Hunter took one look at Mackenzie in the produce section and knew this was a bad idea.
Stiff posture. Plastic smile. Nose so high in the air he was surprised she wasn’t suffering from oxygen depletion. Mackenzie was working overtime to keep a brave face while navigating her way through the swarm of people. Sure, Muttley was taking the lead, and Hunter was close at her back, but people still managed to bump into her. Like the douche in the designer loafers who was too busy perusing the wine selection to notice Mackenzie. It was as if he didn’t bother to look where he was going.
Normally Hunter would say, “Hello? What part of a lady with a Seeing Eye dog are you missing?” and then give the guy a little bump of his own, until he got the fucking point. But he didn’t think that would inspire Mackenzie’s confidence in his teaching abilities.
This “quick” shopping excursion had pushed past suppertime—and there were only ten items on the list. Three in the bag.
The sun had disappeared, the crowd was multiplying by the second, and Hunter was pretty sure the girl working checkout stand three recognized him. Based on the not-so-stealthy glances and lightning-quick swipes to her phone, she was likely posting, tweeting, and snapping Hunter Kane’s current location.
Pulling his ball cap even lower, he stood back and watched as Mackenzie took her time selecting a cantaloupe. She’d squeeze one, lift it for a quick sniff, then place it back. On the fourth one in, her nose crinkled. “Does this smell ripe to you?”
“Are you asking me to smell your melons?” he asked, loving how her cheeks flushed.
“I’m asking you to be my eyes,” she said, holding it out. “If I get one, I want it to be ripe. Firm but not too firm. Oh, and more tan than green.”
“Firm but not too firm. Got it.” Hunter took the melon and gave it a little squeeze, then casually broached the subject of her limitations. He’d done some reading online, researching her condition and ways to make her life a little easier. Give her some of her independence back. “I read about an app online that helps visually impaired people with shopping.”
“They have an app for everything. Before I left rehab they showed me some technology for the blind,” she said, but he noticed she didn’t reach for her phone. “Like I have an app that tells me what an item is, another that tells me what color something is, and even one that reads the ingredients or price tag to me. But three apps to find the perfect melon feels like overkill.”
It’s probably frustrating as well, he thought.
She gave a shrug. “At some point it just became easier to order online and let someone else do the picking for me.”
“But now you’re interested in venturing out?”
“My sponsor reminded me that there won’t always be someone around, and the more I master on my own, the faster my recovery process will go,” she admitted, and damn if that didn’t make his chest pinch a little.
“It wasn’t until I knew I could stand on my own that I finally left home and moved in with Big Daddy.” The words left his lips as if of their own accord. Hunter never talked about his dad. Ever. Yet there he was, standing in the produce aisle, squeezing melons and talking about the one topic he avoided at all costs.
“You never told me how old you were when you ran away.”
“Eleven,” he said, and then because he couldn’t seem to shut the fuck up, he went on. “I’d spent the entire summer mowing lawns around town. Managed to squirrel away a hundred and seventy-three bucks without my dad knowing. The day before school started, I went to my uncle and asked him how much he’d charge to rent out the room above his garage.”
Hunter remembered standing outside his uncle’s bar with nothing more than a sleeping bag, a backpack full of worn clothes, a wad of ones in his boots. His hands had been shaking so badly he was afraid he’d drop the money, so he’d stuffed the bills into his cowboy boots.
He knew that if Big Daddy turned him away, he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He also knew that anywhere had to be better than going back to Buddy and admitting failure.
Hunter knew his uncle’s rules: no boys allowed in the bar during working hours. But Hunter wasn’t going to him as a boy—he was a man with a job looking for boarding. Jesus, he’d been scared. Had thrown up twice before getting the balls to enter the bar. But eventually he had, and he’d said he’d like a meeting with the owner.
Big Daddy took one look at the pack on his slim shoulders and told someone to cover the bar, that he had business to conduct in his office. Then he’d walked Hunter back.
“He sat down behind that big desk of his, and I sat across from him as he made a big deal out of scribbling some numbers down, before he told me he’d take twenty bucks a month for the room in the attic, but nightly suppers would cost extra.”
“He charged you for meals?” she asked, sounding horrified.
Hunter laughed. “You sound exactly like my aunt did. She said Big Daddy was talking nonsense, and that I could stay for free and she’d feed me all the food I wanted. But Big Daddy stayed firm on his offer.”
“You were eleven!”
He’d also been a head shorter and a leg lighter than other kids his age, but what he’d lacked in size, he made up for in spit. Then again, one had to be tough as nails to make it eleven years with Buddy Kane as his father.
Not that father adequately described Buddy. One had to be sober enough to hold down a job to be considered a father. And since Hunter did most of the parenting in their relationship, he worked hard to keep what was left of his tattered family together—which meant hiding the worst of it from his aunt and uncle.
“I needed to know I could be my own man, that I could handle alone whatever came my way, because there was always the fear that’s where I’d end up. And he knew that.”
“Hunter,” she said, placing a hand on his arm, and he had a better sense of how she felt when people offered her sympathy. It didn’t feel like understanding. It felt more like a sentence. “Did he really make you pay him for the room?”
“Twenty bucks. First of every month. And I had to help him stock the bar every morning before school for my meals.” He laughed when her jaw dropped. “But before you get all pissy on my behalf, Big Daddy saved every penny in a bank account that he gave me when I turned eighteen.”
Hunter went back to the melons, while Mackenzie silently held his hand. After a long moment, she gave his free hand a squeeze. “I miss him.”
“I do too.” He picked up one more melon and gave it a squeeze. “Found one.” He handed it to her. “And it feels like a perfect ten to me.” He lowered his voice. “And I’m an expert when it comes to melons.”
She knew he was changing the subject, but she allowed it, even giving him an eye roll over his lame joke while placing the fruit in the canvas bag on her shoulder. He’d offered to carry the bag when they’d entered the store, but she’d argued that if she was going to learn to shop on her own, she needed to do it on her own.
“I need some peaches for breakfast.”
He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “If you thought I was good with melons, you should know I’m even better with peaches.”
She ignored this and pointed. “Can you pick three from the bin over there?”
And damn if her “over there” wasn’t spot-on with the peach display. In fact, he was confident that if it weren’t so crowded, Mackenzie could have navigated her way around without any trouble.
She just needed to know she was capable. And he made it his top priority to help her realize how strong she really was.
Before they left, he was going to ask the clerk what time the store was the least crowded and schedule their next trip accordingly. Mackenzie’s problem wasn’t her blindness—it was the unpredictable nature of others.
“Normally, you’d have me at peaches. However, I promised a hands-on experience,” he said, sliding the bag off her shoulder, sure to get his hand on some of that silky skin of hers in the process. “And, Trouble, I always come through on my promises.”
“Rule number three. No touching,” she said, but he noticed she didn’t back away.
“I guess that means I can’t inspect your peach.” He gave a disappointed sigh. “But rules are rules, so I’ll wait here with the bag while you inspect the peaches.”
Mackenzie seemed to curl in on herself, holding tightly to Muttley’s harness. When he got to her soft expression, Hunter knew he was fucked. It wasn’t the adorable way she worried her lower lip that got to him or even the raw vulnerability he saw swimming deep down in those green pools.
Nope, what drew him in, like a moth to the flame, was the warm smile she gave when she reached her hand out in search of his and said, “Where are the peaches?”
Hunter’s chest softened, which was the exact opposite of what happened south of his belt buckle, when she found his hand and twined their fingers together. “What happened to rule number three?”
That smile of hers grew. “What’s a little hand-holding when you already sniffed my melons?” she asked. “Plus, the aisles here are narrow, and it sounds crowded.”
“Or you just wanted to hold my hand.” And before she could argue, he said, “Peaches are the third row back on your left.”
He indicated the initial direction but let Mackenzie take the lead, making a temporary truce with Muttley as he herded her toward the middle of the aisle and away from the carts and other objects. The mutt gave anything that held potential danger the same stern look that he gave Hunter.
Without incident, they approached the display. Hunter placed her hands on the first grouping, slowly moving it over the fruit. “These are white peaches. And next to them”—he gently moved her hand—“are yellow peaches.”
“I like white peaches.” She picked one of each variety and held them, thoroughly inspecting each. Her brow crinkled in concentration. With a huff, she set them back down. “They feel the same.”
Hunter was starting to understand how complicated small things could become, and that pissed him off. She had enough to worry about. Picking the wrong peach shouldn’t be one of them. Hunter moved behind her and picked up a peach. “If you want to make sure you get a white one, then let me introduce you to the donut peach. It’s flat and round.”
He placed one in her hand, noticing that, while she was exploring the fruit with her fingers, her body was ever so slowly pressing back into his.
She brought the peach to her nose. “It smells sweet,” she breathed, her lashes lifting toward him and—holy Christ.
Sweet didn’t even cut it. In fact, a whole lot of words rushed to mind, and sweet wasn’t one of them. Because she was looking at him like she was ripe for another kiss. And damn if he didn’t want to be the guy to give it to her.
But he’d promised no more kissing. And no matter how tempting those lips looked, he was determined to follow through on his promises. Then again, she’d also said no touching, and her backside was touching a whole lot of his front side.
“Are you changing the rules on me, Trouble?” he whispered.
“I’m not sure,” she whispered back.
The only thing Hunter was sure about was that he wasn’t going to blow this. “Then until you are, why don’t we agree on a fun trip to the store followed by a friendly supper?”
“With vanilla ice cream and white peaches for dessert,” she said with a smile. “Arthur always gets the yellow ones because they’re cheaper.”
“Boring, gardener, and cheap?” Hunter tsked. “Sounds like an accountant.”
“He’s a music teacher,” she said, casually selecting a peach.
“Like piano?”
“Like played at Carnegie Hall.” She gave it a squeeze and set it back down. “Then he became a professor of music at the university.” It was Hunter’s turn to roll his eyes. “And I said he was sweet, not boring.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” Hunter took the peach back and slid it into the bag, then followed her to the bin of corn. “You play music together and he does your shopping. When did that start?”
“The music was from nearly day one, and he started shopping for me when . . .” She paused, as if flipping through her mental calendar, then smiled, big and warm and—
“Oh, when I moved in with him.”
Hunter choked. “You live with him?”
Jesus, he hadn’t seen that coming. Besides the flowers and note, there hadn’t been a single sign of a male presence in her house. Normally, competition wouldn’t faze Hunter.
This guy was different. He had everything going for him that Hunter had, except he was sweet, a gardener, and knew braille. Hell, the fucker had probably minored in braille while studying the different species of flora.
“Lived,” she clarified. “Then I bought the house next door.”
Because that made it so much better. She’d decided it was safer to move in with a practical stranger than confide in Hunter. A strange sense of, well . . . Shit. He was pretty sure it was jealousy overtaking him.
Hunter, the king of confident-casual, was jealous. Over an average Arthur—who didn’t sound so average.
“Why did you move out?” he asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer but desperate to get some insight into what Mackenzie had gone through. Help him fill in the gaps he’d missed.
“Because I needed to stand on my own two feet. And I got tired of losing at poker.” She grinned. “Did I mention Arthur is a Vietnam vet who runs high-stakes poker games out of his garage?”
Which made the guy at least seventy.
“I think you forgot that part,” he said drily.
“Sorry, it must have slipped my mind,” she said, not sorry at all. “Arthur helps me out around the house, does my shopping, and transcribes my music. In return, I raise the house’s odds by wearing my mirrored blind-girl glasses to poker night.”
Hunter laughed. So did Mackenzie. And, man oh man, he didn’t know if it was the sexy grin that lit him up or the fact that she wasn’t shacking up with some guy named Arthur, but suddenly Hunter’s shoulders felt a whole hell of a lot lighter.
“I think I get more out of the deal than him. But he likes to cook for someone, and I like to eat,” she said as she put corn in the bag.
Hunter wanted to point out that while she had a wide spread of produce and dog treats, she didn’t have a single ingredient in there to make an actual meal. But he held his tongue. “It sounds like a good trade-off.”
“It is.” Her smile faded, and Hunter’s heart pinched.
“Except?”
“Arthur wants to move to Florida,” she explained. “His house is too big for one person, and his older brother lives there. They’ve talked about living closer to each other, even consolidating to a bachelor pad like they had when they were younger.”
“You’re afraid he’s staying here for you?” Hunter guessed.
“It isn’t the Tennessee winters keeping him here,” she said, her bravery breaking his heart. “If I can show him I’ll be fine on my own, I know he’ll feel better about moving.”
“And who will be with you?” Hunter asked.
“I’ve always got Muttley,” she said, those big fathomless eyes looking up at him. “And for the next few weeks, I have you.”
He wanted to tell her that she’d always have him but knew that in a few months he’d be driving through some big-city USA and Mackenzie would be here. Alone in her little suburb of Nashville, relying on some punk behind the counter to give her fair change.
“Mackenzie—”
“Pity isn’t on tonight’s menu.” She took the bag back. “So why don’t you go find some of that fancy coffee you brag about, while Muttley and I locate the potatoes? They’re on the next row at the end, right?”
“Right,” Hunter said, unable to stop looking at her.
With a brave smile in place, she walked down the aisle, careful of the other customers, letting Muttley do his thing. And God bless her, she located the potatoes. Hunter told himself to go get the coffee, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen in place by the delicate, feminine scent that lingered behind her.
Mackenzie worked her way through the potatoes, distinguishing the russet from the yams. She weighed one in her hand, then went in search of another. With two winners selected, she turned around to put them in her bag.
Only Loafer-Wearing Douche was back, and instead of heading to a less crowded row, he pressed forward, clearly oblivious to the fact that between the other carts, Mackenzie, and a guide dog with a white harness and fluorescent yellow vest, there wasn’t enough room.
“Excuse me,” he said. “You’re blocking the aisle.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mackenzie said, the comment clearly hitting a soft spot. Hunter found himself holding his breath as she plastered her body against the potato bin, tugging Muttley closer. But not close enough.
Loafer-Wearing Douche made a big deal of giving her a wide berth and clipped another cart, sending his cart careening into Mackenzie’s space. Muttley was on it like King Kong to his Ann Darrow, charging the cart and putting himself between it and his woman.
The abrupt motion yanked the harness, sending Mackenzie’s arm in one direction and the potatoes in the other. Thankfully, the cart didn’t make contact, but Mackenzie grabbed the bin for balance, sending an avalanche of yams crashing to the floor.
Muttley barked and people vacated the aisle, including Loafer-Wearing Douche, leaving Mackenzie in the middle of an epic disaster zone. Surrounded by walking hazards. With nowhere to go.
Hunter rushed to her side, sure to clip Loafer-Wearing Douche on his way. “You okay?” he asked her.
“Coming to the market at rush hour wasn’t such a great idea.” Mackenzie knelt, her hands searching the ground, trying her best to clear the aisle.
Hunter crouched down to help her, but she shooed his hands away. Hers were trembling.
“I’ve got it.” She struggled to place the potatoes back in the bin, then went for another handful.
“And I’ve got you,” he said, gently taking the potatoes from her.
“For how long?” she asked, then immediately shook her head. “Sorry,” she said, her voice going soft. So soft he barely heard her. “It’s just if I’m going to learn how to do this, then I need to do it on my own.”
Hunter wanted to argue but knew that it would only back her further into the corner. Instead, he silently helped, watching as the fierce determination beat out the humiliation.
Mackenzie was used to going it alone. She’d been forced down that path her entire life. And here she was again, having the rug ripped out from under her. But instead of complaining, she faced her situation head-on.
She might claim she wasn’t the same girl he knew. And Hunter would agree. She was even more impressive.
When the last of the potatoes was cleared from the aisle, she gave him a sad smile. “I bet you wish you’d taken me up on the pizza. It would have been a whole lot easier.”
“Where’s the excitement in easy?” he asked. “Plus, cleaning up produce keeps me humble.” Hunter helped her to her feet and then whispered, “It’s also the perfect cover for checking out your melons.”