Jill Shalvis - Messing With Mac

He had to give her credit though, as her eyes cleared from dream to reality. She didn’t screech.

She didn’t dive back under the covers. Not Taylor Wellington. Instead, she slid out of the bed and crossed her arms.

Though he did top her by several inches, she man aged to look down her nose at him. “You.”

“I’m sorry. I-”

She turned from him and headed toward the bathroom.

And the words backed up in his throat, because her nightie dipped down in back to the curves of twin sweet cheeks, the thin lace clinging to every inch.

Then the bathroom door shut, cutting off the view. He had to shake his head, hard. “Taylor.” He put his hands on the wood. “I didn’t know you were still here.”

“We’ve been working together for how long now, Mac?”

Her conversational tone confused him. “A long time.”

“Yes, a long time,” she said calmly through the door. “And have I done anything, anything at all, that would give you reason to think that I’m a morning person?”

“Uh…no.”

“Have I ever gotten out of bed before I had to?”

Her voice was so even. Was she mad or not? “No, but-”

“You know what I thought when I opened my eyes and saw you, Mac? I thought you were part of my dream. It was a good one,” she added, and just her voice made him hard.

“I-”

“You should have just joined me, instead of standing there watching me.”

And on that heart-stopping statement, she cranked on the shower, drowning out any reply he might have had.

MIDSUMMER HEAT hit with a vengeance, but neither Taylor nor Mac had a spare moment to dwell on the sticky heat. Mac was surrounded by roofers, painters, flooring technicians and enough laborers that Taylor felt dizzy watching them work.

But work they did, and work hard. Her building, once the eyesore of the neighborhood, was shaping up into a beauty right before her very eyes. Pedestrians on the street, walking to dinner or the theater or wherever, stopped to ooh and ahh.

Taylor loved it, loved every little bit of it, including watching Mac work.

Especially watching Mac work.

He caught her at it, the watching, at least once a day. But she caught him, too. She’d be pouring over plans, over tile samples or even on her cell phone and she’d…feel him. She’d look up and there he’d be, eyes filled with heat and awareness.

And reluctant affection.

Oddly enough, for a woman who had spent a decade avoiding such emotions from a man, it was the last that got to her.

One afternoon she came staggering up the stairs to her apartment under the weight of a small writing desk. The thing wasn’t heavy, just awkward to carry, and worth a small fortune.

She’d picked it up at a garage sale for a song, and was so happy about it that nothing could dim her mood. “Don’t you look pleased with yourself.”

Mac stood in the doorway of her bare living room.

He wore jeans that had seen better days. They were faded, torn at both knees and one hard thigh. The soft denim fit him perfectly, outlining every nuance of his lower body. His T-shirt had come untucked on one side, caught on the tool belt slung low on his hips, exposing a strip of flat, rigid belly.

Her own tightened uncomfortably in response. “I am pleased with myself.” Having caught her breath, she hoisted up the small desk again.

“What’s that?”

“Just something I picked up. Do you like it?”

He eyed her slowly up and down. “Very much.”

“I meant the desk.”

“Oh.”

Since she’d been wanting him to say he still wanted her, she felt herself flush with excitement. “It’s circa 1920, isn’t it a darling?”

“It’d be more darling in your storage unit.” But he took the desk from her, making it look like a toy in his arms as he strode across the living room toward her bedroom.

The bedroom was a good size, but he dwarfed it, and as she followed him in, she became painfully aware of the fact that the only other piece of furniture in the room was her bed, pushed to the middle of the room with a drop cloth on the floor beside it, which she put over it during the day.

“Paint fumes are going to be bad this week,” he said. “No problem.”

“The noise and dust-”

“It’s no problem,” she repeated, watching the muscles in his jaw bunch as if he was incredibly tense. Why was that? If he wanted her half as badly as she wanted him, well, then, that was his own damn fault.

“I heard Nicole and Suzanne offer you a place to stay-”

She held up a hand and forced a cool smile, tired of battering down his defenses every time they spoke. “I’m staying here.”

“Look, Princess, what I’m trying to say is that this place isn’t going to be up to your standards.”

She laughed. “It’s never been ‘up to my standards.’ That’s the whole point of the renovation.”

“I just think you should go until we’re done.”

She stared at him when he turned to face her, wondering where this was coming from now, after all this time. Was he starting to feel the pressure, like she was, of being together day in and out? Was he, like her, aching for more? “You just don’t want me under your feet.”

He closed his eyes, then opened them. “The problem is not about not wanting you beneath my feet, but about wanting you beneath me. Period.”

An immediate hot current raced through her body. “Why do you do that?” she whispered, her knees wobbly, her pulse rocketing wildly, and all from a look and a few words.

“Do what?”

“Remind me in every word, in every look, that we have this…this…”

“Hard to put a finger on it, isn’t it?”

“It’s an attraction,” she said bluntly. “And for someone who claims not to want it, you sure bring it up a lot.”

“I never claimed not to want it, Princess.” He stepped closer, so close she could feel his breath warm her cheek. Then his fingers did the same as he stroked them over her skin. “It’s just that what we each want are two different things entirely.”

“How do you know?” She met his hot gaze. “When you won’t discuss it?”

“You want me to discuss it? Fine. I want you in that bed for one entire night-” He pointed to it. “I want you there, beneath me, legs and arms spread wide, head tossed back, screaming my name as I touch, kiss, lick and suck every inch of you. I want to sink into your body and lose myself. I want that so badly I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t do any damn thing. Any questions?”

Questions? She couldn’t remember, she was so lost in the image he’d just given her. She licked her dry lips, then jerked her gaze up to his when he let out a low and very soft moan.

“Have I mentioned you’re killing me?” he asked quietly, running those fingers down her throat now, and very lightly over her collarbone.

A shudder wracked her.

“Yes.” Her voice was a mere whisper. “You’ve mentioned.”

“Good.”

He turned to go, then speared her with one last searing look. “Next time you want to play with me, Princess, just remember what it is I want.”

She was fairly certain she would remember.

The moment he was gone, she sank to her bed, then fell to her back, gaze on the ceiling, fanning air in front of her hot, hot face.

THEY WENT BACK to business only.

Then, the next afternoon, when Taylor had been forced by her cell phone to stand outside to get reception, Mac came through the yard, lost in thought with a set of plans in his hands. Without looking up, he brushed against her, his shoulder rubbing hers.

Did he even see her? As he walked away, he glanced over his shoulder at her, eyes hot enough to melt every bone in her body.

Oh yeah, he saw her.

An hour later he came through the entrance hall where she was studying paint samples, and ran his hand across her lower spine to make room for himself to pass.

Her entire body reacted.

Incidental contact?

Nothing with Mac was incidental.

He was playing with her, when he’d warned her not to do that very thing to him.

Payback time, she decided. The very next morning she acted first, and “accidentally” brushed her breasts against his arm when she leaned over to point something out on the plans.

He inhaled sharply.

She loved that, because it made it real, this thing he wanted to ignore. Whether he liked it or not, what they felt was real.

After that, she made sure it happened every time.

A touch, a look…

Mac never said a word about it, but he would reach out and brush his fingers over her hair, making her want to purr like a kitten and beg to be stroked.

While talking to her about concrete or wood, he’d drop his gaze to her mouth. If no one else was around, he’d lightly graze his knuckles over her jaw.

Once he ran a finger down her arm. She had the tingles for hours.

But they never spoke about it again, never spoke about anything other than the work.

And there was plenty of it. She had the second floor unit and the loft to color scheme in anticipation of the finished renovation and subsequent renting.

And there were also the two retail units down stairs. One for Suzanne, the other for…the sky’s the limit. An art gallery, or a unique little gift shop…maybe even a bookstore. She loved books.

But she knew what she really wanted. Just thinking about her storage unit, about all the antiques she had left, the precious commodities she’d collected over the years, made her heart sigh.

She’d gathered these things around her like her family over the years. They were her security blanket. She’d sold some, but not as many as she’d thought she’d have to.

Which led her to believe she really could do it, she could keep that second retail unit for herself, for her antique shop.

The more she thought it, the more she wanted it.

Her cell phone beeped. Looking down at the missed call made Taylor sigh again. As if her mother had been able to read her mind from across town, as if she knew her daughter was thinking of doing something crazy, she’d left a message.

Their relationship was pretty much a series of left messages, which made Taylor feel…sad. Sad enough that she actually returned the phone call.

But the moment she heard her mother’s cool voice, she hesitated. “Uh…hello, Mom.”

“Taylor! How lovely.”

“I’m returning your call.”

“Oh, of course. Well, I wanted to remind you I’m campaigning again. My people suggested I get a family portrait taken to circle around, you know, with you and your sisters.”

Right. She should have known this wasn’t a hi-I-missed-you call, but a I-need-something-from-you call. “Okay.”

“Really?” The mayor of South Village, and all-around superwoman, seemed genuinely touched Taylor would do such a thing without an argument.

It made her do that yearning thing again. Wanting to be close, close to someone, she said, “Yes, I’ll do it. But getting my sisters to agree might be more difficult.”

“I’ll get them.”

She’d probably offer a bribe, a monetary one. Taylor should have held out for that.

“So. What are you doing these days?” her mother asked, shocking her with such a personal question.

Was it possible she really wanted to know? Testing, Taylor said, “Actually, I’m thinking of opening an antique shop in Grandpa’s building.”

“What are you going to do with that college education then? Toss it out the window?”

“It’s what I want.”

“Well, it’s a bad idea.”

Taylor stuffed her immediate defensive response, listened politely for another few moments while her mother went on and on about the high hopes she’d had of Taylor joining her in politics someday-politics!-then found an excuse to hang up.

When she had, she buried her face in her hands. What had she been thinking, trying to open up? Trying to let someone in?

“Must be difficult, having the city’s most notorious tough lady as your mom.”

Mac, the man-the only man-with the supreme talent of finding her at her worst. He’d seen her without makeup, with said makeup running down her face, he’d seen her first thing in the morning and worst yet, crying.

Now this. “Go away.”

“Yeah. Sometimes my family makes me bitchy, too.”

She lifted her head at that, ready to snap his head off, but he wasn’t laughing at her. He wasn’t even smiling.

Instead he just stood there, his eyes filled with an understanding she wasn’t ready to face. “I am most definitely not bitchy.”

When he just looked at her, she sighed. “Okay, maybe just a little.”

His lips slowly curved, but unlike what she might have expected, he didn’t say a word.