Chapter 10 Penny
10
PENNY
PRESENT DAY.
Spin. Shuffle. Hip sway.
The beat pulsed through my speaker, and I moved with it, completely lost in my own little world. The vacuum became my dance partner, the living room my stage, and I belted out every lyric like I was performing for a sold-out crowd.
Chores didn’t have to be miserable—not if you found ways to make them fun.
Laundry? I sang like I was headlining the Grand Ole Opry.
Dishes? I played in the suds, shaping bubbles into beards, blowing them into the air just to watch them pop.
Finding joy in the little things—that was the secret to making the hard days feel less suffocating. Those tiny, ridiculous moments? They were the ones I looked forward to, the ones that reminded me life didn’t always have to be so heavy.
That’s why my home was more than just a place to sleep. It was my safe haven. My castle. A space where only a select few were granted entry—only those I trusted, only those who truly mattered.
No matter how exhausting or chaotic the outside world got, I always had this.
The walls painted in colors that made me feel alive. The air thick with the soothing scents of vanilla and spice. Every piece, every detail, carefully chosen to be more than just decor. It was comfort. It was a sanctuary.
It was mine.
I dipped the vacuum low in a dramatic swoop, then spun—only to freeze when a shadow moved in my periphery.
My heart lurched into my throat, and every alarm bell rang.
I let out a loud shriek, stumbling backward as the vacuum crashed to the floor with a loud clatter. My pulse pounded against my ribs, my breath coming in sharp gasps as the surge of adrenaline rocketed through me.
“What the fuck!” I clutched my chest, feeling the wild hammering of my heart beneath my palm. “Are you crazy!”
With a shaky hand, I smacked the vacuum’s power button, cutting off its low rumble.
Mac stood in front of me, his chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a marathon. His expression was unreadable—except for the way his lips parted slightly, like he was struggling to catch his breath.
He stood completely still and silent, staring at me like he wasn’t the one who’d nearly given me a heart attack.
I narrowed my eyes and repeated myself. “What. The. Fuck.”
A surge of anger flooded in at the reminder he’d walked into my apartment unannounced and sure as hell unwelcomed.
Mac reached behind himself and—click—slid the deadbolt into place.
My stomach dropped as my eyes went wide. The anger morphed into a low tingle of fear and apprehension. Instinctively, I took a few steps back, putting space between us. “Mac?” My voice was edged with caution.
He started pacing, his boots scuffing against the floor as his hands raked through his hair. He gripped the strands, tugging roughly before locking his fingers behind his neck.
“Mac…” I tried again, softer this time.
His head snapped up, dark eyes locking onto mine.
“I need you to talk to me.” His voice was raw, thick with something desperate.
I stilled, my breath catching.
Not this. Not again.
Had he already forgotten the other night? I told him—on my terms. On my time.
Barging in here like this, demanding answers, backing me into a corner. He was ignoring everything I’d said.
He couldn’t be that stupid.
“I have nothing to say right now,” I replied, my voice clipped and controlled.
Walking into the kitchen, I grabbed a towel and started wiping down the counters with unnecessary force, like scrubbing hard enough could erase him from my life.
Maybe if I ignored him, he’d get the hint.
Nope.
Heavy footsteps followed. The heat of his presence curled around me as he stopped behind me. Close enough that I could feel the weight of his presence pressing into my back.
“Pen…” he exhaled, his voice low, almost pleading.
I closed my eyes, tilting my head up toward the ceiling as frustration coiled in my chest. Then, with a sharp breath, I threw the towel down, the sound of damp fabric smacking against the countertop breaking the silence between us.
I’d spent energy and time trying to erase him as best I could. Trying to shove every memory, every whispered promise, every stolen glance into some locked-away part of my heart.
Mac didn’t realize that morning, my heart had been ripped straight from my chest by a woman I’d never even met. Then, he was the one to step on it.
I stood there, listening to her words, knowing I was never meant to hear them—that was the moment everything shattered.
Trust wasn’t something you played with. My emotions weren’t a game.
Yet, Mac Ridley had handled them like they were. Not with care. Not like they mattered.
Maybe he hadn’t lied.
But he had hidden something, a secret so big it made every kiss, every touch, every whispered what-are-we feel like a cruel joke.
The only thing that kept me from breaking completely?
We hadn’t planned a future together.
Not yet.
But that hadn’t stopped me from dreaming about it on my own.
Finally, I spun around, my chest heaving, my skin burning with anger.
“Get. Out.” I pointed toward the door, my voice sharp enough to cut through the tension. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want to hear you out. I don’t care.”
Mac didn’t flinch.
Instead, he shrugged off his jacket, acting like I’d just invited him to stay awhile. He draped it over the stool beside him, crossed his arms over his broad chest, and leveled me with a look that made my blood simmer.
“I’m not leaving until you listen to me.”
I let out a scoff, followed by an exasperated groan. My gaze locked onto his, onto those deep, familiar eyes I’d stared into so many times. I could describe them to a painter, guiding their brushstrokes until they captured them perfectly in a masterpiece that belonged nowhere but on a wall.
Brown as the bark of an old oak tree.
Warm as the first golden rays of spring after a brutal winter.
Soft, yet sharp enough to bring even the strongest to their knees.
And damn it, I hated that I still noticed.
“I guess we’re going to be here all night then,” I muttered.
“Fine by me.” He leaned against the counter, one ankle crossing over the other, looking like he had all the time in the world. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
I tilted my head side to side, rolling out the tension coiling in my neck, but it didn’t help. Not when he was standing there. Not when his presence made my skin prickle and my stomach churn.
Ignoring him, I moved down the hallway to my bedroom, resuming my night like I didn’t have a six-foot-something shadow trailing behind me. The music still played—traitorous love songs mocking me with every lyric.
Mac was right there, hovering like a damn gnat that refused to be swatted away.
“If you’re not going to stop for a minute and hear me out, I’ll just talk at you instead,” he said.
“Oh, thank God,” I mumbled, dripping in sarcasm.
His jaw ticked. “If I had known she was going to show up, I would’ve told you.”
I barked out a hollow laugh, bending down to lift the laundry basket. “Oh wow, that makes me feel so much better!”
Mac groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “That came out wrong. What I meant is, if I knew she was going to show back up, if I thought she was still tied to my life in any way, I would have warned you.”
I shoved past him, my shoulder brushing against his chest as I made my way to the little hall closet where my washer and dryer were tucked away.
“I was stupid for not saying something,” he admitted, his voice following me. “But I genuinely thought it was done. That it was handled years ago.”
I stayed silent, methodically tossing in clothes, focusing on the task instead of the ache creeping into my chest.
Of course, if he’d known, he would have told me. But that wasn’t the point.
The point was that he hadn’t told me when it mattered, when it counted.
I poured in detergent, added fabric softener, then shut the lid harder than necessary. Without a word, I walked away, my feet tapping against the wooden floors as I moved toward my hobby basket in the living room. If I was going to be bothered, I might as well make use of the time.
Settling at the dining table, I pulled out my crochet hook and yarn.
Mac followed. Of course, he did.
He dragged a chair out and sat across from me, silent, watching.
The minutes stretched, his stare pressing into me, but I refused to meet it. Instead, I focused on the rhythm of my hands, on the simple, mindless motion of creating something out of nothing.
Crochet over. Into the loop. Pull through—probably a bit too hard.
Repeat.
I swallowed, the weight of something unspoken pressing into my ribs.
“Your pitcher is empty,” he said finally.
“Yup.”
That ceramic pitcher I’d always kept filled with fresh roses sat empty on my table.
The day it all went down, I swore I’d never put another rose in it again.
“I made a mistake. I’m sorry.” Mac’s voice was raw, edged with a sincerity that made my chest tighten. “I can’t even begin to tell you how much I know I fucked up because the words don’t exist.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers threading together like he was holding himself together. “I know I can’t take back what I did. I can’t go back in time and make it all go away.”
My jaw clenched. My heart wavered. Damn it.
“You and I…” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “We had something special. You’re special. I was a lucky bastard that you even gave me the time of day.”
“If that’s true,” I whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the room, “why didn’t you come find me? Why didn’t you say something sooner? It’s been two months, Mac.”
I finally looked up, letting him see the hurt still carved into me, the wound he’d left behind. The crochet hook slipped from my hand, landing on the table with a soft clatter.
Mac’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I panicked.” His voice cracked. I saw it—regret, tangled with something heavier. “I’ve never had something like this before. Never felt so desperate to make something work.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I hid. I was scared. I was unsure how to handle emotions. I knew you were upset, but I didn’t know what to say, so I avoided it.” His eyes met mine, pleading. “I’m not saying it was right. I know it wasn’t. I just—I handled it wrong.”
“And now?”
His chest rose and fell in a slow, measured breath. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking. Preparing. Reevaluating every step I took.” He let out a humorless laugh, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve done so much fucking thinking.”
I picked up my crochet project, my fingers wrapping around the yarn like it could tether me to something steady. “I hope you learned your fucking lesson.”
Mac groaned, tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers he couldn’t find in me.
He wasn’t going to walk in here, say a few sweet words, admit he’d screwed up, and expect me to just get over it. It would take so much more than that because I knew what one omission of the truth after another did.
I lived it.
I watched my parents’ relationship crack under the weight of lies and half-truths until there was nothing left but hurt and regret.
I swore I’d never find myself in that same situation.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Trou—” Mac started, but his words faded into nothing.
I clenched my jaw, staring at my stitches. “You have no idea the mental shit I’ve been through since.”
His voice dropped lower. “If it’s been anything like mine… yeah, I do.”
I finally looked up, my gaze locking onto his. “Why tonight? Why show up now with this big protest?”
Mac’s eyes traced the movements of my hands as I twisted the yarn, looping it through the hook. His voice was quieter this time, but steady.
“Because I can’t block it out any longer.” He exhaled sharply. “You consume me. Every thought. Every second. Awake or asleep.”
The air between us grew heavier, thick with the weight of everything unspoken.
I didn’t know what to say. How to think.
The anger still simmered beneath my skin. But something else knocked at the door, too.