feeling cornered was a fast track to never seeing her again, and—fuck, her hands somehow had slid down his chest to fist in his shirt.
And why was it when he needed one of his nosy family members to interrupt, there were none to be found? Even her dog had passed out on the edge of the deck, back to them, face buried beneath his big paws, leaving them virtually alone.
So they sat there on that porch swing, a breath apart, for a long-ass time. Nothing ’round them except the cool Tennessee breeze and the growing sexual tension.
It was as if the universe was saying,Go for it, Hunter. Take a taste.
His dick was saying something infinitely worse. But his head, the one he tried to use when it came to Mackenzie, was telling him that if he played this wrong—and by wrong he meant kissing her—he could blow whatever this was before it even began. And leave tonight wondering if he’d ever see her again.
“As long as we’re honest with each other, everything’s going to work out perfectly,” he assured her.
“You promise?” she whispered, reminding him of that lost girl he’d first met in the bar all those years ago.
“Yeah, I promise.” But if she pressed any closer, things were bound to get screwy. And wouldn’t that just make everything a hell of a lot more complicated.
“Good,” she said, tightening her fist and tugging him toward her. He’d like to say he put up a fight, but then he caught a hint of her scent and,damn, she smelled good. Like mint and tangled sheets. She tasted even better, he realized, as her lips ever so gently brushed his.
Once. Twice. Only to go back for another pass.
This one a little firmer.
“What are you doing?” he asked, holding himself stock-still, as opposed to Mackenzie, who was making moves he hadn’t seen coming.
“Skipping the cake and going straight for the icing,” she said against his mouth, and Lord help him, all he could picture was Mackenzie covered in icing.
And her lips. Her incredible lips. Full and soft and,whoa now, working his with a shy confidence that blew his mind. Mackenzie Hart was kissing him on his cousin’s front porch swing, and Hunter would be a liar if he said he wasn’t dying to kiss her back.
To take what she was offering, because he’d be the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet to be on the receiving end of a woman like her. Only what he wanted and what hewantedwere at odds.
He’d come here to talk, to get back to the place they’d left off. Only now they’d taken a detour, a sexy-as-hell detour, which he was pretty sure would lead to a dead end. He was confident, even, that skipping straight to the chemistry would be like pulling the pin on a grenade: a few seconds of excitement before everything blew to hell.
The only way this would have a happy ending was to keep things as simple as possible. Sure, he’d come because he needed her help on the album, but things had changed.
And he had a feeling she was feeling the same shift. Which was why he had to take this slow. Start with the thing that had connected them originally. The one thing that made her feel safe and alive.
Music.
“Mackenzie,” he said without all that much conviction, so he put his hands on her hips.
“Yeah.” She opened her eyes, and they were warm and heavy-lidded.
“Maybe we should start with the cake, work our way up to the icing?” Or better yet, go back inside and talk about things that didn’t include icing and kissing.
“I always took you for an icing kind of guy.”
“Yeah, but there’s something to say about savoring the cake.”
She sat back, uncertainty flickering across her face. “Why? What’s wrong with my icing?”
“Nothing’s wrong with your icing.” He laughed. “I don’t know enough about your icing to have an opinion.”
To prove his point, he did not look at her cleavage when she jerked back and crossed her arms. “Well, I can tell you that my icing is top rate. In fact, most guys would say my icing rocked their world.”
“Well, I’m not most guys,” he lied. “And you’re not most girls. You’re—”
“What?” she said, those eyes sparking with challenge. “I’m what, Hunter?”
“First off, you’re drunk.”
“Not that drunk.”
“Drunk enough.” And no way was he going to open himself up to being tonight’s bold move and tomorrow’s big regret. Been there, done that, wrote a song about it. “Second, your friendship is important to me, and I won’t do anything to complicate that.”
“That’s the same speech you gave me when we first met, then when my mama passed,” she said, and he could hear the embarrassment in her voice. See it in the way she wrapped her arms protectively around her. “Let’s see. First I was too young, then I was too sad, and now I’m what?” She stood. “Too much of a complication?”
“That’s not what I said.” He reached for her hand. “The problem is, you’re too special.”
“I never knew being special could feel so humiliating.” She pulled away, her chin high, her shoulders back, her eyes sad as fuck. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it seems I have a mint julep calling my name.”
