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That world really isn’t one I had. Friends were handpicked and at college, I just worked hard because I knew that funding could have ended any minute. Thank goodness my mother believed it was a phase that would burn itself out. Though she’ll never admit it, I’m sure Gran convinced Mommie Dearest of that.
I dream of flames, smoke, dark warm brown eyes, tattoos, and a touch that could rival brush fire. A mouth that—
I jerk myself awake.
“. . . and that’s when they started eating people. In short, you probably shouldn’t trust cats with purple—oh, you’re awake.”
Shit, I was dreaming about him, not the brushfire. I shift in the seat, trying to get comfortable as he cruises down the road, the vegetation on either side soggy and black. Behind us is my car.
“What are you going on about? Last thing I remember, you were talking to someone named Isaac about a pink London?”
He laughs. “London likes pink. She’s four.”
“A little young.”
“She likes me. All women do.” Mack casts me a long, molten look. “Most, anyway.”
I nod and gather my thoughts. “Purple cats?”
“They eat people. Very untrustworthy.”
The corners of my mouth twitch. “Idiot.”
“You say that now, but you’ll thank me later.” Then he laughs again. “I was talking to you, and you didn’t respond, so I just started testing to see if you were listening.”
“I fell asleep.”
“That explains it.” He smirks.
“People often don’t answer you?”
“Depends on the person, Princess.”
We lapse into a companionable—of a sort—silence as he drives and I lean back in my seat as the signs of fire start to dissipate and the air clears, though the smoke still stings it at the edges.
Mack’s like no one I’ve ever met. He’s charming and prickly. Laid back and bossy. Incredibly comfortable in his own skin. He’s the sexiest man I’ve seen and manly with a capital M. He’s not my type at all. Apart from the obvious hotness that’s any breathing hetero woman’s type. But in between the ‘right’ boys my mother chose, I tended to date boys in bands back in the day, and now, it’s environmentalists and teachers. People involved in the arts. Or those who work with computers and like to keep it quiet.
Wine and cheese nights. Picnics in Central Park. An indie show in Brooklyn. Gallery openings. Book readings. And . . . serious conversation.
I sound like the pretentious princess he accuses me of.
It isn’t pretentious. Or being a princess. But I bet Mack would see it that way.
We’re from two different solar systems orbiting two different suns.
I’m jumping lightyears ahead of myself. He rescued me and is dropping me off somewhere so I can get my car tomorrow and leave.
That’s all.
He turns on the blinker and makes a right. It’s clear the fires didn’t come near this area, but it’s frightening to think of how exposed it is here.
When we arrive, we’re at a pretty lodge. Mack holds out his hand, and I give him my keys. He drags my spinner case from my Audi’s trunk and up into the main lodge, leaving me to trail him.
Inside I take a moment to breathe in the cool, beeswax and lemon-scented air. The foyer and sitting room are full of wooden sculptures and furniture. It’s so homey I love it.
Behind the desk, a pretty woman with long reddish hair sets down the phone and grins.
“The other Burns,” she says. Then she eyes me up and down and holds out her hand. There’s a spectacular emerald-cut diamond engagement ring on a simple white gold band. “You must be the rescue. I’m Sarah.”
