Marie Harte - Working Out

“My folks split up when I was eight,” Mac said matter-of-factly. “My father ended up getting killed by a drunk driver a year later. My mother took off. Haven’t seen or heard from her since.”

“Ouch.”

He grimaced. “Yeah. So Uncle Ian raised me. He was married to a woman he loved like crazy for years. Turned out she was nothing more than a--” He checked himself. “She was fooling around on him and tried to take him for everything he had. A real user.”

“No wonder you have issues with women.”

He frowned. “I don’t have issues. I like women. Hell, I love women.” He leered at her, but she saw what he hadn’t said. The man had trust issues he’d more than earned.

A lot like her. “Well, if it makes you feel better, my folks left me on the doorstep of a church when I was just a baby. Just me and my older brother against the world.”

“No shit?”

“Yep. I’m a blond Little Orphan Annie.” She grinned, not bitter at all about how she’d been raised. “Luckily, Trevor and I grew up together in a series of foster homes. We weren’t placed with abusive or uncaring people. And we still keep in touch with a few of them.”

“Trevor, huh? Does he live close?”

“He travels a lot for work.” Doing secret squirrel stuff for the government little sis isn’t supposed to know about. Corporate shark, my ass. The liar. “But we’re still close, even if we’re not physically together. He calls when he can and always brings me stuff from abroad. I don’t know if you saw my craft room when you were snooping around my apartment.”

“Not snooping. I was waiting for you.” He finished with the food and put the pan on a cool burner. After he turned off the stovetop, he fished two plates from a cabinet. “Trust me. I wanted like hell to look through your underwear drawer, but I thought that might freak you out more than just me being there.” He put the food on the plates then found a bottle of wine from a built-in wine cooler.

“Man. You have everything in here.”

“Just about. Grab a plate.”

She did and followed him into the dining room. No fancy candles, but a wine bucket and two place settings complete with wine glasses waited for them. He poured them each a glass.

“Fancy.”

“Yeah, because I’m all about appearances.” He huffed. “I happen to like wine with my food. But I’d never turn down a good beer. And I don’t mean that blue ribbon crap.”

“A beer snot. I’m not surprised.”

He chuckled. “Like you’re not a little snooty yourself. I saw that artwork in your place. Nothing store bought. It’s all hand-crafted crap. You didn’t have anything commercial in there.”

“Well, no. I like what I like.”

“Yeah. Me too.” The look he shot her was no less than scorching. “So, back to you and your sob story growing up.”

Trust Mac to give her no quarter. She liked that about him. When others learned of her humble beginnings, they seemed uncomfortable or even pitying. Not the man still giving her a once-over.

“Your brother,” Mac continued. “You and he grew up out here?”

“On the East Coast, actually. We grew up outside of D.C. But we both wanted to move West. It’s way too humid out there.” She shook her head and took a sip of wine. “Hey, this is good.”

“Only the best for you, Maggie.” He patted his chest. “Myself included.”

She nearly choked on her wine.

“So when did you come out here?”

“You really want to know, or is this just to soften me up for sex later?”

The lazy amusement on his face vanished, to be replaced with real annoyance. “Can’t I be curious about you? Why is that wrong? If you don’t want to talk, just say so.”

“Ah, no.” She put her wine down. “Honestly, I’m not used to this. Usually on a date, I sit back and listen while the man of the hour goes on and on about his job and his life. I nod, smile and look pretty.”

“You’ve been dating the wrong guys.” He snorted. “Not surprising. You tell me I have trust issues? Check a mirror, honey.”

“Look, sweetcheeks , I didn’t ask for an analysis of my shortcomings.” Irritated with him, she turned back to her plate. He might be an ass, but the smells coming from her dinner made her salivate.

“Easy. I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you. Jesus, just eat, would you? I forgot what a pain in the ass you can be when your blood sugar is low.”

How did he know that? She dug into her plate and moaned at the flavors bursting on her tongue.

“Go on. Say it,” he demanded.

She wanted to be annoyed, but he’d earned that smug tone.

“It’s delicious. This is amazing. Just a few vegetables and steak and it tastes like heaven. How do you cook like this?”

“It’s a gift.”

“No kidding.”

They continued to eat and polished off the bottle of wine. She learned more about him, watching how animated he became when talking about his uncle or Shane. He loved Shane’s family as well, particularly Shane’s younger brother.

“George idolizes you and you know it,” she teased. “He’s working hard to become the next Mac Jameson. In the four months I’ve known him, I’ve seen him with three different girls.”

“Whoa. That’s not my style, Maggie.” Mac leaned back and grinned. “I’m more the love them and leave them happy type.”

“I don’t know. They seem to be in perpetual mourning at the gym. You have your own set of groupies.”

“Yeah? Well you do too.” He didn’t seem happy about that fact, and his displeasure secretly thrilled her. “Trust me. I’ve heard more than my share about the hot blond aerobics instructor.”

“Lovely.”

“Yep. The one with the fine ass and nice tits.”

“Mac.” She flushed.

“What? Their words, not mine,” he protested.

“Yeah, right.”

He chuckled. “I mean, I agree with the description, don’t get me wrong. But there’s more to you than looks, right?” He paused. “You still haven’t told me much about your art, and I know that’s a big deal. To hear Shelby talk about you, you’re the next Van Gogh.”

“He was a painter.” She paused. “How much do you know about art?”

“Not a thing,” he said with pride.

“And you don’t seem to care that you know nothing. So sad.”

“Hey. I can field strip an M16 in the time it takes you to spell Van Gogh backwards. We all have our priorities. Now quit changing the subject. Your art. How’d you get into it?”

She wanted to tell him not to bother buttering her up. She’d internally agreed to sex with him, despite her prior claims that he not assume they’d eventually come together. But he looked interested. And he’d persisted in trying to talk about her tonight. Such a change from the way her dates normally progressed.

She liked his interest and decided to answer him. “I don’t know. I always liked creating things. Sculpting especially. Just model clay, nothing fancy. I can draw reasonably well, but it’s not something I can make a living doing. For that matter, neither are my current art projects,” she ended with a self-deprecating laugh.

“Not to hear Shelby tell it. She said that gallery where you work is selling a lot of your stuff.”

“The Beholder is a terrific place. And Kim’s a gem. She gives me flexible hours at the gallery, so that I can do my art and work for you during my time off.”

“I like that. But I still don’t get how you got into making paper. I mean, I think paper and I see holes and lines.”

“I used to feel the same. Then a few years ago I was bumming around an art gallery in Portland and saw a paper sculpture. The artist happened to be there at the same time, and we started talking.”