3. Jake #2
I love that this task has her undivided attention. I could be dead or gone and it wouldn’t make any difference. I know then that wine is her passion, her ra?son d’étre, and I respect that. I hate people who don’t care about anything. It’s impossible to respect them.
Mackenzie swallows and decides, then comes back down to earth, turning to me with a smile. “It’s really good.”
“Are you surprised?”
“No, this one is reliable and it was a good vintage.” She’s considering the label again. “It’s just been a night for really good wine.”
I look at her then as I move to her side and take the glass she’s poured for me. “Are you drunk?” I ask because I need to know.
She wrinkles her nose. “No, but I’ve had more than usual on a weeknight.” Her gaze flicks over me. “And you look done in. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“I’m more likely to be doing the disappointing,” I say, startled into more honesty than is usually my style.
She laughs, though, which is totally worth it. “Performance issues?”
“Not usually. Why, do you remember a problem?”
Her eyes are sparkling. They’re green and I’m reminded of the sunlight on the waves. “Not one. You?”
I shake my head. “All I remember is incredible.”
She smiles and flushes. “Me, too,” she whispers as if we’re sharing a secret. Our gazes lock and I can’t take a breath.
Mackenzie touches our glasses together and the chime breaks the spell.
We drink the toast, even though I’d rather celebrate with a kiss, then she reads my mind one more time.
She puts the glass down on the counter and loops her arms around my neck again, pulling me closer.
I lean against her, crushing her against the counter just a little bit, and it’s oh-so-very-good.
My glass gets set aside too and I wrap my arms around her.
She’s tall but I’m taller, just a bit, just enough, and I bend to lean my forehead against hers.
“Your call,” I murmur and she’s pleased by that. She pushes her fingers through my hair, her gaze roving over me, then her fingertips slide down my neck.
“You do look exhausted.”
“Pretty much.”
“How long have you been up?”
I can’t resist. “Since I saw you at the restaurant.”
She smirks, looking wicked, and rolls her hips against me. I growl a little and grip her waist, lifting her to her toes. “I mean, when did you get out of bed?”
“1:42.” I ease in to nuzzle beneath her ear but she pulls back a little to consider me.
“Not around 1:30 or just before 2?”
“No. It was 1:42 when the phone rang and that’s when I got up. I didn’t answer right away, but I was awake.”
She’s studying me. “Are you always so precise?”
“Pretty much. I met you at 9:27 at that reception.”
A smile lifts the corner of her mouth. “I remember you checking your watch. I didn’t think you were marking the time.”
“Call it a habit.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I like numbers. I like accuracy.” Her hands are moving against my shoulders, right at the crick of my neck. Everything is tight there and when her fingers find a knot, my wince must give me away.
“You’re really tense.”
“I’ve been dealing with Candace most of the day.”
“Don’t like your step-mother?”
I shake my head. “Do you?”
It’s a treat to watch her try to find a polite thing to say, a pleasure because I know we share the same view of Candace.
I like that we agree, and I respect that Mackenzie is nicer than me.
She parts her lips, then frowns, giving a little more attention to the knot in my shoulder.
“She means well,” she says finally and I laugh out loud.
“Okay, I’ll give you that. But she’s not nice and she’s not kind and she’s not particularly clever. I don’t think she’s attractive, either…”
“She must have been once upon a time.”
“And she is incredibly expensive.”
Mackenzie’s eyes narrow a little. “What does that mean?”
“Numbers,” I say. “I do numbers.”
She shakes her head, just a little, not understanding.
“I’m a financial analyst. Today I have been checking the bills, prompted by the arrival of the following.
” I lean back against the counter and count them off.
“A masseuse, a make-up consultant, a hairstylist, a beautician to do Candace’s nails, and a personal shopper, charged with finding the ideal look for the grieving widow at the as-yet-unscheduled funeral.
There was also an interior decorator with an appointment about the ongoing renovation of the guest room, a furniture delivery, an upholsterer with a book of swatches, and a garden designer about the new pool and cabana. ”
“But there already is a pool and cabana.”
“Neither are big enough, I’ve been told.
” I nod then take a sip of wine. “And this parade of service providers made me wonder about the household burn rate, since I am executor of my father’s estate and the one who has to sort out the dollars and cents.
And that sent me into a deep dive of credit card bills that nearly stopped my heart, because every time I thought I had them all, I found another account.
All of this, I realize, is why I don’t like Candace. ”
“I don’t understand. Give me the executive summary.”
“She has no respect for money. She spends it like it’s water coming out of the tap, with no consideration of how much she’s spending, what she’s spending it on, or how much more there might or might not be.
I don’t think this is new, which means she’s been doing this for about thirty years, which means tomorrow could be very scary. ”
Mackenzie is serious. “Tomorrow?”
“Richard Bradshaw was notifying my father’s business contacts about his passing and about the power of attorney. He estimated that I’d be able to start accessing financial records tomorrow.”
“You’re worried.”
“I thought I had an idea of my father’s net worth. I thought it was a lot. Now I’m wondering if there’s enough to make everyone happy with the dispersion of funds.”
“Worried about your inheritance?”
“No, I halfway expected him to write me out of his will and maybe he did. I have no expectations.” I grimace. “But the others probably do.”
“And you’ll be the one who gets to tell them.”
“Yes.” I wasn’t planning to tell anybody that, certainly not tonight, but having Mackenzie’s undivided attention is apparently enough to get me blabbing.
I’m off my game, but strangely, I don’t feel as vulnerable as I might expect.
I’m really off my game.
She’s watching me and I wonder how much more she sees.
“But then, I’m probably worrying about eventualities that aren’t going to manifest.” I smile and reach for my wine again. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to dump that on you, especially not tonight.”
“No, it’s fine,” she says. “It explains this tightness in your shoulders.” She catches my hand and gives me a little tug toward the living room. “Come on. I used to give a good massage.”
“Go on.” Can this woman have any more hidden skills?
“No, it’s true.”
I lift an eyebrow, inviting more.
She smiles. “Picking grapes is hard work. When I did my post-grad co-op in France, the vintner was merciless.” She changes to a French accent, but it’s gruff this time.
“Eh bien, you must learn the feel of the grapes with your hands. You must feel the soil beneath your fingers. You must learn the merit of the work with your whole body. Only then will the vines take root within you.”
“Not literally.”
She shakes her head. “There were four of us and we commiserated at night afterward. I found a book on therapeutic massage and we self-taught, working on each other.” Her smile turns impish. “It was fun. And useful.”
She is a multitude of women, and I know there are plenty more facets to Mackenzie Rhodes. I have to make a joke of it so I can (maybe) seem less fascinated than I am. “So, you’re going to be a Swedish masseuse fantasy, as well as an evening gown fantasy, as well as a girl-next-door fantasy.”
She laughs. “Three fantasy identities? Already?”
“I always remember you being an over-achiever,” I tease.
“That’s me,” she says. “But you know Opa is German not Swedish.”
“Does anybody fantasize about German masseuses?”
That devilish glint is back in her eyes. “Maybe they should.” She points at me. “Shirt off. Flat on the floor.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say with an elaborate shiver and she laughs again. I stretch out and close my eyes, unable to remember when I last had a massage. Just being horizontal feels really good.
Have I ever been more exhausted?
But still, there’s a little zing of anticipation as I watch Mackenzie.
She moves briskly as she gets a towel from the bathroom as my pillow, then turns down the lights.
She demands that I remove my shirt and I do as instructed, then lie down again.
My eyes fly open as she straddles me, the feel of her thighs around me enough to set me on fire.
I smell lotion and realize she’s rubbing her hands together, then there’s the cool press of her palms on the back of my shoulders.
Strong and gentle, pushing in all the right places. I know I let out a little groan. It feels sooooo good. I might come just from this.
“Why did you shave your beard?”
“It was time,” I say, which is the simplest explanation. “Miss it?”
“A little. It prickled.”
“I’ll grow it back then.”
She laughs. “You can do that tonight? How impressive.”
Her joke is a reminder I don’t really want. This isn’t going to happen again. It’s a fluke that it’s happening this time. Don’t count on more.
And I can’t grow my beard back until I take a vacation, thereby hiding its scrubby early progress from my co-workers.
I may never grow my beard back, a realization which makes me feel more grumpy than the prospect of no vacation on the horizon.
“There?” she asks and leans into one of the tight spots with the heel of her hand.
“Anywhere,” I say. “I’m all yours.”
“Promises, promises,” she teases then gets to work.