“You didn’t even wobble.”
“Sorry?”
“When that stupid bastard belted you. You barely reacted.”
“He was half drunk so there wasn’t that much behind it. He shouldn’t have put his hands on you.”
“You never even raised your voice. You shut him down—I could see it happen in his face, even before the troops arrived. And you never touched him or raised your voice.”
“Teacher training, I suppose. And a wide and varied experience with bullies. Did the newlyweds get off all right?”
“Yes. They don’t know what happened. They’ll find out, I imagine, but they had their day—and that was the point. You were a big part of that.”
“Well, it was an experience. All it cost me was a sore jaw and a pair of shoes.”
“And you’re still here.”
“I was waiting for you.”
She stared at him, then just gave in to the shimmer inside her heart. “I guess you’d better come home with me, Carter.”
He smiled. “I guess I’d better.”
MISTAKES HAPPENED, RIGHT? MAC REMINDED HERSELF AS SHE opened the door of her studio. If this was a mistake, she’d fix it. Later. When she could think more clearly. But at the moment, it was after midnight, and there was Carter in his three-piece suit and ruined shoes.
“I’m not as tidy as you.”
“
Tidy’s such a fussy word, don’t you think?” He gave her an easy smile. “The sort that makes you think of your great-aunt Margaret and her tea cozies.”
“I don’t have a great-aunt Margaret.”
“If you did, she’d probably be a tidy sort with a tea cozy. I prefer the word
organized.”
Mac tossed her coat over the arm of her couch. Unlike Carter, she didn’t have a coat closet. “I’m organized then, when it comes to my work, my business.”
“I could see that today. It seemed you knew exactly what to do, where to be, what to look for before it was there.” He laid his coat over hers. “That’s creative instinct married to organization.”
“And I use them both for the work. Outside of that, I’m a messy woman.”
“Everyone’s messy, Mackensie. Some people just shove the disorder into a closet or a drawer—at least when company’s coming—but it’s still there.”
“And some people have more drawers and closets than others. But since it’s been a long day, let’s step back from the edge of the philosophical cliff, and just say I’m telling you this as my bedroom isn’t at its best.”
“Are you looking for a grade?”
“As long as there’s a very generous curve. Come on up, Dr. Maguire.”
“This used to be the pool house,” he said as she led the way.
“The Browns did a lot of entertaining, so they redesigned it as a kind of spare guest house. Then when we opened the business, we redesigned again for the studio. But up here, it’s all personal space.”
A master suite sprawled over the second story, layed out, Carter saw, to accommodate a sitting area where he imagined she might read, nap, watch TV.
Color dominated, with the muted, misty gold of the walls serving as a backdrop for strong blues, greens, reds. Like a jewel box, he thought, with everything cluttered in, tangled, and gleaming. Clothes draped over the arms of chairs. Bright sweaters, soft shirts. Throws and pillows tumbled over the bed, the couch, like bold stones and rivers.
A wildly ornate mirror hung over a painted chest that served as a dresser. The top held jumbled and fascinating pieces of her. Earrings, magazines, bottles, and pots. Photographs served as art, portraits of those close to her. Posed and candid, pensive and joyful. With them scattered over the walls, she’d never be alone here.
“There’s so much of you here.”
“I try to shovel some of it out every couple of weeks.”
“No, I mean it reflects. Downstairs reflects your professional side, and this, the personal.”
“Which circles back to my point about being a messy woman.” She opened a drawer, pushed in a discarded sweater. “With a lot of drawers.”
“So much color and energy in here.” It was how he saw her. Color and energy. “How do you sleep?”
“With the lights off.”
She stepped to him, laid her finger on his bruised jaw. “Still hurt?”
“Actually . . . yes.” Now, alone in her jewel-box room, he did what he’d wanted to do all day. He kissed her. “There you are,” he murmured when her lips warmed to his. “Right there.”
She let herself lean into him, let herself sigh as she rested her head on his shoulder. Yes, she’d think later. When he wasn’t holding her, when her mind wasn’t fuzzed with fatigue and longing.
“Let’s get you into bed.” He kissed the top of her head. “Where are your pajamas?”
It took her a minute to process the question, then she leaned back to stare at him. “My
pajamas?”
“You’re so tired.” He stroked a finger down her cheek. “Look how pale you are.”
“Yeah, and me with my ruddy complexion. Carter, I’m confused here. I thought you were staying.”
“I am. You’ve been on your feet all day, and waged war for part of it. You’re tired.”
He unbuttoned her suit jacket in the practical way that reminded her of the way he’d once buttoned her coat.
“What do you sleep in? Oh, maybe you don’t.” His eyes came back to hers. “Sleep in anything, I mean.”
“I . . .” She shook her head, but none of the thoughts inside it fell into place. “You don’t want to go to bed with me?”
“I am going to bed with you. To sleep with you because you need sleep.”
“But—”
He kissed her, soft and slow. “I can wait. Now, pajamas? I hope you say yes because otherwise one of us isn’t going to get much sleep.”
“You’re a strange and confusing man, Carter.” She turned, opened a drawer to pull out flannel pants and a faded T-s
hirt. “This is what I call pajamas.”
“Good.”
“I don’t have any in stock that’ll fit you.”
“I don’t actually wear . . . Oh. Ha.”
He’d change his mind when they were in bed, she thought as they undressed. But he got points for good intentions. Yes, she was tired, her feet ached and her brain felt dull, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t find energy for sex.
Especially really good sex.
When he slid into bed beside her, she curled into him, trailing her hand over his chest, lifting her mouth to his. She would arouse and seduce, and then—
“Did I tell you about the lecture I’m planning on methodological and theoretical analysis of the novel, with a specific emphasis on home—both literal and metaphorical—as motif ?”
“Ah . . . uh-uh.”
He smiled in the dark, gently, rhythmically rubbing her back. “It’s for seniors in my advanced classes.” In a quiet monotone designed to bore the dead, he began to explain his approach. And he explained it as tediously as possible. He gauged it would take five minutes, tops, to put her to sleep.
She went out in two.
Satisfied, he rested his cheek on top of her head, closed his eyes, and let himself drift off with her.
SHE AWOKE WITH THE WINTER SUN SLANTED OVER HER FACE. She awoke warm.
Sometime in the night he’d spooned her, and now she lay snugged back up against him, wrapped close. Cozy, she thought, rested and relaxed.
He’d wanted her to sleep, so she’d slept. Wasn’t it funny how he managed to get his way without demanding, without pushing?
Sneaky.
Well, he wasn’t the only one.
His arm wrapped around her waist. She took his hand, pressed it to her breast.
Touch me. She pressed back against him, sliding her leg between his.
Feel me.
She smiled when his hand moved under hers, when it cupped her. And when his lips pressed to the nape of her neck.
Taste me.
She turned so they were face-to-face, so her eyes could look into the soft blue of his. “I feel . . . refreshed,” she murmured. And still looking into his eyes, let her hand glide down his chest, over his belly until she found him. “Hey, you, too.”
“It often happens that certain parts of me wake up before others.”