Chapter 11 Penny
11
PENNY
MARCH. TWO MONTHS AGO.
Our lips brushed, soft and teasing, before Mac’s hand slid up to cradle my face. His touch was fire against my skin, a slow, smoldering burn that sent a shiver down my spine. I deepened the kiss, my tongue tracing his in a slow dance, savoring the way he tasted—like warmth and smoke and something unmistakably him.
The early morning sun peeked through the curtains, casting golden light over us, turning the moment hazy, dreamlike.
I loved when he touched me. It was electrifying, earth-defying—something I’d never experienced before. Mac had unlocked a part of me that belonged solely to him.
These past few months had been more than I ever anticipated. Hot hookups. Fun. Low stakes. No strings attached. Existing in the now, tangled up in him.
Yet, there was a lingering feeling of permanence. I didn’t want to hide this forever. The urge to shout and tell everyone, especially my best friends, how happy Mac made me was relentless.
Breaking away from the kiss, I grinned at him, my fingers grazing the warm, taut muscles of his abdomen. I trailed my touch lower… and lower…
Mac chuckled, his voice dripping with amusement and warning. “Whoa there, Trouble,” he murmured, eyes darkening with heat. “If I’m gonna be the one getting breakfast, you gotta let me go.”
I pouted, slipping my fingers into the waistband of his boxers, toying with the elastic.
His breath hitched.
“As much as I love your hand wrapped around my cock…” His voice rasped, low and rough. “If we start again, I’m not leaving this bed. And neither are you.”
I bit my lip, my fingers dipping lower, teasing over the velvety tip. He was already hard—his protest was futile. I laughed, low and wicked.
“One more round, then breakfast?” I countered, stroking along his length, pushing him toward the inevitable.
Mac let out a quiet curse, his restraint fraying. He crushed his mouth against mine, his grip tightening around my neck just enough to make my breath catch, sending a dizzy, heated rush straight through me.
His teeth grazed my lower lip, tugging playfully before he pulled back just far enough to whisper, “Mmm. I love the way you taste.” His voice was thick, hungry. “Maybe you’re all I need for breakfast.”
Before I could tease him back, he rolled me onto my back, the blankets slipping away to expose my bare skin to the cool air. He straddled me, one hand pinning my wrists above my head.
I gasped, arching into him. “I wouldn’t be opposed,” I murmured, moaning as his lips trailed down my throat.
Then, just as quickly as he’d taken control, he pulled away, hovering above me. His hair was a disheveled mess from the night before, his eyes dark with something that sent heat curling low in my stomach.
“First,” he said, voice thick with reluctance, “I need a cigarette and real breakfast.” He kissed me once more, lingering just long enough to make me whimper in protest. Then he climbed off the bed, his muscles flexing as he stretched. “Plus,” he added with a smirk, “the longer I make you wait, the more needy you’ll be when I get back.”
“You tease,” I hissed, sitting up and stretching, my arms overhead, breasts bare to the morning air as I stood from the bed.
Mac chuckled as he stepped into his jeans, tugging them up over his hips with a little hop. They sat low, revealing the sharp cut of his V and the tattoos I’d come to love.
My gaze traced over his ink, my fingers following suit as I stepped closer, running my hands over the two roses etched onto his lower stomach—the ones I’d claimed as my favorites.
Roses would never mean the same thing to me again.
Mac inhaled sharply, his resolve flickering. “I can’t help it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
“If you don’t hurry back,” I warned, a smirk curling at my lips, “I might have to take care of the ache you caused myself.”
His eyes darkened.
I pulled away just enough to grab his discarded flannel from the floor, slipping it over my shoulders and buttoning it up. It fell mid-thigh, covering exactly what it needed to.
The sweatshirt he’d been about to pull over his head stalled in his hands. His jaw tensed, his fingers clenching the fabric. His stare raked over me, heat crackling in the space between us.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
If there was one thing Mac Ridley loved, it was placing his claim.
“I’ll be quick,” he said, tapping his jean pockets to make sure he had everything before he practically ran to his front door, slipped his boots on without caring how his jeans bunched up, and blew me a kiss before slamming the door.
A laugh bubbled from my lips, light and easy. While Mac was gone, I’d make coffee and get things ready for when he came back with breakfast. He was just running to the diner a few doors down from the bar—it wouldn’t take long. So, I acted fast, shuffling to the counter and pulling out the coffee grounds.
I measured them into the machine, and my thoughts drifted back to last night, which inevitably led me down the rabbit hole of us.
No strings attached. That was the deal. But lately… it didn’t feel so simple.
I liked being with Mac. I liked the late-night drives to the overlook, the stolen moments in his truck, the way his laughter filled the quiet spaces between us. More and more, we spent our nights together. Sometimes at his place, sometimes sneaking around to mine. It wasn’t just about the sex—it was the ease of it, the comfort.
If I was being honest with myself, I’d started thinking about the what ifs.
What if we stopped keeping this to ourselves?
What if we stopped pretending it was just casual?
What if I told him I wanted more?
The idea sent a nervous flutter through my stomach, equal parts excitement and fear. Because if we stripped away the secrecy, if we took the thrill of the unknown and replaced it with reality… would the magic of it disappear?
Shaking my head, I pushed the thoughts away. In typical me fashion, I grabbed my phone, turned on my go-to playlist, and let the music fill the apartment at a low hum as I got back to my task.
A few moments passed, and then—
A soft knock.
Smiling, I skipped toward the door, ready to fling it open, expecting to see Mac standing there with his hands full of food.
“That was fa—”
Except it wasn’t Mac.
The smile dropped from my lips, my body going still as I took in the stranger before me.
Tall.
Blonde.
Bright blue eyes.
The exact opposite of me.
A strange, unfamiliar unease coiled in my stomach.
“Is Mac Ridley home?” she asked, her voice smooth, practiced.
My stomach dropped. Her gaze flicked down, taking in my bare legs, the flannel I wore—Mac’s flannel—that barely covered my breasts.
Who the hell is she?
I forced my expression to stay neutral, though my fingers curled into the fabric at my sides. “Who’s asking?” My voice was even, but my heart was pounding.
The woman cleared her throat, tightening her grip on the yellow folder in her hands.
“I’m Mimi. I know Mac from a few years ago.” A pause. “Is he home?”
She tried to peer around me, her curiosity apparent, but when she didn’t see him, her sharp blue eyes returned to mine.
I swallowed hard, my mind spinning. Why was she here? How did she know Mac?
“No,” I answered, my voice clipped. “He’s grabbing breakfast. He should be back soon.”
Mimi shook her head and extended the folder toward me.
“Can you give this to him?” she asked. “Tell him to take care of it as soon as possible. It’s urgent.”
Urgent.
The word sent a fresh wave of nerves through me.
My hands were unsteady as I reached for it, my fingers brushing the thick envelope. Why am I shaking?
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I nodded stiffly.
She gave me the smallest, barely-there smile before turning on her heel and disappearing down the steps.
I stayed there, frozen, the door still cracked open as I watched her go.
Then, slowly, I shut it.
My breath came shallow, my pulse hammering against my ribs. I didn’t know what made me do it—jealousy? Curiosity?—but my fingers slid beneath the flap, peeling it open before I could stop myself.
A thick stack of papers sat inside. I pulled them halfway out, my eyes scanning the first page.
And that’s when I felt it.
The sharp, sinking heat of realization.
My skin went cold. My vision blurred.
The bold, block letters at the top of the page read:
Decree of Divorce.
And beneath it, two names.
Mimi Martin.
Mac Ridley.
The world tilted.
I stumbled back, my shoulder hitting the door as my grip on the papers tightened. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out every other sound.
Mac. Married.
The truth slammed into me like a freight train, knocking the air from my lungs.
She was his wife.