Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
NATE
The condensation from Mackenzie’s wine glass beads cold against my palm as I pass it to her. She takes it, our fingers brushing. A slight touch, but enough to send heat curling low in my stomach. She exhales slowly when Cabernet hits her tongue, though the spark from the argument with Jordan still lingers in her eyes.
“Better?” I keep the question casual, leaning back in the wrought iron chair. It creaks under my weight.
She tilts her head, light catching the copper strands escaping her braid. “Define better.” A dry laugh. “Jordan left tire marks halfway through Mrs. Alvarez’s marigolds when he peeled out. So.” Her thumb worries the stem of her glass. “You know how much a landscaper charges per hour here? Because apparently, my brother thinks I’m running Versailles.”
I let the silence stretch between us, counting cicada pulses. Seven. Eight. Nine.
“Trucks are easy to track. Tread patterns, axle width.” My boot nudges the leg of her chair. “Could file a police report. Make him replant every damn petal.”
Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but the tension along her jaw softens. “Tempting. But pretty sure Detective Stubbs has better things to do.” She sets the glass down with a delicate clink and rolls her neck. “Jordan just … he doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get what we’re going through, what the boys need.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, but I don’t take my eyes off hers. “He’s still grieving too, you know. In his own way.”
Mackenzie scoffs, but there’s no real bite to it. “By buying Liam that stupid dirtbike? Against my wishes?”
I shrug, a rueful smile tugging at my mouth. “Men will be men. We do dumb shit sometimes, especially when we’re hurting.”
She studies me then, long enough that my stomach tightens. Not the way townsfolk do like I’m some puzzle to solve. She looks at me like she’s trying to memorize something. Like if she looks hard enough, she’ll see the truth I won’t say.
Then she laughs, and it startles both of us.
“You can say that again.”
She doesn’t pull back when my forearm brushes hers, reaching for the wine bottle. The label’s still damp from the ice bucket—a local vintage. Edington’s Vineyard, 2018 . Ethan’s favorite.
The knowledge curdles in my gut. I pour anyway.
“I’ll get Liam set up with lessons,” I say, my voice rougher than before. “We can go about this safely.”
Her expression softens. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Damn it. My window for telling the truth is closing. Maybe it’s already shut.
Her pinky finger hooks around the base of her refilled glass. “Tell me something true.”
The request catches me mid-sip. I lower my glass slowly. “True, how?”
“Not military approved.” She swirls the wine, watching it sheet the glass. “Something you’ve never said out loud.”
Power lines hum above the fence line. Children’s laughter rings through the night air beyond the pine trees.
She waits. Green eyes sharp as tracers .
I set my glass down hard. I’m drowning in lies. I don’t even know which truth to reach for.
“Alright,” I exhale, dragging a hand over my face. “This might sound stupid, but I wanted to be a vet when I was young.”
Her surprise is immediate. “A vet? Really?”
I nod, giving her a wry smile. “The neighbor’s dog, Ginger, got hit once. The driver didn’t stop. I ran out and tried to stop the bleeding. Didn’t know what I was doing. Had zero skills.” A dry laugh escapes. “But I knew I wanted to save that dog’s life.”
“What happened?”
“My dad came home. Pried me off Ginger and told me to be a man. Said I was embarrassing myself.” The words taste like rust. “After he yelled enough, the neighbor lady ran out and took Ginger to the vet.”
“Was she okay?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “The vet said if I’d had a few more minutes, I might’ve stopped the bleeding.”
The confession hangs between us, fragile as a dust devil. Mackenzie studies me, gaze steady. When she reaches across the table, it’s not tentative. Her fingers skim mine. A slow, deliberate touch.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “That’s awful.”
A moth batters itself against the porch light above us, wings ticking like a failing ignition. Mackenzie traces the rim of her empty wineglass, thumbnail catching on the lipstick stain she left earlier. Her gaze drifts past my shoulder to the bedroom window where the boxes of Ethan’s belongings still sit.
I should tell her. Now. Lay it all out.
But I don’t.
Instead, I shift my knee beneath the wrought-iron table until it presses against hers. Solid. Present. The contact makes her blink back to me, green eyes reflecting the moth’s desperate orbit.
Tell her.
I open my mouth. Your husband’s blood stained my sleeve, his last breath fogged my goggles ? —
She hooks her little toe around my ankle.
The confession burns behind my molars.
We’re already a live grenade rolling downhill.
Her forehead bumps mine first like an awkward teenage fumble. The kind that should make us laugh. But neither of us does.
Then her mouth finds mine, and there’s no air left to breathe.
I fist her braid, not gentle. Can’t be. She gasps into my mouth, teeth clipping my lower lip. The pain’s a live wire, cutting through every excuse I’ve made, every reason I should stop.
She tastes like stolen courage. Like reckless hope. Like every damn promise I can’t keep.
Her nails dig half-moons into my shoulders. My hands slide under the hem of her sweater, fingertips mapping the fever-hot dip of her spine.
Somewhere beyond the trees, a truck rumbles to life. Jordan. Or a ghost. Does it matter?
Mackenzie nips my jaw, frustration and need tangled in the scrape of her teeth. I bite back the words clotting my windpipe— Ethan sent me here to protect you —and let my teeth speak instead.
When she moans, it fractures into twelve distinct echoes. Twelve ways this ends badly. Twelve reasons to stop.
I trace the cracks in her lower lip with my thumb. She arches, chair legs screeching against the flagstone. Equilibrium shifts.
We’re no longer two people. We’re a detonation sequence.
Her breath stutters. “Inside.”
No. Not in there. Not surrounded by his clothes, his pictures.
But she tugs me toward the screen door, fingers curled in my belt loops, and I let her.
Nick’s Aquaman toy lies on the coffee table. The boxes of Ethan’s belongings are still tucked against the wall in her bedroom. He’s here in all the ways that matter.
Guilt wars with desire. I can’t take Mackenzie like this. Not again. Not with the truth buried between us.
“Mackenzie, we shouldn’t?— ”
“Oh, we should.” Her voice is all whiskey and want. “After the day I had? We most certainly should.”
Her lips crush mine, and my restraint caves.
The truth can wait one more night.
She rubs her hand along my hardening cock and squeezes just enough to make me groan. Fuck, she knows exactly how to play me, how to make every nerve in my body scream for her.
The wicker couch creaks under us, a symphony of desperation as I grab her hips and flip her onto her stomach. Her auburn curls spill over the edge of the couch, moonlight catching in the gold strands like liquid fire. Beautiful. Dangerous. Mine .
Her ass is up in the air now, her perfect curves begging for me. I yank her skirt up, my fingers slipping under the waistband of her panties and dragging them down her thighs. She’s wet—so fucking wet—and the scent of her arousal hits me like a punch to the gut. I lean over her, my lips brushing the shell of her ear as I growl, “Truth time, Mackenzie.”
“No,” she gasps, but it’s too late. My hand comes down on her ass with a sharp smack, and she arches into it, a moan spilling from her lips. I do it again, harder this time, leaving a red handprint that makes my cock twitch. She’s panting now, her hands clawing at the couch cushions as I spread her thighs wider.
I don’t waste time teasing. I bury my face between her legs, my tongue plunging into her pussy like I’m starved for it. She tastes fucking incredible, sweet and tangy, and I can’t get enough. I lick and suck and tease her clit until she’s trembling, her hips grinding against my mouth as she gasps my name.
But I’m not done with her. Not even close. I pull back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and stand up. My cock is throbbing, pre-cum beading at the tip as I line myself up with her entrance. She’s still bent over the couch, her ass in the air, and I can’t resist giving her another slap before I push inside her.
She’s so fucking tight, her pussy gripping me like a vice as I sink in inch by inch. Her moan is low and throaty, and I swear I’ve never heard anything hotter in my life. I grab her hips and start fucking her hard and fast, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. The couch creaks with every thrust, but I don’t give a damn if it breaks beneath us.
Her nails dig into the cushions as she pushes back against me, meeting every thrust with a desperate roll of her hips. “Fuck,” she gasps, her voice shaking. “Don’t stop.”
Like I’d fucking dare. I slam into her again and again, my balls slapping against her clit with every stroke. She’s so wet, so fucking tight, and I can feel her pussy clenching around me as she gets closer to the edge. I reach around and pinch her nipple, twisting it just enough to make her scream.
Her orgasm hits her hard, her pussy spasming around my cock as she cries out. But I’m not done with her yet. I pull out, flipping her onto her back and shoving my cock back into her in one smooth motion. Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my ass as I fuck her even harder.
I can feel my own orgasm building, hot and urgent, and I know I’m not going to last much longer. I lean down, capturing her mouth in a messy, desperate kiss as I slam into her one final time. My cock explodes inside her, and I groan against her lips as I pump every drop of cum into her tight little cunt.
For a moment, we just stay like that, panting and tangled together. Then she laughs, her breath warm against my skin.
Mackenzie stirs. “They’ll talk. At the farmers market.”
“Let them.”
“Your reputation?—”
“Was DOA.” My thumb traces her spine. “Yours?”
Her laugh puffs cool across damp skin. “Widows get free passes.”
Something in my ribcage splinters. Before I can stop it, the truth escapes—not the big one, but a precursor. “I’m good at cleanup.”
Her head lifts. Eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“If you want this buried... ”
Her kiss tastes like revenge. Like absolution. When she pulls back, my mouth stings.
“Fuck tidy endings,” she murmurs, and I can’t help but laugh too.
Because she’s right—what we’ve got is anything but tidy. But it’s ours, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.