“Good to know.”
As if to prove the point, Hunter walked over and set a glass of sweet tea on the table, then placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her back against his big, strong, I-can-shoulder-the-world chest. And whenhe spoke, the only contact they had was when his breath skated along her neck. “Because, Trouble, when my boots end up under your bed, there won’t be any sneaking involved. It will be your call, your timing, and one hundred percent your decision. And that’s a promise.”
“No, too Johnny Cash. I want more of a ‘Jack and Diane’ feel.”
“The great Hunter Kane wants to record a ditty?” Mackenzie asked, stifling a yawn.
“A pretty lady once told me that just because the music is simple, it doesn’t mean that the song can’t be powerful,” he said. “That song became my first number one.”
It was also the first song they’d written together. Oh, they’d written several since that time, including a few over the past week, but none of them meant as much as the first.
Mackenzie laid the guitar down and rested her head against the sofa. Her fingers were sore from playing, her mind nearing creative meltdown, and her body ached from being locked in such close proximity for a week with a man who made her motor hum.
And her more delicate parts tingle.
True to his word, Hunter hadn’t kissed her again. That didn’t mean that he hadn’t done his fair share of flirting and touching. And touching and flirting. Sometimes together, sometimes individually, but always potent enough to make her toes curl.
Today had been the worst. Hunter had started with breakfast in bed. Meaning he’d picked up chocolate doughnuts—her favorite—and eaten them while lying against her headboard. He’d just lounged there, sipping his fancy coffee, while Mackenzie figured out how to decently get to the bathroom without anything on but an old T-shirt and red undies.
He’d offered to help her get dressed, even volunteered to assist with lathering her up. Mackenzie had ignored him, shoving him off the bed and taking all the sheets with her. Hunter had chuckled, and her body had sizzled.
They’d worked through lunch and had supper in the studio, Hunter scooting in closer beside her as they worked on a song titled “Tangled Up.” He grazed her thigh with his, his breath tickling her shoulder as the song grew—along with the tension—until she was certain she’d implode with a single touch.
“I think we should take a break,” she said. And by “take a break” she specifically meant “get some space that doesn’t smell of sexual frustration.”
Not that Hunter got the memo.
Nope. Instead of backing down, he amped things up, taking her right hand in his. “And break the momentum?”
Yes. And maybe break the magnetic force that is drawing me to you.
“We can pick it up later.” Only when Mackenzie went to stand, Hunter’s fingers started a slow and delicious path up her arm to her shoulders to her neck, continuing to work his way back down. Her brain turned off and her body went tingly at the sensation of his ever-so-talented fingers strumming all the right chords until every girlie part she owned gave a breathyoh my.
She was entering dangerous territory. Her warning bells were blaring,Get out before it’s too late!Her body was saying,Enjoy the connection, what’s the worst that can happen?
And her heart? She didn’t even want to acknowledge whatitwas saying, only that she was afraid it was already too late.
“We should call it a night,” she said. Which was exactly what she was going to do—as soon as Hunter finished tinkering with the song’s verse.
After all, his fingers were moving along her shoulders in rhythm to the song, and it would be rude to interrupt his creative process. SoMackenzie closed her eyes and listened to the sound of his voice in her studio as he worked with the lyrics.
The melody led her mind to summers as a teenager. Inspired emotions and images, not from her own life but from the ones she had stored while watching other kids her age lift their wings. Cruising with your girlfriends, the windows low, Tim McGraw on high. Summers at the lake. Bonfires. First kisses on the tailgate of a green ’55 Chevy. A feeling of floating freely through time.
She closed her eyes and a grin formed on her lips. “Like living every moment with no sense of time.”
“Exactly,” he said excitedly, his thumb tapping a steady beat against her palm. He hummed a few chords, then absently tapped, and the next line came to Mackenzie. The perfect words to match his melody, as if they’d been created simultaneously.
Man, was she ever in trouble. Mackenzie was in the fast lane to heartbreak ridge.
With Hunter, everything moved at a lightning speed. They’d written four songs in six days, and every moment together added to the sexual tension until it was electric. One spark and she was going to go up in flames.
Not ready to get burned, Mackenzie straightened and reached for her guitar. Placing the instrument and as much space as she could get between them without falling off the couch, she started playing the song from the beginning.
She worked her way to the chorus, and away from the fire, when something strong and heated moved closer.
“Hang on, go back and play that again,” Hunter said. Without another word, he moved in behind her, eating up all that space she’d created. His hands slowly slid around her to rest on the guitar.
A little too close for comfort. Mackenzie tried to hand him the guitar. Instead of taking it, he scooted closer, not bothering to stop until he was completely up in her space. His body curled around hers until allshe could smell was the smooth scent of leather and testosterone. Feel the heat of his body seeping through the cotton of her shirt.
