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“Well,” I reply.
“That was fun.”
I laugh. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.” I button my jeans and straighten my blouse as my eyes drift to the pottery wheel. The sad, half-finished cup sits as a misshapen lump of clay in the center of the wheel. It’s already started drying out. I bite my lip. “We might have ruined that cup.”
Mac follows my gaze. His smile lights up his eyes as he shrugs his bare shoulder, reaching toward me to grab my hand and tug me close. His arms circle around my waist, hands cupping my ass as he nuzzles my nose with his. “I have to be honest with you, Trina, I don’t give a shit about the cup right now.”
“You should.”
He pulls away, arching a brow as his lips twitch. “That so?”
“Mm-hm,” I answer, my fingers running over his jaw. “How else are you going to bribe me to come back here?”
Mac laughs and tugs me even closer, his lips brushing mine so softly they barely touch. “I can think of a few ideas.”
Heat knots deep in my stomach, and I smile against his lips before wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him once more.
The truth is, it won’t take much to convince me to come back here. Won’t take much at all.
CHAPTER 18
Trina
After Mac and I wandered over to his house—very neat, if sparsely decorated—and had a late-evening snack of crackers, cheese, and cold cuts, Mac drove me back home. Our goodbye kiss was lingering and sweet, and I’m still thinking about it now as I lean against my front door.
I can’t believe I just did that.
After a week of moving, keeping the kids busy, getting therapy organized, and overall just running around cleaning and unpacking, I wasn’t expecting to have a Saturday night like tonight. My lips curl almost unfamiliarly as I stand in my darkened house, and I realize I’m content. Happy, even.
That happy feeling continues into Sunday, when the kids, my mother, and I make our way to the Four Cups Café for a midmorning coffee and treat. As soon as we enter, the kids make a beeline for the counter, and my eyes dart to a huddle around a box at one of the tables.
“Ooh, what have we got here?” Mom sweeps past me to investigate.
Dorothy looks over her shoulder and waves her forward. “Look at this!” She brandishes a beautiful, handmade espresso cup, holding it by its teeny-tiny, delicate handle. My mother peers over her shoulder and grabs a saucer. It’s a soft peach color, with seams of foiled gold running across it like the veins of a marble slab.
I know that saucer.
My heart thumps. Damn it! My heart goes wild over the sight of Mac’s pottery. What the hell is wrong with me?
Simone and Candice are leaning over the box, chattering excitedly. “Gorgeous,” I hear Simone say as she unwraps one of the new mugs.
I follow the kids and get them set up at a table in the corner with a muffin and small hot chocolates. Katie brought her coloring book, and Toby is reading a book. They’ll keep themselves busy for a few minutes, at least. I walk back to the table to admire Mac’s artful pottery.
“What’s all this?” Agnes’s voice says from behind my shoulder. She’s got her hands on her hips in the doorway, looking down her nose at everyone from her four-foot-nine height.
Dorothy rolls her eyes. “Go back to your cesspit, Agnes.”
“That cesspit keeps you well stocked with romance novels,” Agnes returns. “I take order after order from you week after week, but do I judge the smut you read?”
It’s supposed to be a rhetorical question, but Dorothy snorts. “Sure sounds like it.”
Agnes runs the bookstore, and judging by the thousands of books housed in the library upstairs, I can imagine she’s built her business on the women of this town. Agnes toddles past me and takes one of the larger cups in her hands. She inspects it with a raised brow, turning it over a few times before glancing my way. “Your man sure does make a nice cup.”
I almost choke. “My man?”
Agnes rolls her eyes. “Will someone put Trina out of her misery? It’s fine. You can sleep with Mac. No one will judge you. In fact, we’ll all be happy that you’re not both moping around town like lovesick teens.”
“You know, Agnes, that’s the first reasonable thing I’ve heard you say in thirty-five years.” Dorothy plucks another cup out of the box to admire it, totally ignoring the death glare Agnes cuts her way.
