Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
CALLIE
“ W e couldn’t be more different,” I observe, knowing the statement is ridiculously obvious. But I can’t help myself.
“Why do you say that?” Mack asks, eyes dropping to my lips again and again. I can tell he wants to kiss me, and I want the same.
We’ve talked about our first meeting countless times in letters and emails. So, what’s holding him back? My stomach knots, still telling me it involves another woman.
“Want to sit on the porch? There’s nothing like a quiet mountain night in the Sierra Nevada.” His voice has a sudden wistfulness to it that surprises me.
I can’t read this man. One minute grumpy, the next eyeing my lips, and then, speaking in tones I could almost construe as flirtatious, if not romantic.
“If you’re still okay with the original plan of me spending the night here?”
Stiffly, he says, “You mentioned that earlier, too.”
Clearing my throat, I remind, “Because you offered in an email.”
“Of course. The emails.” His cheeks darken a shade, and he looks down, murmuring, “If you feel comfortable staying here, then that’s what we’ll do.” His brows furrow, and when he looks back up, he adds, “I only have one bed, though.”
“I’m still okay with that, too,” I whisper, internally kicking myself. I should make him sleep on the porch tonight. Maybe I will.
My head races to other maybes. Maybe this man has more of a problem with alcohol than I realize.
I’ve heard of dementia being a side-effect, even at an early age, from too much alcohol consumption.
Maybe he has issues related to his military experience.
He did tease having PTSD in a couple of his emails.
“Whatever makes you feel most comfortable, Callie. Besides, I can sleep anywhere. Seven years as an Army Ranger and too many to count in special operations will do that to a person.”
I nod, trying not to seem impatient, but we’re rehashing a lot here. It feels a little odd for a discussion with a thirty-nine-year-old. “Considering we both opted for the mail-order bride package when Mountain Mates offered the beta program, we’ll figure it out.”
Mack inhales a sip of iced tea, the glass poised on his lips during my last comment. He sputters and coughs until his face looks as red as his hair.
“Oh, my God, are you okay?” I ask, closing the distance between us and patting his back firmly.
He nods, hacking and trying to catch his breath. When he finally does, his eyes dart to mine, watery from choking. His face contains degrees of alarm.
“Did I scare you with mention of the mail-order bride part of our contract?” I ask, point-blank, not sure I want to hear the answer.
He shakes his head, but his expression contradicts his words. “Just went down the wrong pipe,” he excuses, pacing back and forth in front of me. His face storms.
“Are you okay?” I ask, torn. Maybe I should take a hint and leave. After all, everything about this experience is far more awkward than I envisioned it would be.
“Yeah. I’m just upset because I need to have a phone call with someone, and they’re not picking up.”
“Who is she?” I ask softly, not willing to put up with any more infidelity drama.
I should have known better than to come here unannounced.
Felicity tried to warn me. For all I know, Mack could be talking to countless women on Mountain Mates besides me …
and that’s not to mention other dating sites.
“She?” He laughs, too taken aback to be lying. “It’s not a she at all. It’s the pain-in-the-ass AA sponsor. He up and left with little more than a phone call. I don’t like abrupt changes like that, and I really do need to speak to him.” Mack fumes as he pronounces the last sentence.
An awkward silence descends as my mind swirls with what to say next.
“Wait,” the mouthwatering redheaded mountain man says. His turquoise eyes narrow. “Are you jealous?”
It’s one of those questions, you’re probably not supposed to answer honestly. But if I’ve learned one thing from my parents’ successful marriage, it’s never to lie or sugarcoat stuff out of politeness.
Forthrightness might lead to an immediate fight or altercation. But it’s better than letting deception simmer between two people, even with the best intentions.
Raising my chin, I answer boldly, “Yes, I’m jealous, Mack. It would piss me off to know you’re talking to other women.”
“Wow,” he says, an amused smile catching the corners of his mouth. It’s the happiest I’ve seen the cowboy mountain man look since meeting him.
“What?”
“I wasn’t expecting such a straightforward answer from you.”
“Well, that’s me. Honest to a fault. Is that a problem?”
“It wouldn’t be under any other circumstances …”
“But?”
“But …”
I put my hands on my hips, waiting for him to speak.
“But I bet you could really skewer my heart with that honesty, if I’m not careful.” He quirks his mouth, and I get the impression he wants to say more, though he doesn’t. Talk about frustrating.
“You know, it’s your fault that I showed up unexpectedly like this.”
“How so?” he asks darkly.
“Because we both agreed to no phone or FaceTime. And when your other communications died off … I started thinking the worst.” I allude to the letters and emails again, stuff he doesn’t want to talk about. But there’s no other way to convey my point.
Gesturing for me to follow him, he grabs both of our tea glasses and saunters outside onto the porch. I grab my jean jacket as I pass the coat rack, putting it back on. Being in Rough and Ready Country with Felicity before has taught me to prepare for cooler evenings, even in early August.
Walking towards a large porch swing, Mack nods for me to sit down before taking the spot next to me.
He’s such a big man that only a sliver of space exists between our legs.
I want more than anything to get rid of it.
But it’s a distance he must cross, not me.
I’ve already stuck my neck out more than enough by driving here.
Handing me my sweating glass, our fingertips brush again, only this time he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his simmering gaze devours me until my heart hammers so hard against my ribs that I’m certain he can hear it.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice catching in my throat.
“Better out here,” he mumbles, taking a sip of his tea. The air is thick with the sound of crickets, their shrill mating calls a welcome change from the ambient noise of the City, nonstop traffic.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” I answer, curiosity piqued.
“What made you decide on a mountain man and the whole mail-order bride thing?”
He must be second-guessing everything. I knew it. Clearing my throat, I offer, “If you’re not feeling that next step, no worries. I know it can be weird meeting in person for the first time. The internal fantasy doesn’t always match up with the real person.”
“Is that what you feel with me?” he asks, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees, the glass poised in his right hand.
“Looks-wise and chemistry-wise, you’re everything that I hoped for. More so. But I can’t shake the feeling that this all feels really awkward to you.”
He nods.
“I get that you had a difficult childhood and problems with addiction as an adult. Really, I do. But I was hoping you’d act happier to see me.”
“That’s the problem.” He growls.
Why does conversing with this man feel like pulling teeth? As if I must continuously fill in the blanks for him. He’s like a living crossword puzzle.
“The problem? That you’re not happy to see me?”
“The opposite.” He says it firmly, but I still doubt my ears. “You’re amazing in person. Too good to be true.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. I like you far more than I should, Callie.” He runs his free hand over his face. The scratchy sound of his beard unravels my self-control a little more. I squeeze my thighs tightly together, denying my pussy the friction it craves.
“Is that a problem?” This man has me so confused, I don’t know which way’s up or down.
“Could be.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I’m not the guy who wrote you those letters. I’m Mateo Sebastian McGregor. And I usually go by McGregor, not Mack. Though if that’s what you want to call me, I’m fine with it.”
Again, rehashing stuff I already know about him, apart from preferring “McGregor” as his nickname. What is up with this man? I nod, the corners of my mouth turning down.
I knew early on in our correspondence that Mack is a sensitive man.
He’s also someone deeply affected by his emotions and sensitivities.
Talking about himself in the third person is nothing new, either.
He often did that in his emails and letters, almost as if he could swap the different sides of his personality—romantic, rugged, whimsical, political—like wearing different coats.
We could use a wardrobe change right about now. I’m trying to be understanding, but his moroseness feels too heavy for a first meeting.
“You still haven’t answered my question … about what you were looking for on Mountain Mates.”
“Well, Mateo,” I say, stealing a glance at the grumpy man. Pleasure washes over his face at the sound of his name. “I was looking for something completely outside of my comfort zone. Something wild and totally different than what I’m used to—feral and primitive.”
“Really?”
“Really. I want an untamed man. One barely hanging on to a few threads of civilization. While the love letters were lovely, and all, I’m more than happy to burn them in the flames of something far more unrestrained and out of control. Something incinerating, passionate, and unforgettable.”
“I thought you’d be more upset by my confession,” he says, turning towards me. The sliver of air between our thighs vanishes, and heat burns through my core, setting my face on fire. My clit pulses, ravenous for more from this man.
I’m done with talking, staring into his gorgeous face. But how do I make him understand this? Licking my lips slowly and sensually and savoring how his gaze smolders, I challenge. “What’s the wildest thing you and I could do out here, mountain man?”
He chuckles, eyes captivated by my lips. “Skinny dip?”
I smile. Mack’s finally getting it. “As long as I don’t get my hair wet.” I don’t want anything to happen to my new weave, though I don’t feel like explaining it to any man. No matter how cute and sexy he is.
Mack says, “You don’t have to go all the way in.”
I nod. “I have to warn you,” I say in sultry tones. “There’s nothing skinny about me.” I’m a girl who figured out a long time ago to quit worrying about what society thinks and embrace my thick curves. I need to know that Mack feels the same way.
“Good, cause I don’t want skinny. I want a strong, thick woman, someone who I can hold onto … with curves for days.”
“Sounds like me,” I say with a giggle.
“This may be TMI, Callie, but your body’s my fucking wet dream.”