Chapter 11
Mack helps me off the bike after he parks in my driveway. He unloads the bags of fast food and I carry the sodas.
"What on earth did you get?" I ask. It was hard to hear him order with my helmet on, with the bike idling below me.
"I didn't know how hungry you were, so I got a bit of everything."
I smile. "Probably for the best. Us girls with good personalities and senses of humor are known to plow through our fair share of burgers."
He laughs and shuts the door behind me. "You're a nurse, on your feet all day. I didn't want to assume anything."
"So you didn't just order me a salad with dressing on the side?" I tease.
He grins. "Thought it might be detrimental to my health."
"You thought right. I'm a big fan of burgers." I rummage in my purse and come up with my keys.
"What else?" he asks.
"What else what?"
We're in the house now, the AC washes over my skin, leaving goosebumps where the sweat used to be. I kick the door shut behind us and on second thought, throw the deadbolt.
"What else do you like?" he asks.
"As far as food goes, I like anything that's not pretending to be something else."
He smiles, showing off those dimples again. "Not a fan of soy burgers?"
"Nope. Or oat milk, or anything like it. I find it disingenuous. I like to know what I'm getting. Nothing worse than a liar, in my opinion."
There's a flicker in his expression, like he knows there's more to my hatred of liars than a distaste for fake milk or soy. I break eye contact and head into the kitchen.
This guy might have the body and face of a handsome moron, but he's not. Well, Mack’s obviously handsome, but not a moron. He picks up on things that I don't even realize I'm saying, which is highly annoying.
I lead him into the kitchen and he sets the food down on the laminate counter. I see him look around as I grab plates and a roll of paper towels.
“I'm going to get around to remodeling it one of these days,” I joke.
“I was just thinking that it’s in really good shape, considering the age.”
“What do you mean, the age?” I raise my eyebrows. “How do you know that I didn’t pick these amazing cabinets and this gorgeous orange countertop five years ago?”
“They don’t make wall ovens that tiny anymore. I know because before Nana moved into Shady Lake, hers died and I was trying to find a replacement that would fit.”
He gives a lazy grin and starts unloading the bags.
My stomach sounds an embarrassing lament at the burger boxes; we both ignore it.
There's plenty of everything--burgers, fries, onion rings, and even two salads.
We load up our plates. Mack grabs one of the salads along with his burger.
I go immediately for the burgers and onion rings.
“I’ve got a whole Pinterest board dedicated to what I want to do to the kitchen eventually.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I want to open that wall.” I point at the wall between the kitchen and living room. “I want to turn this into a u-shape and get rid of the uppers along the outside wall and add a row of windows.”
He nods as if he can visualize my plan. “What color cabinets?”
“White or light blue. Light quartz countertops and white subway tile.” I shrug. “I know people say that look is out, but I don’t care. It’s classic and I love it.”
“That will brighten it up a lot.”
We head to the living room and sit on either end of the couch.
"Maybe you are a vegan," I say, giving him the side-eye when he digs into his salad.
He grins. "Nah, but you definitely have a good personality."
I huff a laugh and find us something to watch, landing on an F-1 documentary on one of the streaming platforms I've signed up for and haven't bothered to cancel.
Mack nods at the screen. "You like racing?"
"I'm not a big sports person, but I do like the behind the scenes documentaries," I say honestly.
"Why's that?"
"Because that's when you find out all the good stuff. Like who's married to a gold-digger, and which team leads hate each other for more than their team's rivalry. Stuff like that."
"Ah, so you're nosy."
"You haven't figured that out, yet?"
Mack grins. "Is that why you became a nurse? To have access to all that private medical information?"
"Maybe. You'd think I would have a better answer for that question--I get asked it all the time.”
He shrugs. "That's a really good point. There's a ton of jobs where people don't get asked that question."
“The truth is, I thought it sounded interesting, and I thought I could be good at it. And the income doesn't hurt, either."
He says, "I think the only time I get asked why I wanted to be a motorcycle salesman is when I'm on first dates."
I silently choke a little on my burger and take a slurp from my soda to hide it. If Mack notices, he's gracious enough to let it pass unmentioned.
“You go on a lot of those?” I find myself saying.
I wish I could take it back, but now that it’s out there, I have to own it. I fight the cringe and act like I totally meant to ask.
His eyebrows raise. “First dates? Not lately.”
"So why did you want to be a motorcycle salesman?" I ask in a teasing voice.
Mack chuckles. "I like bikes and apparently I'm decent at selling stuff."
"Probably doesn't hurt that by the time people get to you, they've mostly already decided to buy one."
He shakes his head, but he's smiling. "You're kind of a ball buster, you know that?"
I shrug. "I've been told something of the sort before."
And by told I mean that he yelled that I was a hateful bitch right before he slammed the door.
Mack is studying me again, his brow wrinkled. "What was that?"
"What?"
"What were you thinking of just now?"
I smooth my face and say, "Just worried about Alex, is all."
"Uh-huh." Mack’s eyes are narrowed and I can tell he isn't buying it, but to my relief, he lets it go.
"So what about you? You like racing?" I nod at the TV, slightly desperate to get his attention off of me. I didn't talk about what happened with Edward hardly at all, and certainly not to guys that I....
What, my brain hisses at me. Think are hot? Want to take to Pound-Town? Want to declare Mayor of your vagina?
That I barely know, I think resolutely.
"I'm not a huge sports guy." He pushes his empty salad container away and unwraps a cheeseburger.
"Then what do you watch on TV?"
He shrugs, and I can't help but admire those huge shoulders in action. "Maybe I have ADD or something, but I get bored with shows. I'd rather be doing something--playing a videogame or working on my bike."
"I've always wondered about that. Why is it that the guys who are motorheads--"
"Do you mean gearheads?" Mack grins and those dimples emerge.
"Whatever. Same thing. Why is it that those are the guys who spend the most time working on their engines?"
"I don't understand the question."
"Well,” I explain with wide, earnest eyes, “if they’re interested in motors, you think they'd be better at fixing things. That they'd work on it one afternoon every six months and the thing would just run right."
He laughs. "They don't work on them because they're broken. Or at least, not usually. They work on them because they love it. They're tinkering."
"But what's there to do?"
"There's a million things to adjust to see if you can get your motor running better. You can adjust the timing, the tire pressure, the suspension, the chain tension--"
I hold up my hand. "Ok, ok. I'm sorry I asked."
"You're lucky you stopped me. I could go all night."
This time when I choke, it's audible. Mack laughs.