Chapter 9
Iunlock the back door--the one with the raised cat door cut into it--and Mack follows me inside.
“Nice place.” His eyes dart around the living room and dining area, and it looks like those sharp eyes don’t miss much.
Thankfully, I keep the place pretty neat.
Though it’s a hundred percent mine now, I can’t forget the days when it was my mom’s, and then when Grandma lived here.
Neither of them would appreciate it if I turned it into a pigsty.
I guess some small part of me is still waiting for one of them to walk through the door.
“Thanks,” I say.
I’m suddenly irritated that he’s here. No matter how hot this guy is, I don’t know him.
I don’t even think I’m irritated at him.
I think I’m mad at myself. I’ve never considered myself as the damsel in distress kind--the one who flings herself backward onto a fainting couch until some rescues her.
Am I really the type of woman that just lets a guy waltz in and take over because he’s attractive?
“Where’s your brother’s computer?” he says.
I nod at the computer bag, but even as Mack unzips it, I say, "Look, no offense, but your neighbor's little brother isn't going to be able to break into this thing. My brother is a tech genius, and I'm sure he's got it locked up six ways from Sunday."
He frowns. "I always thought that was a weird expression. What does that mean--six ways from Sunday?"
"I don't know. It's just something people say."
It's like he can tell how irritated I am--probably because I'm not doing a great job hiding it. I'm nearly grinding my teeth over here, and my tone is barely civil. But in my defense, my brother is missing and I'm worried. And stressed.
Mack must think it's amusing on some level, 'cause he smiles, flashing me a set of dimples that would make Mario Lopez jealous. I blink and make sure my face is clear of all emotion.
"Trust me," he says. "I know a guy who can do it."
“Who?”
“My buddy owns a security firm. Their computer guy is legit.”
“You don’t think he’ll call the cops?”
“No. He’s used to dealing with sensitive, off-the-books investigations like this.”
I don’t know if that makes me feel better or not. My lips twist to the side as I think about it. I’m not good at giving up control, especially when it comes to Alex. Mack waits patiently like he knows the war that’s going on inside of me, even though he can’t possibly know the details.
But I don’t have any other options, other than him. And maybe he knows it, too. Of course he does--I blabbed my entire life story to him this afternoon.
"Fine, but I'm coming with," I finally say.
Mack slings the computer bag over his shoulder. We head outside and Mack walks to his bike, tucking the computer bag into one of the slim black saddlebags on the side. He throws a leg over his motorcycle, get settled, then turns to me.
“You coming?” he says.
I frown. I don't want to admit it, but I was distracted by the sight of Mack straddling his bike. I didn’t put two and two together that he’d want me to ride with him.
“That’s ok,” I say. “I can drive myself.”
He smiles. “Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle before?”
“My dad had an old Honda.”
“Those vintage ones are sweet. You still have it?”
I shake my head. “We sold it when--”
I trail off. Truth be told, I kind of wish we hadn’t sold Dad’s bike, but Grandma had always hated it. I think she was looking for an excuse to get rid of it. She thought motorcycles were dangerous, a mode of transportation nearly exclusively reserved for criminals.
I huff a laugh. It’s funny how many prejudices we pick up from the people who raised us, even when we don’t really mean to. Even when we don’t agree with them.
“Are you a good driver?” I ask.
“You think any guy would answer that in the negative?”
I shrug.
He says, “I’m a really good driver. I’ll go slow.” He holds out the lone helmet.
I shoot one last, longing look at Goldie before I cross the driveway and take the helmet from his hands. He helps adjust the straps and makes sure it’s secure before he faces forward. Then I’m staring at the muscular expanse of his back.
If I thought he was handsome from far away, it’s nothing compared to how he looks up close.
Not to mention the smell of him. He smells like clean soap and some mix that’s probably just his shampoo and deodorant, but it’s distracting.
I want to lean in and sniff his neck. For a wild second, I lean forward…
which is exactly when he grips each of my thighs with a large hand and pulls me snug against him.
My face lands on his back and I’m totally disoriented. “What the hell?” I mumble against his t-shirt.
“You gotta sit close and hold on, otherwise you’ll fall off.”
Now I have no choice but to sniff him. My cheek is pressed against the warmth of his back. My nose is buried in his t-shirt. So I go ahead and do it. If he hears it, hopefully he thinks I'm only huffing my outrage. But the second I do, I regret it.
He smells like clean man--laundry soap, deodorant, probably the cheapest soap the drugstore makes.
And what is it with that, anyway? I spend a small fortune on my perfume and it isn't half as delicious as how Mack smells. It’s a smell that makes me want to snuggle up with him and watch a movie.
It’s a smell that makes me want to ignore the movie altogether.
I can't help it. I inhale again. And as I do, I swear, I feel a rumble of laughter through his chest.
My eyes fly wide. I sit up straight. What the hell was I thinking? I just stuck to this guy like a barnacle and sniffed him. Loudly.
What must he think of me? My face flushes, and I've never been more grateful that somebody's turned the other direction.
He reaches back with his right hand, finds my elbow, then slides his fingers down to my wrist. I don't know what he's doing until he places my hand onto his stomach and repeats the gesture with my left arm.
Prior to today, I feel like I would have described myself as relatively unflappable.
I'm a nurse, and I did part of my training in the ER of a major city.
I've seen stuff. And yeah, I threw up the first few times there was a particularly gnarly case.
But, all in all, I'm decisive and smart in the face of an emergency.
I thought that nothing else could shock me--certainly not into a dumb stupor like this has. But apparently, all it took was one motorcycle ride to prove me wrong. The engine roars to life beneath me.
Mack turns his head and says, “Hold on.”
He takes it slow on the gravel driveway and coasts down the hill towards Shady Lake. Once we're out of the compound, he gives it more gas. Soon, wind is whipping through my hair, and trees are flying past me.
He's not going all that fast. But my heart races and my fingers dig into the hard planes of his abdomen. He pats my hand as if to tell me it's okay.
Mack turns his head and yells something, but his words are lost to the wind. It probably doesn't help that I'm wearing a helmet and have one ear smushed up against his back. I figure if it's truly important, he can wait till we stop to tell me.
My time on the back of my dad's old Honda didn't prepare me for the experience of riding on the back of Mack's bike at all.
My dad would coast down the hill toward the resort, then putter back up. Most of the time he didn't have space on the back for a passenger because that's where he strapped his red toolbox.
Mack's bike is bigger and louder. Not to mention the whole touching thing that goes along with it.
My thighs are plastered on either side of his, scandalously pressed open by his stance.
My arms are tight around his middle, allowing me a good feel of his abs.
My head and my boobs are smushed against his back.
I've had sex with less physical contact.
It's not so bad when we're moving--the speed keeps me distracted--but when we sit at a stoplight I start to get really flustered about how close we are. I think it's his thick thighs braced on either side of the bike. Or maybe it's his legs in general. The guy works out and he doesn't skip leg day.
Not for me, I remind myself. It's the same thought I have when I walk past the Tiffany's store in that fancy shopping center in the city.
I catch myself on the thought and wonder about it. The jewelry I understand--it's way out of my budget and I don't really care about status symbol bullshit anyway. But why do I get the same gut reaction when I look at Mack?
It's because he's too hot, I think. He definitely goes for tall, leggy blondes.
I mentally pair him with a chick who looks like Rosie Huntington-Whitely.
It's perfect. And though my therapist would probably get mad at me for admitting it, there's something right about the fact that the real-life Rosie Huntington-Whitely is shacked up with Jason Statham.
You see a couple like that together, and it just works.
So I do with Mack what I did at Tiffany's the one time I got the courage to try a huge diamond on--I just enjoy the beautiful view and the feel of it, and pretend for a second that it could be mine someday.