16. Mac
When I come back outside, Shelby’s chair is empty.
Disappointment hits me like a gut punch.
But the light’s not on in the little shed.
When I peer over the edge of the railing, my heart lifts clear out of my chest.
She’s there, down by the fire pit, dropping a log into the circle of rocks. For a moment, all I can do is stare. Her soft, delicious curves glow in the silvery light of the moon and stars. In the gaps between the wash of ocean crashing onto the beach, I can hear her humming to herself as she moves, hefting a log and setting it down with a soft thud.
I love seeing Shelby here in my home, in the places I normally inhabit. I love seeing the way she moves. Like in this happy moment, there’s nothing weighing her down—no pain of the past or worry of the future. Earlier this evening, when we were just sitting down for dinner, she went back inside to get more lettuce for the burgers. I came in after her to wash my hands but froze when I saw her kneeling down to scratch Tink behind the ears.
“It’s been a good day today, hasn’t it, Tink?”
My dog had nuzzled into her and she’d laughed, murmuring something I couldn’t hear.
It’s almost dangerous how good she feels to be around. Like I’m on a precipice, knowing I’m leaning too far over the edge, but unable to stop myself. Toying with that center of gravity I know is going to kick my ass.
I hesitate now as I back away from the railing. She was being nice by making dinner for me, thanking me for the room, maybe. But was she just being nice when she said she wanted to sit by the fire? My gauge is broken, especially when it comes to Shelby. This is why I prefer doing nice things anonymously. I never know where the line is between people feeling obliged to thank me and them genuinely being happy I helped.
“How’s it look?” Shelby asks when I get down there. She presses her hands into her hips, clearly proud of the Jenga stack she’s made in the fire pit.
I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling as I set down the bottle and glasses in my hand. I keep having to do that around her. “Good,” I say.
“You’re lying.”
“You ever made a fire before, Ponytail?”
“Ponytail?” She reaches her hand back to touch the one she’s wearing, as if she forgot.
I could never forget. I’ve been watching it all night. Every time she moves and it swings behind her, it’s like this sexy underscore to everything she does. Like I could reach up and wrap it around my hand while I?—
“What’s wrong with ponytails?” she asks.
“Nothing.” The word comes out tight. “I like them,” I say, watching hers swing. There’s a pressure in my jeans that’s my own damn fault.
The admission immediately makes me embarrassed, though, as if she can read my mind. I meant the nickname as a joke, but now it’s out there.
She laughs softly. “Oh. Okay, well, yes, to answer your question, definitely. I have tons of fire experience. Isn’t it obvious? I make them all the time. Like every day.” She flips her ponytail again in an exaggerated show, and I have to look away as my groin tightens.
“It’s a good first effort,” I say stiffly. “Open to a few tips, though?”
She smiles. “Yes, boss.”
She’s teasing me. I fucking love it, so I frown. Then I set down the items I brought and gently rearrange the stack she’s created, removing a few logs but trying my best not to start from scratch. “It needs a little air flow. And something lighter to get it started, like that.” I point to the stack of kindling beside the pit, glad I left some wood out here during this spate of good weather.
I help her assemble the kindling. Then I hand her some newspaper from the stack of flyers I brought down here, and after we crumple them up and stick them in the empty spaces between the logs, I give her the lighter.
The paper catches easily, then the kindling, and a moment later, a fire’s roaring happily in the pit.
Shelby whoops, raising her hand for a high five.
I hold mine up, and when she claps hers against mine, I have to resist the urge to wrap my fingers around hers. To lose them in my oversized paw and pull her toward me…
“Dinner was great and all,” Shelby says, “but this is what I was hoping for by the end of the night. I didn’t know if you use this little slice of perfection.”
She looks out over the fire to the deep cobalt of the ocean under the newly starry sky, and my chest fucking hurts looking at her.
“Honestly, Mac, this place is heaven,” she breathes.
It feels like it right now. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” I say with total honesty.
“You can’t get this kind of peace in Vancouver, that’s for sure,” she says almost wistfully. Then she sinks down into a chair, sighing deeply.
I look around, trying to sort out where to sit, when she pats the one next to her.
Why the hell do I have the chairs set up in pairs? I’m the only one who comes out here, and I haven’t been out here in a while.
I lower myself into the Adirondack next to hers.
Our arms, I notice too late, are within an inch of each other on the armrests.
Though I know it’s wrong, that it would make things so awkward, my whole body wants very badly for her to do that thing she did before, with her pinky. Her touch at the table was innocent. She was showing me she saw me, acknowledging that raw, ancient pain she must have seen when it galloped across my chest like it does sometimes. It was almost too much to take. But when she did that, the sensation of the tiniest square inch of her skin pressed against mine made me feel as cared for as if she’d enveloped me in a hug.
But if she did that…Jesus. I lie awake at night thinking about how it felt carrying her into my bar that first day. Wet and cold and shivering. If I could do that over, knowing the tiniest slices I know of her now, her silliness and kindness and the way she smiles, I’d lean into her salty hair and promise her the moon.
We don’t touch, but it still feels amazing. A silence stretches out between us as we stare at the flames. It’s not totally uncomfortable; fire’s kind of mesmerizing that way.
But I also have shit I want to say.
“So—” I begin.
But Shelby says “What—” at the same time.
She laughs, and the note of embarrassment in it is so sweet I almost forget my own.
“Go,” she says softly.
I sense her looking at me, and when I glance over, her brow is quirked in mock annoyance, brooking no argument.
I take off my cap and rub my hand through my hair. “Fine. Thank you, for dinner. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t feel any obligation, Mac,” she says softly. “I wanted to do it. It was the least I could do, considering what you’ve done for me.”
I could argue I’ve done the bare minimum, that anyone would have done what I did to make sure she wasn’t in a dangerous situation. But I don’t know that, so I brush it aside to tell her what I really want to say. “It meant a lot that you involved my son.”
Shelby’s quiet for a moment. Long enough that I look back at her face. She’s in profile now, her skin lit up in the warm orange glow of the flames. The fire pops and snaps, and I feel a dangerous expansion in my chest as she smiles to herself, still not looking at me. Like she’s pleased with herself in the most un-self-serving way.
“He’s such a good kid,” she says finally.
I keep my eyes trained on the flames. I refuse to let myself fall into the anger I felt after I got that call. Nate didn’t need to see any of it, and Shelby doesn’t either.
But I find my mouth moving before I can stop myself. “I just wish I had some part in it.”
I don’t mean to sound bitter. I haven’t even acknowledged how bitter I am. But my words belie my feelings. What the hell is it about Shelby that makes me want to emote so goddamn much?
“When did he move in with you?” she asks.
“Last summer.”
“Was he in the city before?”
“Yes, but not Vancouver. He lived with his grandmother out east.”
“You can tell me to stop.”
I meet her eyes. “Stop what?”
“Asking personal questions.”
I work my jaw. “I don’t mind.” I would, if it was anyone else.
“Where’s his mom?”
For that, I need assistance.
“Do you like whiskey?” I ask.
“Depends what kind.”
I hold up the bottle I set down beside my chair. It’s a Laphroaig, ten-year-old single malt.
Her eyes go wide. “That’s one of my favorites.” Then her face takes on a knowing look. “That’s the bartender trick again, isn’t it?”
The tumblers clink together as I pick them up. “A lucky guess.”
She shakes her head. “Tell me how you do it.”
I pour us a couple fingers each. “It’s a popular whiskey for people who know a little. Your clients probably got you one of these for a gift when you destroyed their humble expectations of what you could do for their business.”
Shelby’s jaw falls open. My eye drops to her lower lip, find a glimpse of pink tongue.
“Take a sip, Shelby,” I say, my voice lower than it should be.
I take my own advice and inhale half the glass, relishing its smoky burn as it pours down my throat.
I don’t drink scotch often. It tends to loosen my lips. That’s why I normally only drink it down here by myself.
She takes a sip of her whiskey, and I try not to stare sideways. But I can’t help it. My fingers curl hard around my glass as she brings her drink to her lips, that tip of her tongue reaching out to catch the golden liquid as she tilts her head back.
I’m jealous of whiskey. That’s a first.
She lets out a slight moan as she sets the glass down, closing her eyes and brushing her tongue against her top lip.
The surge of heat I feel is so strong I have to set my glass down and tuck my hands under my arms to stop myself from doing something stupid. Like reaching out and lacing her fingers through mine.
Shelby curls up against her chair, tucking her blanket snug around her as she faces me. When she looks up at me, I feel like a wire pulled taut. The blanket’s so snug against her curves I feel envious of it. Her eyes are glassy in the firelight, her lashes dropping and lifting from her flushed cheeks. Her lips are still dewy from the sip of whiskey, and I want badly to taste them. So badly the urge is almost overwhelming.
“Okay,” she says, her voice soft. “Now tell me.”
My stomach jolts. “Tell you what?”
“About your son.”
My heart squeezes painfully, but at least that cools the heat in me. “What do you want to know?”
“Were you in his life before this year?”
“Nope.”
She hesitates. “That wasn’t by choice.”
“Nope.”
“Mac.”
I take another sip of whiskey. “What?”
“I told you if you don’t want to talk about this, just say so.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I feel her stiffen slightly. “Okay.”
Then I let out a long breath. “But it’s fine. It’s not a secret. Nadine didn’t tell me she was pregnant. She didn’t tell me I had a son until she showed up here last year. Said it was my ‘turn.’”
Shelby sucks in a breath. “What?”
“She said it in front of Nate.”
“Jesus.”
I think back to the moment Nate’s mother turned up at the Rusty Dinghy, right at closing. Nate was in the back of her car, sleeping. We need to crash here for a bit.
We.
“So she just suddenly wanted to stop taking care of him?”
I scrub my jaw with my hand. “She never took care of him in the first place. Her mother raised him. His grandmother’s devastated to have lost him. I asked—” I swallow past the prickly rock in my throat. “I asked her if she still wanted to be his caregiver. I asked him too. He said yes; she said no.”
Shelby raises her hand to her lips.
“Does he know?”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.” I drain the second half of my whiskey. “Anyway,” I say. “I recommend making better choices than I did.”
“How was any of that your choice?”
“I could have made better choices” is all I say again.
Shelby’s hand comes out and rests gently on my forearm. “But then you wouldn’t have Nate.”
I don’t know whether it’s her words or that gentle touch again, but to my fucking horror, my eyes burn. “I know,” I whisper. “That’s the sick part. I’d do it all over again just to get him.”
Shelby squeezes my forearm, and I want to lean over and have her cradle my head. Tell me I’m not an asshole for what I did. Tell me I’m not a fucking hero either.
I move my arm away instead, because I don’t deserve that.
I top up our glasses, then we both sit back in our chairs, settling into silence. But somehow, even after that, there’s less awkwardness this time. Just a comfortable relief, at least on my part. Like we’ve crossed over some rough waves and come out okay on the other side. The fire pops softly, and somewhere in the background, I can hear the soft lull of the surf.
“Hey, Mac?” Shelby asks after a while.
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”
My stomach flips hard. So much for being past the awkwardness.
I lean forward, picking my favorite fire-poking stick off the ground and sticking it into the fire. The logs shift, thudding apart in a burst of sparks.
“I’ve never had much luck with girlfriends,” I say finally.
Shelby laughs. “Really? I find that hard to believe.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”
“I’m serious.” I can feel her eyes at my back. “You have to know you’re handsome.”
Heat flares in my chest. I was at one time, maybe. I work hard to obscure myself as much as possible these days. Long hair. Beard. Wool cap in the cool weather, ball cap when it’s warm.
When I was younger, all it did was make my life shit.
“You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” I say, so low I’m not sure she’s going to hear it, which is good.
She sighs. “Why not? It’s just facts.”
“It’s an opinion.”
“Yeah. My opinion.”
Since she can’t see my face, I allow myself a smile, because somehow Shelby thinking I’m handsome doesn’t feel like it does with all those other women, the ones who come in and try to pry open a closed door. These strangers who don’t know me for shit. But Shelby thinking I’m handsome? She doesn’t want anything from me. She sees me as I am, and she doesn’t see the ugliness I feel.
“This whiskey’s really good,” she murmurs. I glance back. She’s draining her second glass. When she’s done, she leans back against the chair, her eyes closed, a soft smile on her face. She’s tipsy. I should encourage her to go to bed.
But I don’t want to leave. I want to stay like this, next to her. Feeling like this before everything has to go back to normal.
I rub my thumb along the bark of the stick in my hand, thinking about how fucking magic it feels every time she touches me. Both ways. The kind of touch that makes my heart clench. The soft, heated touch that makes my lower half swell.
Fuck, I think I’m touch starved. I read about that in a pamphlet when I was waiting for Dad to come out of his room the other day at the care home. Seniors are significantly more likely to experience touch deprivation due to a lack of physical contact, which can trigger feelings of loneliness, isolation, and depression. I made sure to pat his shoulder and give him an extra few hugs, but he only looked at me like I was losing it.
Am I calling myself a senior citizen?
I clear my throat, reaching back for my scotch. It dulls my runaway thoughts. It keeps me from wanting to ask her to put her hand on me again.
But it does that other bad thing. It makes me want to ask questions I shouldn’t ask.
“Shelby?” I ask after another sip, ignoring that voice quieted by the drink.
“Yeah?”
“Why are you here?”
She frowns, though her eyes stay closed. “Whattya mean?”
She’s tipsy. Like I knew she would be. It’s the only reason I’m daring to ask.
“I mean why did you leave your life in Vancouver to be here?”
“I had a mental breakdown.” She giggles.
When I look back at her, her eyes are open but heavy-lidded. At my serious expression, she sits up, her smile dropping. “It’s true. I’m missing something fundamental. I think it’s my grandmother.”
At my confused frown, she says, “She’s alive. My mom never told me. You remember the necklace I lost?”
I remember. “Yeah.”
“It was hers. The only thing I have of hers. She lived here, at one time, and I want to tell her she has a granddaughter who doesn’t fit with the rest of her family.”
“What’s her full name?”
“Shelby Jessica Fox.”
The name isn’t familiar. “Have you checked the library? They have all the old articles from the Cove Citizen there. She might be mentioned.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ve only been asking around so far.”
I’d tell her to go to the town hall—that’s where the archives are. Official town records. But I don’t want her anywhere near that asshole mayor. I’ll never forgive him for bringing those fuckers to my town. But another thought occurs to me.
“You can ask my dad if you want. He knows everyone in this town. Or he did.”
Shelby lights up. “Ohmygod, Mac, thank you.” She lays her hand on mine, and this time, the touch makes me angry. Because all I want is to hold her hand. To tell her I’ll help her find her grandmother, even though once she does, she’ll probably leave.
But she’s not mine to touch.
I nod. “Sure,” I say. “There’s some kind of flu outbreak right now, so I’m not going this weekend. But maybe next.”
Except she’ll be back at the inn next week. Out of my life, except for business purposes.
I let my anger get the better of me.
“Shelby, where’s your boyfriend?”
“What?”
“Your boyfriend. Why hasn’t he been here, taking care of you?”
“Is that what you’d do if your girlfriend lost it?”
She’s joking. I hide my anger well. But I don’t hesitate for a moment to answer her question. “It’s what I’d do if you needed me. I’d drop everything.”
The whiskey’s made me choose my wording poorly. But it’s true.
Her eyes shift down. “Richard and I are over. I think.”
I hate the way my chest lifts at that. I stuff it down. “What does that mean?”
“It means we’re broken up.”
I stare at her, and she grimaces. “He seemed to think I might change my mind. Told me we’d talk about it when I got back. I didn’t bother responding.”
My chest deflates the rest of the way.
I know better than to keep up this line of questioning. I’ll say something we’ll both regret. Like make it crystal clear to that motherfucker it’s never happening again. Then I’d say be with me. Come with me now, Shelby, to my bed. It’s right upstairs. I just fucking know he’s the type of asshole who probably didn’t even pay attention to what she wanted in bed. I’d pay attention. I’d track every breath, every flushed capillary. I’d…
Jesus. What the hell am I doing? Me broaching this subject tells me it’s time for bed. I reach down to pick up the whiskey. “It’s late. We should get inside.” I stand up.
Shelby doesn’t. She grips the arm of her chair. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Mac.”
“You don’t want to know what I’m thinking.”
“I do.”
I grit my teeth. I should keep my mouth fucking shut. It’s the only thing with a 100% success rate of me not sticking my foot in it.
But apparently even holding the whiskey bottle loosens my damn lips.
“Fine. I think you should make it clear you’re not going to reconsider with him. If that’s what you really want.”
She looks shocked. “Why do you suddenly care, Mac?”
I should shut up. This is none of my business. Except I do care. And it’s purely for selfish reasons. I don’t want any fucking guy pining over her, thinking he has a chance with her. I want to be the only one who gets to do that. I want to be a club of fucking one.
I clench my molars as if that’ll trap the words before they come out.
But she’s still staring at me, waiting for me to explain.
So I release my jaw and say, “Because you don’t love him. If you did, you’d be talking about him all the time. Thinking about him all the time. You wouldn’t be here. I think you know that, in here.” I press my hand against my chest. “He doesn’t deserve you for letting you deal with this on your own.” I should quit while I’m ahead, but, of course, I don’t. “Life’s too fucking short to waste your time with anyone who doesn’t break your goddamned door down to be with you, Shelby Jones. I should know, because I would.”
Shelby blinks.
Then the cold reality of what I just said hits me like a pile of bricks. Ice bricks. Like an igloo’s fallen on my chest. I press a hand to my eyes. “Fuck. I’m sorry. Don’t listen to me.”
What the hell is wrong with me?
Shelby stands up. I brace myself for anything. Her yelling at me. Maybe slapping me across my stupid face. But she just hands me her empty glass.
When I take it, she pulls her phone out of her pocket. She thumbs something into it, the electronic glow lighting up her face.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m making it clear.”
“Wait, what?” Then, because I’m so stunned, I say, “Over text?”
“Yup.”
“Fuck. Don’t listen to me Shelby. Seriously.”
“Too late,” she says. She pockets her phone. It’s only because we’re standing so close that I see the slight tremble in her lip.
You did that, you asshole.
“Thank you, Mac. You’re right. I should have done that from the get-go.”
No. Don’t thank me. I don’t want to be thanked for fucking things up.
But I don’t say that, because she lays a hand on my chest, right where my heart beats like a wild stallion. Can she feel it?
Then she gives me a pat and walks past me. “Good night, Mac.”
“Good night, Shelby,” I say.
But she’s already gone.