But then he committed the greatest crime of all: letting go. Taking the hole he’d once filled with love and compassion and leaving it an ugly, gaping wound. He abandoned her when he knew it would leave her this mess, this robot, this scared, brokenthing.
And until she figured out who she was now, Marge was right about one thing: casual sex wasn’t Cassidy’s style. Until she knew what her style was, it meant no more Mac. That meant closure with Mac.
She had an afternoon shift, so she left Fred with him. He’d been outside at the time, sanding down what appeared to be a tabletop, wearing a dark green tank and long beige cargo shorts with his aviators. He’d stopped sanding when she and Fred approached, straightening to peruse her in his usual manner of approval, sunglasses slipped down a notch, and his head tilted so she would have no doubt as to where his attention was, skirting her from toe to head.
Today, she had the dubious pleasure of being teamed with Angel, so she opted for a form-fitting white dress with tiny pink flowers and a low square neckline. Angel’s name might be Angel, but Cassidy found herself trying to dress like one when she worked with her. It was as though she was attempting to balance out the woman’s tough energy with her own physical appearance. She’d even taken the time to French braid her hair.
By the look in Mac’s eye, it seemed as though she’d done an excellent job. His gaze lingered on her neckline and the swell of her breasts. The tick in his jaw made her wonder if he was contemplating tearing the material from her, and the mental image of him doing so was wildly erotic.
His gorgeous browns shot up to hers, catching her in her fantasy, and she blushed, which brought out an amused smirk from him. “Give you my fucking fortune for that thought.”
Blushing even more, Cassidy glanced dubiously at the cabin. “Wow, way to lowball me.”
He chuckled. “You wanna keep talking about balls, or you wanna get to work on time?”
Damn. Tempting, but no. She couldn’t be late on Angel; it might make the afternoon worse. Angel’s forceful personality leaned toward bully-like, and while Angel was habitually late, no one else was allowed to be when working with her.
“Will you be around for a second when I come back for Fred?”
He grinned, his voice dropping down to the sexy cadence that had her knees knocking. “Are you asking me to be around?”
Cassidy was pretty confident NASA could see the glow from her cheeks. “Not for that… I just, but, yes, I’m asking for a few minutes.”
Mac leaned a hip against the wood he’d been sanding, folding his arms over his chest. “Sweetheart, those cheeks get any redder, you’re going to be late.”
Cassidy put her hands to her cheeks; she didn’t understand what about her blushing turned him on, but it did, and he frequently made her blush. Taking a step back, she said lamely, “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
Dipping his head again, he watched her over the tops of his sunglasses. “Looking forward to it.”
Her shift with Angel was long, as usual, like she’d worked double-duty, keeping an eye on the pours and the till. She asked Angel to work the floor, where she wouldn’t have the opportunity to cheat customers on the amount of alcohol in their drinks or an opportunity to mishandle the cash. After Cassidy convinced Angel she was the better people person and the tips were better, the older woman acquiesced.
This was one of those afternoons when Cassidy wished Mac was in the bar to keep her company, to distract her from Angel. She also knew he avoided Angel; watched her as closely as she and Jemma did. So far, Darlene hadn’t mentioned any shortages, and there hadn’t been any customer complaints, so she and Jemma didn’t feel like they could flat out accuse her of taking stock or making incorrect change.
But as much as Cassidy didn’t enjoy working with Angel, when Sarah showed up to relieve her, Cassidy found herself hanging out longer than she needed to, cleaning up an already cleaned bar. She was stalling, she knew. She didn’t want to go home; didn’t want to go pick up Fred; didn’t want to talk to Mac.
She didn’t need to do it, she tried to tell herself as she dragged her feet toward the Trading Post. She could stop having sex with him. There was no need to be dramatic about it.
But the fact she was trying to justify her way out of it meant she had to do it. Mac was a weakness. He had a magnetic pull. She needed him to be stronger than her.
When she walked up the path toward his cabin, her resolve almost crumbled. He was shirtless now, protected by the overhang of the porch, in his hammock. His long, hard, beautiful body was stretched out, one arm behind him, supporting his head, one leg dangling down to give himself a gentle rock. He held a beer bottle in his other hand, propped on his lean stomach, above the waistband of his pants. His gaze was unwavering as she approached.
“Hey,” she said as she reached the bottom step, noticing Fred didn’t even lift his head off his paws for her; he just thumped his tail happily.
The sweep of his gaze was followed with, “Day.”
Damn it, she wanted to crawl into that hammock with him, straddle him, and… “Have another one of those beers around?”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion, trying to read her face for a minute before he lifted his chin toward the door. “Help yourself.” He tracked her as she disappeared through the screen, and his eyes were there to pick her back up as she reappeared, sipping at the bottled beer, trying to hide her grimace.
She wasn’t a beer girl.
Shereallywasn’t an American beer girl.
Casting him what she hoped was a casual smile under the weight of his assessment, she wandered over to the railing and perched on it, close enough to be conversational, but not so close she’d be within arm’s reach—his or hers. She saw him note the intentional distance, his dark eyes going guarded.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
His tone was casual, his pose was lazy, but the air was saturated with tension. Or was that her? Was the nervousness, the dread, the unease all hers?