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“Just because I sleep around doesn’t mean I’m not honest,” Mack retorts, not the least bit offended by my question. It’s one of the things I like about him. He can take it as good as he can give it, and he doesn’t get offended when someone is brutally honest with him. “The first thing I’ve always told any woman I’ve ever slept with is that I’m not looking for a relationship. The second is that I don’t have sex without a condom,” he says, ticking off his fingers as he counts. “I like to put that one out there right up front. The third is that I don’t do sleepovers. And the fourth is that if they ever talk about our time together to the media, I will ruin their chances of any future fucks with me or anyone else.”
Cocking a hip, I turn back to him. “And how would you do that?” I don’t know why I ask. It’s not like I plan on sleeping with Mack and if I did, I would never talk. Not to a media source or anyone else for that matter, except Sophie. She’s my best bitch and I tell her everything.
“Easy, I’d let everyone know she has syphilis.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Is syphilis still a thing?”
“Absolutely,” he says, in all seriousness. “It’s actually on the rise and is one of the worst STDs to live with, beside HIV. But it is curable now, so it’s not as bad as HIV.”
Trying to figure out my response to that gives Mack time to continue.
“It’s also an STD that can be transmitted orally. So, even though everyone knows I suit up, it’s still plausible, because I do love a good blow job.”
This conversation should make me feel something besides humor. I should feel indignant about the day I walked in on him talking about Holly, but I don’t.
“Do you really have a Prince Albert?”
What the fuck, Greer?Where did that come from? I was going to say something smartass-ish, yet when I opened my mouth that’s what came out?
You speak for a profession. Do better.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Mack’s smirk could melt the panties off a woman at the North Pole.
Good thing I’m not wearing any.
Oh, shit.That’s right. I came over in my pajamas because by the time I found the earring—which I will never be able to wear again and that really sucks because they were my favorites—I was already dressed for bed. And I don’t like wearing anything between me and my silk pajamas.
Now, not only are my cheeks and chest flushed, but my entire body is on fire.
“This was a lovely conversation, but I really need to get dressed and figure my life out,” I say, barging past him even though I don’t know where the hell I’m going.
Anywhere but within touching distance of Mack, that’s where.
“I put your bag in the spare bedroom,” he says, humor lacing his tone. “Shower is stocked. Towels are in the warmer. I’ll be downstairs making coffee and eggs, if you need anything.”
I beeline to the room he originally was going to have me sleep in last night and for the first time, I take it in. It’s nothing like what I was expecting. Instead of being a blank space with mismatched furniture, like most men’s spare bedrooms, it’s bright and fresh. The linens are white and blue and incredibly inviting. Not as cozy looking as Mack’s bed, but that might just be because of its occupant. There’s a reading chair in the corner by a bookcase and a brass lamp that hangs over it to give the perfect light. A large painting above the bed reflects the buildings in Jackson Square in a perfect evening glow. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a long time and it sets the tone of the room perfectly.
He’s just a ball of surprises at every turn.
The bathroom is similar to the bedroom—clean, fresh, and relaxing—with white and blues and a walk-in shower with a rain shower head.
My apartment isn’t a dump by any means, but this is… this is nice and completely unexpected, which makes it even better.
Forty minutes later, I’m clean and dressed in jeans and a linen button-down with the sleeves rolled to give me some reprieve from what is sure to be a hot one. Slipping my feet into some flats, I take a look at myself in the floor mirror that’s so gorgeous I think about seeing if it’ll fit in my car.
Surely, Mack wouldn’t miss it.
Thankfully, traumatized Greer did have some wherewithal to pack appropriately. She even remembered a toothbrush and basic makeup necessities. So, when I walk out of the room, I’m feeling pretty dang close to human and the smell of coffee from the kitchen completes the process.
“I wasn’t sure how you like it,” Mack says, sliding a mug toward me as I approach the island where he has two plates of eggs with sliced avocado and toast waiting.
“Honey, you cooked,” I tease, immediately taking the coffee and lifting the mug to my lips.
“Didn’t peg you for a black coffee kind of girl,” he says, eyes light and playful.
I could get used to this version of Mack Granger.
He’s so much more at ease, not that he isn’t with the guys and fans. But when it comes to him and I, we’ve always tended to rub each other the wrong way. We pick and prod, jab and tease. And although we’ve still been doing that, there’s a different vibe this morning that only comes with lowering the veil, so to speak.
