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The house keys are cold in my hand as I fiddle with them, watching the way they spin around the key ring just to avoid glancing up at Mac’s bottomless eyes. “Thanks for this evening,” I finally say. “I didn’t realize how much I needed it.”
Mac lets out a breath, and I look up to see him combing his fingers through his hair. His eyes are on me, and just as I predicted, the sight of them makes my blood heat.
If I didn’t live with my mother, I’d invite him in. If I had any sense of adventure, I’d ask to see his place.
But I have kids, responsibilities, and my life is such a jumbled mess that I need to think things through. What if I’m just latching onto the first decent man I meet? Shouldn’t I be focused on being single for a while? Getting to know myself again? Finding a job, moving forward, being independent?
There’s nothing but conflict inside me. On the one hand, Mac is a brawny, sweet, sexy man the likes of which I’ve never even seen, let alone dated. He makes pottery and rides a motorcycle. He doesn’t complain when kooky old ladies like Dorothy and Margaret demand rides around the block. His kisses are like dynamite.
I’d be a damn fool to turn my back on that.
But on the other hand…I’m a mess. I’m barely out of a bad marriage. The ink isn’t even dry on my divorce papers and I’m ready to throw myself into another man’s bed. That’s wrong, isn’t it? Shameful, in some way?
Mac cuts through my turbulent thoughts by placing a hand on my neck, his strong, warm fingers curling around my nape. “I want to see you again,” he says, and I can’t help but bite my lip.
At the sight of it, Mac lets out a low groan. “Remember what I said about the lip biting, Trina? It’ll get you in trouble if you aren’t careful.”
Lungs catching, I gaze up at him. I’m sure he can feel the pulse thundering in my neck. I’m sure he can see the heat in my eyes. He knows the effect he has on me.
So, telling him the truth is just voicing something he already knows, even if it comes out a bit breathy. “What if I want to get in trouble?”
Another groan, and his fingers tighten. Then I’m wrapped up in his arms and I’m kissing him again, just like we did outside the Cedar Grove. Melting into his chest, I let out a moan at the warmth and strength of him, the feel of his strong, broad body curved around mine.
And his lips—oh, his lips are magic. He parts mine with his tongue and deepens the kiss, the hand on my neck shifting to tangle into my hair.
I curl my fingers into his shirt, then claw them up to wrap around his shoulders, wanting more closeness. Needing it. I’m making out like a horny teen on my mother’s doorstep, and I don’t even care. He tastes too good. He feels too good. I feel too good.
When his hand slides down my back to grip my ass, I swear it nearly sends me over the edge. The sheer possessiveness of the movement, the way he grips my body like he needs to feel it under his palm—it’s too much for me to handle.
I break the kiss, panting, resting my forehead against the side of his jaw as he releases a low groan. “Kissing you is dangerous, Trina.”
“Why?” My eyes are closed as I inhale the scent of his skin, loving the way he holds me close. My nose nudges against his throat, rasping against the stubble there.
“Because it makes me forget myself. Makes me never want to stop.” He shifts, brushing his lips against mine. Then he pulls away and gives me a soft smile. “I’d better go.”
“Oh.” I don’t mean to sound as disappointed as I do, so I force a brave smile onto my lips. “Okay. I’ll, um, see you around.”
“Count on it,” he tells me, and it sounds like a vow.
Then—perfect timing as always—the front door opens and my mother yelps, “Oh, Trina! You’re home!” She puts a hand to her heart. “Mac! Lovely to see you.”
I don’t believe for a second that my mother wasn’t watching through the curtains, but I still pull away from Mac and give her a nod. “Hi, Mom.”
“Well, did you have fun? That’s some machine you got there, Mac.” She smiles, toddling over to us in fuzzy slippers complete with bunny ears on them. The rest of her outfit consists of bright red jeans and a polka-dot top.
Movement catches my eye behind her. Little, black, furry movement.
Like a bullet, Mr. Fuzzles darts out the open door, through my mother’s legs, and makes a break for freedom. Mom screams, trying to catch the cat while promptly tripping over the floppy bunny ears on her slippers. Momentarily distracted, the cat pounces on the floppy slippers, then changes his mind again and darts toward the road.
“Mom!” I cry, rushing toward her as she stumbles and falls into a flowerbed.
She lands with a low oof, then points to the road. “I’m okay. Get the cat!”
That’s when Mac moves.
I thought watching him change a tire was hot? I thought pottery was sexy? How about lightning-quick speed and Olympic-level agility? Mac lunges for Mr. Fuzzles and scoops him up in one hand before the cat can make a break for the road.
“Oh, thank God,” my mother says from the flowerbed.
