Hunter had been around territorial males enough in his career to recognize one. And know how to deal with him.
“You hungry?” He went to the cupboard and pulled out a bag of kibble he’d seen earlier. Filling up the bowl, he said, “How about we eat some chow, get to know each other, maybe even play some ball?”
Muttley peeled back his lips and let out a loudwhoof, and Hunter began to worry that the only balls Muttley looked interested in were between Hunter’s legs.
“Right, well, that isn’t going to happen, so why don’t we get back to playing friends?”
Muttley’s eyes darted around the room, landing on the shattered mug in the trash, then back to Hunter.
“I apologized for scaring her, and then I offered her breakfast, but she turned her nose up at the coffee and disappeared into the bathroom.” With a dismissive snort, Muttley headed out of the kitchen and down the hallway. “You might be there awhile. She didn’t seem in a rush to come back out.”
Unconcerned, Muttley made three circles—his eyes never leaving Hunter—and laid his body against the bathroom door as if prepared to wait an eternity for his mistress to appear.
“Right there with you, pal,” Hunter said, tossing the paper towel in the trash.
As luck would have it, the trash can was next to a stack of unopened mail and her phone. If Mackenzie didn’t want to talk about what she’d been up to since he’d seen her last, then Hunter would do a little exploring on his own.
He swiped her phone screen to get a look at her playlist, wondering if his albums were in her favorites, except he became distracted by an unanswered text from last night. It was from some guy named Arthur.
Had it been from a Mary or Delores or Jenny, Hunter wouldn’t have paid it a second glance. But it was from Arthur and began with the wordDarlin’.So, yeah, he may have “accidentally” opened the text.
Only when he opened it, a computerized female voice came from the phone.
“Yesterday at seven-oh-nine p.m.,” the phone began, and Hunter pressed his hand over the speaker to muffle the sound. “From Arthur. Darlin’, it is time for supper. Chicken is on the grill and corn bread is in the oven. Table’s set for two and door’s open.” There was a beep. “Would you like to reply?”
Hunter checked the bathroom. With the door still shut, he whispered into the phone, “Yes.”
“Go ahead with reply.”
“You are one confident prick,” Hunter began. “Too bad for you,Darlin’was sipping bourbon with me on the porch swing last night.”
He watched the text appear on the screen.
“Would you like to send message?”
Hunter looked at the ceiling and, after a long moment, said, “No,” then set the phone on the table. With a final glare at the screen, he headed to the office, which sat off the main room and housed a baby grand.
Pushing the door all the way open, he walked into a home studio that was beyond impressive. A dozen or so instruments lined the wall, the piano sat in the middle of the room, and a big overstuffed chair rested next to a window, drenched in sunlight. There was her first guitar, a gift from her mama, leaning against the windowsill, and vases of bright flowers were scattered through the room. So many fresh-cut flowers it smelled like a rose garden.
Gone were the computers and digital production boards he’d gotten accustomed to. Instead there was sheet music, a mic, and an old-school soundboard. Mackenzie’s studio had been designed by an artist for an artist.
What caught his eye, though, was one of the sheets of music. Not one on the piano, but some chords and lyrics scribbled in an open journal, which sat next to her chair. Handwritten and incomplete, but two beautiful pages of music, begging to be uncovered.
To be played.
Hunter sat in the chair and picked up her guitar, resting it on his knee. Then he looked at the journal and began playing. A grounding warmth washed over him as he strummed the opening chords. The melody was soft and soulful, a complex combination of familiar and unexpected that drew him in and held on long after the song had ended.
Just like its composer,he thought with a smile. Because while the scribbled notes on the sheet were too masculine to have come from Mackenzie’s hand, the music absolutely had.
But it wasn’t only the chords that had him convinced. No, that honor went to the words scrawled in the lines. His heart rolled overin his chest as he read the raw honesty in the lyrics. They spoke of a love without limits, without restrictions or prejudice. A love that went beyond circumstance, to a level that was as forgiving as it was understanding.
The notes were strong, deliberate, and purposefully unique, but the lyrics ...Christ, the lyrics. There weren’t a lot—it was a work in progress, and he could tell by the different colors on the page that the process had spanned months, maybe even years—but there was enough there for him to know it was Mackenzie. Right there on the page for him to see.
Her hopes. More important, her fears. He could feel them all as he gently strummed the strings, played the notes she’d kept to herself. He reached the end of what he knew in his heart was a hit and started over, understanding more and more about her with each note he played.
Mackenzie had always been a mystery. She never seemed to need anything or anyone. She was content to stand alone, take on whatever life threw her way with a brave smile. And it was that brave smile that had him so determined to stick around.
Hunter had never been good at sticking, but he wanted this more than he wanted another hit album. And that was saying something.
