Chapter 10 #2
Rachel talked about the library, about Mrs. Henderson's romance novel addiction, about the teen who'd asked for book recommendations and ended up checking out the entire thriller section, about her dreams of maybe running a bookstore someday.
"You should do it," Mac said. "The bookstore thing. You'd be amazing."
"It's just a dream."
"Dreams are allowed to become real things. That's literally how dreams work."
Rachel smiled. "Is that how dreams work?"
"According to my expert opinion, yes."
"And what makes you an expert?"
"I dreamed about playing professional hockey and now I do it. Granted, it's minor league Vermont hockey, not the NHL, but still. Dreams can happen."
"What if they don't?"
"Then you try a different dream. But you have to try. Otherwise you're just... existing. Not living."
Rachel was quiet for a moment. "Brad told me opening a bookstore was a stupid idea. That I'd fail."
"Brad was an idiot."
"He said I didn't understand business, that I was too naive, that I'd lose everything."
"Rachel." Mac set down his pizza, turning to face her fully. "Brad was wrong. About everything. About you being naive, about you not being enough, about you not deserving good things. He was wrong."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know you. Maybe not everything yet, but I know you're smart and capable and you see things other people miss. You're not naive, you're careful. There's a difference." Mac reached for her hand. "And anyone who made you feel less than amazing was lying to you."
Rachel's eyes glistened. "Mac—"
"I mean it. Every word."
She set down her pizza plate, and before Mac could process what was happening, Rachel was kissing him.
Not the gentle kisses they'd shared before. This was different; more urgent, more real. Her hands slid into his hair, and Mac pulled her closer, one hand on her waist, the other cupping her face.
Rachel tasted like pizza and possibility and something uniquely her.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Mac rested his forehead against hers.
"So," he managed, "I should burn dinner more often?"
Rachel laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest. "Maybe not. But yes. I mean no. I mean—" She kissed him again, cutting off her own rambling.
They stayed like that for a while, kissing on Mac's couch, Puck had abandoned the room entirely, apparently disgusted by the display.
Eventually, Rachel pulled back slightly. "I should probably go home. It's getting late and I have work tomorrow."
"Or," Mac said, "you could stay. Not like that!" he added quickly as Rachel raised an eyebrow. "I mean, just hang out. Watch a movie. I promise to keep my hands to myself."
"Can you though?"
"Probably not, but I'll try really hard."
Rachel laughed. "One movie. Then I go home."
"Deal."
They settled in to watch some action movie Mac had seen a dozen times but couldn't focus on because Rachel was tucked against his side, her head on his shoulder, and it felt so perfectly right that Mac could barely breathe.
Somewhere around the forty-minute mark, Rachel fell asleep.
Mac stayed completely still, afraid to wake her, one arm around her shoulders, trying to memorize this moment. The weight of her against him. The soft sound of her breathing. The way she'd burrowed into his side like she belonged there.
Mac stayed exactly where he was, Rachel sleeping against him, the movie playing unwatched on the TV.
This, Mac thought. This was what he wanted. Not fancy dinners or perfect dates. Just this. Rachel stirred about twenty minutes later, blinking awake slowly.
"I fell asleep on you," she mumbled. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. You're cute when you sleep."
"I'm not cute. I probably drooled on your shirt."
"Definitely drooled. Still cute."
Rachel sat up, rubbing her eyes, and both cats immediately protested the disruption. "What time is it?"
"Almost twelve."
"Shit. I really do need to go." But she didn't move immediately, just sat there looking at Mac with soft eyes and messy hair.
"I'll walk you to your car."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm walking you to your car, Rachel."
Outside, the April night was cool but not cold, spring definitely settling into Evergreen Cove. Rachel's car was parked on the street, and they walked slowly, neither quite ready to say goodbye.
"So," Rachel said, "dinner was... eventful."
"Dinner was a disaster."
She stopped beside her car, turning to face him. "Mac, I had a really good time tonight. Even with the kitchen destruction and the ceiling sauce."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She stepped closer, her hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders. "Thank you for trying to cook. And for being you." Rachel kissed him again, sweet and soft. "Good night, Mac."
"Good night, Rachel."
He watched her drive away, standing on the sidewalk like a complete idiot, already missing her even though she'd just left.
His phone buzzed about ten minutes later. Rachel.
Rachel: Thank you for tonight. Next time I'm cooking at my place so you can't destroy anything.
Mac grinned at his phone.
Mac: Does this mean there's a next time?
Rachel: Obviously. Someone needs to teach you how to use a stove properly.
Mac: I'm unteachable.
Rachel: We'll see about that. Good night.
Mac stared at that little purple heart emoji for approximately five minutes.
Puck was waiting in the kitchen, tail swishing with judgment.
"Don't look at me like that," Mac told him. "I like her. A lot."
Puck meowed, the sound clearly conveying his disdain for Mac's life choices.
"You purred for her. You never purr for me."
Another meow.
"Fine. Go ahead. Judge me. I'm going to date that woman and there's nothing you can do about it."
Puck turned and walked away, tail high, the feline equivalent of "we'll see about that."
Mac cleaned up the pizza boxes, still grinning, then went to bed with his phone clutched in his hand in case Rachel texted again.
She did, about twenty minutes later.
Rachel: Mr. Darcy won't stop meowing.
Mac: Puck's offended we abandoned him for pizza.
Rachel: Cats are the worst.
Mac: The actual worst.
Rachel: Good night for real this time.
Mac: Good night. Dream about me?
Rachel: You wish.
Mac: I really do.
Rachel: ...okay maybe I will.
Mac fell asleep with that message glowing on his phone screen, already planning their next date.
A date where he definitely, absolutely, would not attempt to cook.