Chapter 15
Fifteen
Delaney
The sound of Mac's frustrated, mumbled cursing carries across the town’s empty square at seven in the morning on Monday morning, which is how I know something's gone spectacularly wrong at his cabin.
I'm unlocking Rosewood Books when his voice drifts over, creative combinations of words that would make Gran roll over in her grave.
I haven't seen him much since he left my parents' house on Thanksgiving.
We ran a sale at the store that had us busy all weekend, and he seemed to be staying out of the way, doing whatever it is he does in his free time.
In fact, he kept his distance so carefully, I was starting to think he was coming to his senses about all of this.
"Everything okay over there?" I carefully call out, though clearly it's not.
Mac walks away from the Millbrook Inn looking like he's ready to fight someone. His dark hair is sticking up at odd angles, and he's wearing the same clothes from yesterday. "Cabin flooded. Randy can't get a repair guy until Thursday."
"That's three days away," I state the obvious while trying not to notice how his Henley clings to his shoulders. "What about the inn?"
"Booked solid. Some surprise bus tour from Connecticut decided Millbrook Falls was the perfect romantic getaway this week." His voice drips sarcasm. "Apparently, we're trending on social media as a hidden gem for couples."
I can't help but grin. Our fake dating escapades have been generating exactly the kind of publicity I hoped for. Maya's been tracking the social media buzz, and bookings are up twenty percent from last month. After she heard about what happened at Thanksgiving, she doubled her efforts online.
"You could try the next town over."
"No." The word comes out sharp, final. Mac runs a hand through his already messy hair. "I'm not running to another town because of broken pipes."
There's pride in that statement, maybe even some affection for this place that I don't want to examine too closely.
It would complicate things if Mac actually likes it here.
It would also complicate things if he left.
Every time we have one of our dates, I'm afraid he's going to run off and never return.
Putting that much distance between us might make him come to his senses.
"Well," I say, unlocking the bookshop door and immediately regretting what I'm about to offer, "I have a guest room above the shop."
Mac raises an eyebrow. "Don't you live above the shop?"
"I live in the apartment above the shop, yeah. There's a guest room." Sort of. "It's not fancy, but it has heat and running water."
He considers this for a long moment, and I can practically see him weighing his options. Stay and accept help from me, or leave town and probably admit defeat. For a guy who spent fifteen years getting checked into boards by men twice his size, Mac Sullivan doesn't back down easily.
"Fine. But this doesn't count as one of our ten dates." When I tilt my head in confusion, he adds, “I can't have you trying to romance me in such small quarters again.”
"Obviously not," I say, though my pulse quickens at the thought of Mac sleeping twenty feet away from me again. Just like at the cabin when I got us snowed in.
My mind races with ideas. It could count as something. If I can convince him to go along with it. "This is just basic human decency,” I tell him, refusing to let him in on my thoughts.
An hour later, Mac shows up with a duffel bag and a resigned expression. I lead him up the narrow stairs to my apartment, suddenly self-conscious about the books decorating every surface and the throw pillows that say things like "Happily Ever After Starts Here."
"Cozy, as always," Mac says, which could mean anything. He's been here before, but I wasn't around to witness his reaction while he perused. He was in a panic, and I was running damage control. This time feels… different.
"The guest room is through here." I push open the door to what used to be a second bedroom before I converted it into a reading nook. Built-in bookshelves line the walls, a window seat overlooks Main Street, and fairy lights create ambient lighting for evening reading sessions.
What the room doesn't have is a bed.
Mac stares at the empty space where a bed should be, then at the cozy reading chair that's clearly meant for one person. "Delaney…"
"Right. So. Funny story." I twist my hands together, fighting the urge to hide behind them. "I may have converted the guest room into a reading space last year when I thought I'd never have overnight guests again after Brad left."
"Where exactly am I supposed to sleep?"
"Well, I have a blow up mattress, or a perfectly good couch–"
His expression flattens. "I'm six-foot-four."
"Or," I continue quickly before I lose my nerve. "My bed is king-sized. Surely, you'll fit on that. I can grab the blow-up mattress or take the couch instead…”
My words die off in a self-conscious, pathetic heap on the floor between us as he considers me with an expression ten times as severe as the one he had earlier, when he was cursing up a storm.
“You are not taking the couch in your own apartment,” he insists, turning back toward the stairway. “I'll figure something else out. Maybe it is time to get out of here anyway.”
That has my feet propelling me forward, jumping in his path. “What, like you're giving up? We still have three dates, and I thought–”
I stop myself from saying the rest.
I thought we were finally getting somewhere after Thanksgiving.
Apparently, he’s only interested in me when there’s another man to piss off.
His lips twist to the side as he shrugs, eyes bouncing everywhere but on my face. “We can call it a draw. Or maybe I lost. Besides, you said so yourself that business has gone up. Mission accomplished, right?”
“Wrong.” I cross my arms over my chest. “The mission was to prove you wrong about love and restore Lily's name after you made her sound hopeless. If anything, you've only gotten worse in these past few days.”
What changed? I want to ask. What sent him in the opposite direction since meeting my family? I thought we had a good time at Thanksgiving.
Every time I start to think I'm reeling him in, he yanks himself further away.
Widening my stance, I double down. “We're both adults. We can share a bed for a couple of nights without it being weird."
Deep down, I know we absolutely cannot do that, but I'm too stubborn to admit it right now.
The silence stretches between us like a live wire. Mac's blue eyes search my face, and I wonder if he can hear my heart hammering against my ribs.
"This feels like a setup," he says finally.
"For what?"
"Date seven. Only one bed is definitely a romance trope."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I didn't break your pipes, Mac."
"Didn't say you did." But there's amusement in his voice now, and something else I don't want to name. "Just noting the coincidence."
"Do you want to stay or not?"
Mac looks at my overstuffed sofa, then at me, then toward my bedroom door. "We're just sleeping."
"Obviously." The word comes out breathier than intended.
"No funny business."
“Afraid you can't keep your hands off me, Sullivan?" I tease, but the joke falls flat when he schools his face, eyes darkening.
If our snowed-in date is any indication, we're both doomed.
Clearing my throat, I add, “I wouldn't dream of it." Lie. I dream about it every night. And then I wake up and use my silicone little buddy to act it out.
Speaking of which… That needs to be hidden away ASAP.
"And this absolutely doesn't count as one of our dates," he insists.
"Absolutely not." Bigger lie. “I'll build you a nice little pillow wall, so you're safe and sound from big bad Delaney.”
He offers a look that could cut right through me, but he swings his keys around on his finger and unlocks his car.
“I'll grab my bags.”
Three hours later, I'm questioning every life choice that led to this moment. Mac is in my shower—my tiny bathroom with walls thin enough to hear every sound of water hitting skin—while I stress-cook dinner and try not to think about him naked ten feet away.
The shower turns off, and I immediately busy myself stirring sauce that doesn't need stirring.
"Smells good," Mac says, emerging from the bathroom, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends.
"It's just pasta." I don't look at him directly because the sight of Mac Sullivan barefoot in my kitchen, shorts hanging low on his hips, and his very naked chest on full display might actually kill me.
"I meant your shampoo."
My wooden spoon clatters into the sauce. "What?"
"Smells like vanilla and something else. Honey?" He's closer now, reaching around me for a glass from the cabinet. His chest brushes my shoulder, and I forget how to breathe.
"Vanilla bean and brown sugar," I manage. "It's from the local soap shop."
"Lily used to smell like vanilla." The words are quiet, almost accidental.
I turn to face him and immediately realize my mistake. Mac is standing close enough to count his eyelashes. Close enough to do something incredibly stupid.
"I know. She had good taste," I whisper.
Mac's gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before he steps back. "Yeah. She did. But I think I like yours better."
Dinner is surprisingly easy. Mac tells stories about his teammates that have me laughing until my sides hurt.
He misses them more than he lets on. Anyone with eyes can tell he's struggling with being off this season.
But I've never considered how it might feel to be isolated from the people he usually spends most of his time with. His best friends. It has to be hard.
I share town gossip and bookshop customer anecdotes. We split a bottle of wine Maya left here last week, and the conversation flows like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
"So what's the verdict?" I ask as we clean dishes. "Are you convinced that domestic bliss is a real thing?"