The late-afternoon sun was starting to set, radiating a soothing heat through Mackenzie’s body. She reclined on the settee, stifled a yawn, and stretched languidly, basking in the feeling of her skin gliding over the sunbaked slipcover. Picking up her guitar, she ran her fingers down its neck before cradling the instrument.
Outside, a strong wind whistled through her back courtyard, the branches of the great oak creaking under the pressure. Mackenzie loved springtime in Nashville. With its rain-washed freshness and lack of major holidays, it was her favorite season.
It was as if Mother Nature was wiping the slate clean. Something Mackenzie could get firmly behind.
She’d been trying to work on this song for the past week. Which would have been a lot easier to do if she weren’t still thinking about Hunter. Or the dozen or so times he’d called her. Or how her house still smelled like him. That’s how potent he was.
She’d opened all the windows, hoping to erase his visit completely, then pulled out her lucky sweatshirt. It was ratty and old, two sizes too big, and had the Berklee College of Music logo on the back, but it felt like simpler times.
Guitar cradled in her lap, hand lightly resting on the strings, Mackenzie settled her head back against the settee. She didn’t strum but silently listened to the branches tapping against the glass roof of her sunroom.
Only, instead of channeling independence and female-inspired rebellion—the two themes her client had requested for their album—all she could picture was strong, firm, masculine hands sliding down her body to her teal panties . . .
Gaah.
Mackenzie grabbed the remote and punched in her “Get Focused” playlist to distract herself. The theme song from Schindler’s List filled the room, bouncing off the walls in such a rich, heartbreaking way she held her breath and listened.
She braced herself for John Williams’s notes to flow through her, the first verse of the song leaving chills rising in their wake. At the chorus, her heart slowed to a stop as the sorrow of the violin wove around the hopefulness of the harp, creating a gentle melody that pulled her into another world. Made her forget reality and exist only in the notes.
The song came to the final chorus and her fingers began to glide across the strings, finding their way to the right notes, one by one. Not quite a melody, but she was headed in the right direction, building toward something that resonated. She could feel it.
And then she heard it.
Another guitar lightly strumming in the background, adding a little flash to her folk.
Hunter!
She could recognize his riffs anywhere. And the melody was as inspiring as it was irritating. Inspiring because, for the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel lost in the song. The irritation came when she realized that all it took was a few keys from Hunter and she completely gave in to his lead.
With a frustrated strum across the strings, she came to a hard stop. “You’re trespassing,” she said loudly.
“You’re right. You should call the cops,” Hunter said from the other side of the open window. He was on her porch—she could tell from the proximity of his voice—and he’d been listening to her play. “Oh wait, that would mean picking up the phone.”
He sounded annoyed. The feeling’s mutual, buddy.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Getting ready to write my new album.”
“The studio is that way.” She pointed her finger to the north. “About twenty minutes in the opposite direction.”
“Twenty minutes, huh?” The porch swing creaked under his weight. He was making himself at home. “You want to go back to the top or pick up where we left off?”
“I want you to go back to your studio so I can get back to work.”
“Can’t,” he said simply, then started strumming a catchy hook that sounded like a Hunter original.
“Why not?”
“By now I’m sure my studio is filled with a bunch of record executives waiting for me to tell them what writer I chose.” He rattled off a few names that collectively held more awards than the Beatles.
“Impressive list,” she said, telling herself that it was a good thing. In fact, it was exactly what she wanted and exactly what Hunter needed.
“Turns out, even after a few flops, I’m an impressive guy to work with.”
He was more than impressive. And that was the problem. “Who did you choose?”
“That’s a secret,” he said, and the lighthearted flirt in his tone was as tangible as a touch. “Which I’m willing to share, if you are. A secret for a secret.”
So annoying! Hunter could make her feel safe and defensive all at the same time. Once upon a time she’d shared all of herself with him—and he’d given his heart to a social media socialite. “I’ll pass.”
“Later, then,” he said as if it were the start of a conversation instead of the send-off. “Probably for the best, since the label wants to get started on the rest of the album right away.”
“The rest of the album? So you’re keeping the songs I sent over?” she asked casually, as if her future happiness didn’t rely on his answer.
“Seems so,” Hunter said, his fingers stopping for only a moment before going back to work.
“You told Brody you wouldn’t record an album created by a mishmash of writers ever again,” she said. “That you ‘being a creative part behind every song on the album’ was important.”
“Nonnegotiable was the term I used,” he said. “And it still stands, so when Brody sent your songs to my label and they fell in love, our fate was sealed, Trouble.” He lowered his voice and whispered through the screen, “Whoops, I blew the secret. I choose you. Think of how fun it will be. Just like old times.”
Yeah, she’d barely made it through those old times. It wasn’t a road she wanted to head back down.
“We will not have old times or new times.” She set the guitar on the ground and walked over to the window. Even though he wasn’t in his work harness, Muttley stood and came to her side. “I’m not writing this album with you.”
“Write it with me or don’t. But for the next three weeks, I will be right here, making music, the way we used to.”
“Oh no you won’t.” She closed one window and locked it, then moved to the other, Muttley growling at the back door. “You are not going to camp out on my porch. I have work to do.”
“Sounded like you were a little stuck on that last riff. Need help?”
Did she ever. Not that she would admit that. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Your lucky sweatshirt says differently,” he mused. “We can add that song to the agenda. Unless it was already for me.”
“It is not. And there is no ‘we,’” she argued, closing another window. “There is me, going into my studio to work, and you heading to the studio to meet with your new team.”
She was struggling with the last window when Hunter spoke. And Mackenzie knew he was right on the other side of the screen. “See, that’s the problem, Trouble. If I walk in there to meet with them, the label will look at it as a done deal and we’ll be stuck with a writer who, yeah, is talented but doesn’t know what direction to go in or avoid. It will be like the last album all over again, and I can’t do that to the guys.”
But he could do this to her.
Mackenzie’s throat tightened. “How is everyone?”
“They miss you,” he said quietly.
She missed them too. At one time, those guys had made up a huge part of her world. “I heard Paul got married.”
“Married with twins. Girls,” Hunter said, and Mackenzie snorted. She couldn’t help it. Paul, the band’s playboy and self-proclaimed bachelor, was a daddy. Of girls. Oh, karma could be so cruel.
“What about Quinn?” she asked. “Don’t tell me he’s a dad too.”
“No, but he’s got a serious lady friend,” he said with a heaviness to his voice that had Mackenzie hesitating on closing the last window. “They just bought a house out in Franklin and are talking about making it official after the next tour ends.”
Mackenzie’s eyes pricked at the realization that everyone had grown up and moved on. Found their place, their partner, and she was still stuck right where she’d been the day she’d walked away.
“But if I don’t come up with a solid set, we lose it all, Mackenzie,” Hunter said, and she could hear the raw truth in his tone. Gone was the easygoing charm and swagger, leaving behind nothing but desperation. And so much uncertainty that Mackenzie wondered if he was stuck too.
Sure, he’d been off traveling all around the country, living a large and vivid life, but that didn’t mean that he’d found his place. And that was something she could relate to.
“This isn’t just about me anymore,” he added. “There are a lot of families counting on me to hit it out of the park, but all I keep scoring is singles.”
She knew how that felt. Brody, Tia, and Muttley were counting on her to do things she wasn’t entirely certain she could do. And while disappointing them was terrifying, facing all her demons at once seemed impossible. Especially since these were battles she had to fight alone.
“You have some really great writers at your disposal,” she said. “Writers who have the talent to take you the distance.”
“But I need someone who knows how much distance we can cover, because all they know is where it started,” he said. “You know me better than anyone, Mackenzie. You and I are like one when we write.”
That was what she was afraid of. Writing with Hunter was the most intimate and vulnerable position she could put herself in, and yet she couldn’t stomach telling him no.
“There’s no one else?” she asked.
“Just you, Trouble.”
Sweet baby Jesus, he was good.
The man knew exactly what to say to make her feel all warm and gooey inside. Stronger women had fallen prey to that dimpled grin and lethal sweet talk. If Hunter turned up the charm, even half a notch, Mackenzie would be toast. Even if she couldn’t see his dimples.
“Us working together is a bad idea,” she allowed.
He made a sound as if he strongly disagreed. “No bullshit excuses. Give me your top three reasons.”
Shoulders back, fake bravado dialed to Dirty Harry, she aimed her chin at the open window. “One—”
I kissed you.
“I’m writing a song for another artist who doesn’t need me to go into a studio or hold her hand, because she understands I’m a writer not a band member.”
“Sounds like BS to me.”
Shoot.
With a dramatic sigh, she turned her head toward him. Even though she couldn’t see, from the sound of his boot tapping the wood slats, she could sense where he was standing. “Two—”
You didn’t kiss me back.
“It’s been three years. We don’t know each other that well anymore. And three—”
I’m pretty sure I still have the feels for you.
“It’s hard to be creative when you’re all up in my space.”
She slammed the window closed, wanting to emphasize her point. Only, it got stuck halfway down. She struggled with it for another moment, ignoring the chuckle from the peanut gallery on the patio, before finally deciding that he was too big to crawl through the space.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.” Chin high enough to reach the ozone, she turned to strut off—and ran into a big, yummy wall of amused man.
“You might want to start with the sliding door next time,” he said, his arms brushing past her, and around, until her heart was pounding so hard she was certain it was going to leap out of her chest. Close proximity to the world’s sexiest man could do that to a girl.
“Most people knock,” she said, barely able to breathe.
“I’m not most people.” He clicked the last window shut. “And I didn’t want to chance you shutting me out.”
“I wasn’t shutting you out.” Even more pathetic, she was shutting herself in. Something that had to change immediately if she intended on building the life she was working so hard to resurrect. “I just wasn’t ready.”
“And now?”
He was back, his breath skating across her face. Mackenzie closed her eyes.
The air between them thickened. She moved to gain some space, but there was nowhere to go. Hunter was right there, standing between her and freedom, the heat from his closeness piercing her every pore.
She pressed her back against the wall. He moved closer. “Are you ready now?”
Heck no. More like out of time. And, after her talk with Tia, she was out of options. If Mackenzie didn’t act now, she would regret it. And she carried enough regret to last a lifetime.
“I’m willing to put myself out there,” she said, squaring her shoulders.
“That’s a start.” Instead of backing up, like she hoped he would, Hunter rested his hands against the closed window, caging her in. “Now, about those issues you seem so stuck on. One, you are a hell of a lot more than a writer to me, and I’m asking you to hold my hand. Not the other way around. Two . . .”
He scooted even closer. “Three years or thirty, this thing between us won’t ever fade. And three . . .”
The tiny gap between them closed, until they were sharing the same air. “You like me all up in your space. Some of your most creative moments were when I was all up in your space.”
Hunter was a told-you-so guy. A trait that Mackenzie found annoyingly adorable. Which was why she knew what was coming and told herself to run, not walk, to the nearest exit. Only as Hunter’s lips hovered over hers, pausing to give her ample time to speak up, she found herself moving closer—until they had liftoff.
Hunter took his time, his mouth gently caressing hers in a kiss so hot Mackenzie forgot to breathe. Being hailed America’s Sexiest Man wasn’t enough for him. Nope, in typical Hunter fashion, overachiever that he was, he also had to go for World’s Best Kisser.
And he won.
By the time he lifted his head, Mackenzie’s hands were fisted in his shirt and she was rubbing up against him like he was catnip.
“What was that?” she asked, her lips tingling with aftershocks.
“If you have to ask, I did something wrong.”
Before he could go in for a do-over, which would have ended with her crawling up his body, she took a step back. Only to find that she was still clutching his shirt. She let go. “I thought you didn’t do complicated.”
“I don’t.”
“Then, back to my original question. What was that?”
“That was me simplifying things.” His smile was so big she could hear its smugness. And before she could ask what that meant, he said, “Now, unless you have any more concerns you need me to address—”
“Nope.” She stepped under his arm and out of kissing range. “I’m good.”
In fact, she felt better than she had in months. Being around Hunter was like living life with surround sound on high. Every note full and alive. An emotion that was hard to reach when playing acoustic.
If Mackenzie didn’t find a way to survive outside her bubble, she’d lose Muttley. And she couldn’t survive losing one more thing.
Hunter was right. When they were together, they moved as one. And if anyone could help her navigate her way into the seeing world, it was him.
“Fine. I can give you three weeks.” Surely she could keep it professional for three weeks. To be safe, though, she added, “But there will be rules.”
“I’m listening.”
“Number one.” She held up a finger. “No more kissing.”
“If you say so,” he mused, taking her hand.
“Or that.” She jerked her hand back. “And yes, I say.” She crossed her arms to prove it. “If I agree to this, then you must agree that after the three weeks are up, we go our own way and focus on our separate careers.”
“No kissing, no sharing space, and no hand-holding. You have a lot of rules.”
Rules were good. Rules kept people safe.
“I’ll need daily rides to and from the studio,” she said, pausing to gather the courage to state her next condition to their agreement. “And once a week, I’ll need a ride to the community center over by the university.”
A request he clearly wasn’t expecting. His energy softened, and his voice gentled in question. “Community center?”
Mackenzie looked away—a habit left over from before. “They have a support group every other Thursday from five thirty to seven, and I haven’t been in a while.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “It’s hard to navigate the bus system during rush hour, and Arthur can’t take me at night.” Hunter remained quiet for a long moment, and Mackenzie felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “If it’s too much, you can always drop me off and I can catch an Uber home after.”
“It’s not too much,” he said with a gentleness that turned her chest to mush. “Every other Thursday night from five thirty to seven. Anything else?”
Yes, there was a big something else, but asking him felt as if she were admitting she needed a keeper. Which she most certainly did not. “I may need some help at the market. Muttley and I know how to get there and back without any problem, but once we’re inside, figuring out what aisle carries what can be . . . frustrating,” she admitted, then forced a smile. “So do we have a deal?”
“Yeah, Trouble. We have a deal,” he said in a sweet and understanding way that was all Hunter Kane. The down-to-earth, sensitive barroom musician, the guy who stole her heart with his innate capacity to care, and the guy who could very easily steal it again.
“Good,” she said, twining her fingers. “Well, it’s almost suppertime, so why don’t we start fresh, first thing tomorrow?”
“Supper is a great idea.” Hunter closed the gap between them, placing his hands on her hips. Her stomach did flips at the contact. “What better way to get to know each other again than over a couple of steaks?”
Mackenzie’s palms started to sweat. Supper followed by an evening with just the two of them sounded a heck of a lot cozier than a few car rides into downtown and afternoons with a bunch of foul-mouthed bandmates.
Nope, this stupid crush didn’t need any more encouragement.
“That wasn’t an invitation,” she said breezily. “And I already have plans for supper.”
“With Arthur?”
“Not tonight.” Tonight, her plans involved pizza, a cold root beer, and a bubble bath. For one. “But if you tell me what time you’ll be by in the morning, I’ll be ready.”
“And leave you with nothing but pizza?” he said, and she must have expressed her surprise. “I saw the coupon on the fridge with a folded twenty and it’s takeout Tuesday.”
“Then why break tradition?”
“Because we can do better than that. And we’ve only got three weeks to get this record down and you market-ready, so I’m going to need an all-access pass.”
Mackenzie’s palms began to sweat. “What does that mean?”
“That after we go to the market, I’ll stop by and grab my stuff,” he said smoothly. “I’m moving in.”