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His fingers close around mine.
“Sidney.”
I want to turn my hand. I want to lace our fingers, feed into the little dancing spark between us, and bask in the heat and calm his large hand brings.
“You were right about me. I’m a princess. Not like you think I am, but they’re rich, well-heeled, as they say, old money. My mother has never worked, and she views me as the black sheep.
“They want me to marry well and not work, unless it’s on me. And trust me, I’m a failure.” I shrug. “So, I just kind of did my thing, went on the dates and to the parties and got my degree and worked. And then, with Dad’s promotion, Mom decided I needed to fit the role better, get married. I’m almost thirty. I got a place, which is why I’m taking this road trip, but she’d definitely send rat man. Call. I just . . . don’t want that life, and so I sort of . . . ran away.”
He’s silent for a long time, and then says, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Okay, you’re twenty-nine and work remotely.” He squeezes my hands. “What year is it, and have you heard of this new thing called women’s lib? I hear they’re even gonna let women fuckin’ vote.”
I laugh, I can’t help it. “I just don’t want the life they want for me. You have no idea of what they’re like.”
“Controlling?” Mack asks. “Overbearing?”
I shudder. “Sounds like you’ve met them.”
“Don’t worry, Princess. I’ll protect you from the evil king and queen.”
And with that, he gets out of the truck.
He looks back. “If you don’t hurry up, no squashed pastry for you!”
* * *
The place is beautiful. There’s no other way to describe it. From the outside, it’s simple, a big cabin. Inside, past the wide front porch, is a wide-open area and a set of stairs leading up to one small section. There’s a modern and simple kitchen, a TV and fireplace, two big sofas, a dining nook, and a small hall that leads to the bathroom and laundry.
The bedroom at the top of the stairs has a king size bed and two walls of glass that let in both the sinking sun and the view of the lake, trees, and mountains. And there looks to be a boathouse too.
After the tour, he goes to the kitchen and pours some drinks. Water. But there’s also a bottle of whiskey on the counter and some beers. Then I spy two boxes with groceries.
“What do you think of my digs? Are you hungry? Because I’m fuckin’ starved.”
He starts moving through the kitchen, a powerhouse of sleek moves, as he selects vegetables from the box and then pushes some portabella mushrooms at me, along with a knife and chopping board.
“Thick slices. I’m gonna make us tacos. Some with beef, some with mushroom, and all fuckin’ chef’s kiss fantastic.” He does a chef’s kiss, and I will myself not to laugh as I follow along and start chopping.
I only do it because I’m hungry. Those damn croissants were going to be both lunch and dinner, and now, they sat in their bag, making buttery stains of grease.
He’s pretty good in the kitchen. I find myself enjoying a man who knows his way around, who dons a frilly checkered red and white apron with little cherries on it without irony and looks manly. Drool-worthy.
He has everything ready, even some masa harina to make corn tortillas. “Just gotta let the meat marinate, and then we can eat. Now,” he looks at me, “what do you think?
“It’s stunning,” I say as he leans against the counter, eating bits of my mangled croissants. “And you know it. Also, you led me to believe this was run down.”
“It’s got running water, a generator, Wi-Fi, and actual electricity too. Had to lure you somehow, and I’ve been learning a lot about fuckin’ princesses from London. Like, I’m betting you got a bit of Cinderella in there.”
I fold my arms. “I don’t sing as I clean.”
He dumps the bag, tugs my arms open, and wraps them around him. “That’s better.”
“You’re . . . you’re . . .” I sigh and rub my cheek against his shirt.
He’s got a little magic. Mack makes the world brighter, airier, and more alive, and I just want to not think about anything for a while.
