Jill Shalvis - Messing With Mac

Fury and amusement.

She would wear siren red because it suited her. The matching do-me shoes with the five-inch spiked heels were a bonus because she figured she could always take them off and hit the stubborn, idiotic lug over the head with them to make herself feel better.

Oh, he had some nerve, shooting her that scathing look and then vanishing.

She washed up, waxed, shined and polished, all the silly female rituals that usually made her feel better. Calmer.

And pictured him suffering the entire time. She really shouldn’t be proud of the fact she wanted him to suffer.

The sight of his truck in his driveway made her giddy with relief. He was home, and he would listen to her while she told him all the reasons she was mad at him, and then she’d walk back out to her car in her sexy little dress, picturing him cross-eyed with lust behind her, solid in the knowledge that she drove him as crazy as he drove her.

She’d sleep well knowing he was lying awake staring at his ceiling, calling himself every kind of name for letting her walk out of his life.

That’s right, she’d sleep well. Then she would wake up tomorrow and move on. And now that she knew her heart worked again, she’d go find a man who could appreciate that.

And her.

He didn’t answer her knock. The fury built back up. Ignoring her, was he? She knocked again, harder, determined to see this out.

She simply had to share this anger, or she was going to blow up.

She lifted her fist again, but the door opened so unexpectedly she almost solidly rapped him on the nose.

He didn’t even flinch, not this man with nerves of steel. No, he just cocked a brow and propped the doorway open with his shoulder.

His naked shoulder, because all he wore was a… She gulped hard and struggled to maintain eye con tract.

A damn towel. His entire body was pebbled with water drops. Given that, and the fact his hair was wet, too, and she realized she’d gotten him out of the shower.

Her traitorous body quivered at the thought of his long, leanly muscled body in the steam, water cascading down his tanned, sleek skin, his head back, his eyes closed in ecstasy as the hot water beaded over him.

Oh good Lord, now she could hardly breathe.

His eyes, those light, light eyes, traveled slowly up her body. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said.

“Fancy that.”

“What is it you need?”

“It’s…rather complicated.”

“Is it? That’s a shame then, as I’m running a bit late.”

“This can’t wait, Mac.”

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “But I’m going to get dressed.”

She followed him down the hall to the very bedroom where he’d once upon a time rocked her entire world.

Casual as he pleased, he dropped his towel.

“What are you doing?” she croaked, but didn’t look away, not even to blink as he shoved those long, long legs and mouthwatering ass into a pair of pants.

Turning to her as he zipped them up, she had a moment to wish he’d shifted around just a second sooner-

“I’m dressing for my parents’ anniversary party.”

A white dress shirt came next, covering that wide chest that hadn’t come from any gym, but years of hard labor.

She struggled to maintain her composure and sauntered over to him, telling herself now, give it to him now, trying desperately to remember all the reasons why she was so angry. But instead of wrapping her fingers around his neck and squeezing, she slid them into his wet hair and pressed her body to his.

He jerked, proving he was not immune. “What are you doing?”

“I came over here to yell at you, but apparently I’m going to kiss you instead.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Before she could move, he grabbed her, whipped them both around and captured her between the hard wall and his harder body.

Trapped, she gave one startled yelp before his mouth slammed down on hers. His body was like iron, his hands hard and hot as they slid from her hips to her back. And his mouth…oh, his mouth. All of her fantasies of a down and dirty, knock-out-fight paled in significance against the reality of what was happening between them now. Nothing, nothing could have prepared her for the ruthless, ravenous, reckless, unrestrained, raw sexuality of the man holding her to the wall, or her own ruthless, ravenous, reckless, unrestrained response.

His hands molded her body, sculptured her, and only when they were both shuddering, sighing, lost in the driving, pulsing need, did he pull back. Chest heaving, he lifted his head enough to look into her eyes and grate out, “Who are you kissing?”

Stunned by the overwhelming emotions rocketing through her, she could only blink.

His hands held her jaw, his thumbs teasing the lips that wanted his back on them. “Say my name, Taylor. Say it so I know you’re right here, with me and no one else.”

Oh, but if that didn’t remind her she was furious at him! Shoving him away, she straightened her shoulders and glared at him. “I know who I kiss. And if you think I don’t, then you don’t know me near well enough for me to see this through.”

With her pride on her shoulders like a ball and chain, she stalked right out of his bedroom, back down the hall and out to her car. It took her shaking fingers a few tries to get the key into the ignition, but she succeeded, and peeled away from the curb with a satisfactory screech.

It was the only satisfaction she had that entire night.

SHE WAS WOKEN at six in the morning by the sound of a power tool, which really fried her, because she’d only just managed to fall asleep an hour ago.

Furious all over again, that he would dare to interrupt her beauty sleep-and she made no mistake, she knew exactly who was down there making the racket-she stalked out of her apartment and down the stairs.

The first thing she saw when she entered the storefront was the antique hat stand, all dark oak and brass. It stood in the center of the room that was empty except for a makeshift work table.

Unable to help from touching the beautiful thing, she ran a finger down the unusual stand, guessing it was over a hundred years old.

“Incredible, isn’t it?”

Turning, she faced Mac, who stood in the doorway covered in sawdust. Hanging from his hand was the offending noisemaker, a saw of some kind. “Suzanne told me you’re not selling off your entire antique collection,” he said. “That you’re hoping to open a store right here.” He lifted a broad shoulder. “My grandmother left me a few pieces of furniture, most of which I’ve sold, but this piece I kept because of the beauty of the wood.”

“So it’s yours.”

“No, it’s yours. I’m giving it to you.”

He was giving it to her. No one gave her anything, or hadn’t since Jeff. She braced herself for the sharp pain from the thought of him, but all she felt was a nice warm fuzzy. She’d thought about that a lot lately. Somewhere along the line, she’d stopped comparing the two men, stopped putting Jeff on a pedestal. As for where she’d put this man, she didn’t yet know. “Why are you giving it to me?” Her voice wasn’t the angry one she’d imagined on the walk downstairs, but she felt sucker punched at the look in his eyes as he set down the saw, dusted himself off and moved closer.

There wasn’t any matching anger in his eyes. None. Instead, what she saw was a deep brooding that came from sorrow and regret.

He cared. He cared deeply.

Yes, he thought that caring was strictly physical. He thought that caring could be set on the back burner until it boiled over, and then with one night of amazing sex, it could be taken care of.

Until the next time it boiled over.