CHAPTER 8
A pounding woke Mackenzie from a dead sleep.
She opened her eyes and, for one terrifying second, couldn’t figure out her surroundings. The sheets were knotted around her, holding her prisoner, and the world was completely black. She strained her eyes even further, trying to make sense of why she could feel the warmth from the morning sun radiate through the window when the room was dark enough for it to be the middle of the night.
Her head spun painfully, and panic gripped her by the throat as she reached for the light switch, but nothing happened. Then the sharp edges of frustration churned in her gut as she tried again. With the same results.
She squeezed her lids tight and breathed in deeply, only the churning worsened and the pounding settled behind her eyes. Then she wished like hell it was the middle of the night, because that would mean the sun hadn’t risen, rather than she couldn’t see it.
She also wished she’d stuck with tea and her usual MO of pretending everything was just fine. In her attempt to eliminate thecoulda-shoulda-wouldasin her life, Mackenzie was left with a bigOh no you didn’t!
But, oh yes, she had.
She’d gone big, then gone home, and she could still feel the bitter bite of humiliation. Had she not been intoxicated, she would have recognized the hesitation in Hunter’s tone. Could have evaluated the pros and cons of kissing America’s Sexiest Man, who happened to be the former love of her life.
Convincing herself that the nauseous feeling in her stomach was nothing more than a hangover, Mackenzie lay back down.
Big mistake.Being horizontal was like being adrift at sea in one of those tiny inflatable rafts in the middle of a hurricane.
“This is why I don’t drink,” she said, tossing the covers over her head. The motion offered nothing in the form of help, unless she counted the small comfort of familiarity. It was strange how habits stuck with a person, even when they no longer held a purpose.
Mackenzie had lots of habits—rituals, as her rehabilitation therapist called them. An order of doing things that gave her a sense of control, kept her safe.
Kept her moving forward.
Last night she’d been too thrown to think, let alone stick to the rules. As a result, she’d abandoned her nightly routine. And her common sense.
End result?
She hadn’t a clue as to what time it was, where she’d left her purse and phone, or if Muttley had gone out for his morning tour of the backyard. And, as if the day couldn’t get any worse, Hunter had driven her home last night. Which meant now he knew where she lived. And avoiding him would be that much more difficult.
What had she been thinking?
She hadn’t been. That was the problem.
Hunter had this assuredness about him that said he could handle anything thrown his way and a charisma that pulled people along for the ride, making it easy to sit back and let him take over. He was the kind of guy who would get it done—and done right.
Hunter Kane was a sure bet.
That kind of magnetic confidence was rare. The industry term for it wasX factor. Mackenzie called it swagger. And Hunter had enough swagger to convince Garth Brooks to sing backup.
Metal tags jangled down the hall and into her room, stopping inches from her bed. She was immediately met with warm dog breath wishing her a good morning, although there was nothing good about what that breath did to her stomach. When she didn’t move, a wet nose nudged her foot, which was peeking out from the covers.
“Morning,” she mumbled and dropped her hand to give Muttley a quick pat.
His tail tapped the hardwood floor in pure pleasure.
“Bet you want your breakfast, huh, big guy?” Muttley nudged her hand, then let out an impatient bark. “All right. All right. I get it.”
Mackenzie needed another hour of sleep, followed by a hot shower. But Muttley was making it clear that neither of those was an option, so she settled on a cup of coffee and dragged herself out of bed.
Slipping on her house boots, she trudged down the hall and into the kitchen, to the familiar sound of her automatic coffee maker already percolating. The earthy hazelnut aroma wafted over as sunlight from the big windows that spanned the back of the house warmed her skin.
When her boots met the tile floor, she took five precise steps forward and three to the left, then ran her hand down the pitted texture of the refrigerator door and opened it. Second shelf, left-side front, she grabbed the carton of cream.
Five steps to the right and one forward was the cabinet with her mugs. She grabbed one and set it and the cream on the counter. In the lower cupboard was the sugar.
Mackenzie bent over and opened the cabinet door, and the pressure in her head swelled to the point of near explosion.
