Chapter 19
Mac
Mac's apartment was small but comfortable, the kind of space that said "functional bachelor" rather than "permanent residence.
" He'd tidied obsessively all afternoon, vacuumed twice (once wasn't enough, apparently), done all his dishes, and lit a candle that claimed to smell like "mountain air" but mostly smelled like candle.
Was the candle too much? Probably. But he was committed now.
Puck watched from her perch on the kitchen counter, radiating judgment from every whisker.
"Don't look at me like that," Mac told her, checking the pasta water for the third time. "I'm trying here."
Puck meowed skeptically.
"The recipe says it's easy. 'Simple but impressive.' That's exactly what Cole said. I can do simple and impressive." Mac consulted the recipe card again, covered in Cole's neat handwriting. "Bacon, eggs, cheese, pasta. How hard can it be?"
The apartment smelled like cooking bacon and garlic, which had to be a good sign, right? People liked bacon and garlic. Mac had set the table with actual plates instead of paper, cloth napkins borrowed from Cole and Ellie.
His doorbell rang at 6:50, and Mac's heart immediately started doing gymnastics.
He checked his reflection one more time, button-down shirt in soft gray, good jeans, hair acceptable, face showing the appropriate level of nervous excitement, and opened the door.
Rachel stood there holding a bottle of wine, looking absolutely gorgeous in a casual dress the color of spring flowers and a soft cardigan. She had that nervous smile he'd come to recognize, the one that said she was excited and slightly terrified in equal measure.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi." Mac's brain temporarily forgot how to form complete sentences. "You look... wow."
"Wow?" Her smile widened slightly.
"Beautiful. You look beautiful. That's the word I was looking for. Come in, please, before I say something else inarticulate."
Rachel stepped into his apartment with a smile, the familiar space feeling more welcoming this time.
Last time she'd been here, they'd ended up ordering pizza after the pasta disaster.
Tonight, Mac seemed determined to actually pull off dinner.
The bookshelf still held the Jane Austen novels she'd recommended, though he'd added two more since her last visit.
"It's nice being back here," Rachel said, glancing around. "Last time I was too nervous to really take it all in. Well, and then there was the sauce explosion."
Mac winced. "Are we ever going to let that go?"
"Never. It's going in my memoirs." She moved to the bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines. "You got more! I recommended three, but you have five Jane Austen novels now."
"Yeah. I finished Pride and Prejudice and wanted to read more. The poetry one is harder. I still don't understand most of it, but I keep trying."
She examined him with something warm in her eyes, then spotted Puck on the couch. "There's my boy!"
Puck's ears perked up immediately at Rachel's voice. The cat stood, stretched luxuriously, and hopped down from the couch, trotting over with clear purpose.
"He remembers you," Mac said, watching his cat rub against Rachel's legs, purring like an engine. "I think he's been waiting for you to come back. He kept sleeping on the spot you sat last time."
"Did you miss me, Puck?" Rachel bent down, scratching behind the cat's ears with the exact technique that had won Puck over the first time. "I missed you too. And I promise I won't let your human burn dinner this time."
"Hey, the pasta incident was one time," Mac protested.
"One very memorable, very smoky time." Rachel straightened, and Puck immediately wound around her ankles again, meowing plaintively. "Puck agrees with me. Don't you?"
Puck meowed louder, as if confirming Rachel's assessment.
Mac's chest warmed. His cat had good taste. He'd recognized Rachel immediately that first disastrous dinner, and nothing had changed. If anything, Puck seemed even more attached now.
"I'm pretty sure he likes you more than he likes me," Mac observed. "And I'm the one who feeds him the expensive grain-free food."
"That's because I respect his regal authority." Rachel gave Puck one more scratch before heading to the kitchen. "Also, I didn't cover his kitchen in tomato sauce."
"That was on the CEILING. I still don't know how I managed that.
I made pasta again," Mac said, forcing himself to focus on dinner before he said something premature like I love you, which his cat had clearly figured out weeks ago at that first dinner.
"Well, attempted to make pasta. Cole gave me the same recipe as last time, but I promise I've practiced.
If it's terrible, there's that same pizza place two blocks away. "
"I'm sure it's perfect."
It wasn't perfect. The bacon was slightly overcooked, more crispy than Cole had recommended, and the pasta was a touch too al dente.
But it was leagues better than the tomato-sauce-on-the-ceiling disaster from last time, and Rachel declared it "infinitely better than pizza.
" They talked, really talked, going deeper than they had at that first dinner.
They talked about the things they hadn't quite gotten to last time.
Rachel told him about her dream to travel to Scotland and walk the moors where her favorite books were set.
About the teaching job she'd almost taken in Burlington before everything fell apart.
About how she'd always wanted a dog but never felt settled enough to commit.
Mac talked about the draft offers in more detail, not just that he'd turned them down, but why. About the family he'd built with the Eagles and why that mattered more than money.
After dinner, they moved to the couch with fresh wine. Puck immediately claimed Rachel's lap, settling in like he'd found his new favorite person.
Mac shifted closer, his arm resting along the back of the couch. Close but not crowding. "Rachel, can I ask you something?"
Her body tensed slightly. "Okay..."
"That PT making news, Derek Matthews. The one going after small-market teams." Mac kept his voice casual, but he watched her face carefully. "Cole mentioned it at practice today. He's pretty pissed about the things Matthews is saying about Ellie."
Rachel's hand stilled on Puck's fur. "Oh?"
"Yeah. Matthews is some big-shot therapist who works with NHL players. Real piece of work from what I can tell." Mac paused. "You asked me about PTs the other day, if I knew any when we texted. Did you know about this?"
"I... I saw something online." Rachel gave nothing away. "It's unfortunate. For Cole and Ellie."
"Rachel." Mac turned to face her fully. "Do you know him?"
Something flickered across her face. "Why would you think that?"
"Because you tensed up the second I said his name. And because—" Mac hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "Because I looked him up. There's a photo of him with Brad Reese from a few years ago. They were friends."
Rachel went very still. "You looked him up."
"I was worried about Cole and Ellie. And then I saw the connection and, Rachel, if this guy is coming to Vermont, if he has something to do with what happened to you—"
"Mac, stop." Rachel's chin jerked up. "I don't want to talk about this."
"But if he—"
"I said stop." She stood abruptly, dislodging Puck, who meowed indignantly. "I don't want to talk about Derek Matthews or Brad or anything that happened before I moved here. Can you please... can you respect that?"
Mac stood too, his hands raised placatingly. "Of course. I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I'm fine." But the words wobbled. "I'm dealing with it. You don't need to—" She stopped, pressing her fingers to her temples.
Mac could see her struggling, could see the walls going back up brick by brick.
"Rachel," he said softly. "I care about you. And if something from your past is coming back, I want to help."
"You can't help with this." She dropped her gaze. "You don't understand what he is capable of."
The raw pain in her voice made Mac's chest ache. He wanted answers, wanted to understand what had happened and how to fix it. But he could see Rachel shutting down, could see her preparing to run.
So instead, he stepped closer. "Okay. We don't have to talk about it."
"Mac—"
"We don't have to talk about anything." He reached for her hand slowly, giving her time to pull away.
Rachel watched him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "I want—"
She didn't finish the sentence. Instead, she closed the distance between them and kissed him, hard and desperate, her hands fisting in his shirt.
Mac responded immediately, his arms coming around her, pulling her close. This was urgent, almost frantic, like she was trying to drown out everything else.
"Rachel," Mac murmured against her lips. "Are you sure?"
"Don't talk," she breathed, her fingers sliding into his hair. "Please, don't talk."
She kissed him again, deeper this time, and Mac’s control slipped. His hands found her waist, sliding under the hem of her cardigan to touch warm skin, and Rachel gasped against his mouth.
"Mac," she whispered, and there was something desperate in her voice. "I don't want to think. I just want to feel something good."
Mac pulled back enough to look at her, his hands framing her face. "Rachel, I want this. God, I want this. But not if you're running from something. Not if—"
"I'm not running." Her eyes met his, dark and certain. "I'm choosing. I'm choosing you. I'm choosing this. Right now."
And then she was kissing him again, and Mac was lost.
His hands slid down her back, pulling her flush against him. Rachel's fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly in her urgency. Mac helped her, shrugging out of the shirt while his lips found her neck, the sensitive spot below her ear that made her breath catch.
"Bedroom?" Rachel breathed against his mouth.
"Yeah," Mac managed, his voice rough.