“Now you’re just being stubborn.”
“If I were a man, you’d call it assertiveness,” Mackenzie said, but it was clear that Brody wasn’t buying it.
Nope, Brody and his weird Spidey sense were zeroing in on the embarrassing fact that the only thing Mackenzie was being was a big fat chicken. She was one question away from sprouting wings and taking flight, but she was okay with that. Everyone was allowed a fear or two.
Mackenzie’s was facing her past.
And by past she meant anyone who knew her before. And, okay, by anyone she specifically meant Hunter Kane. Admitting one’s problem was the first step in overcoming it, and she was in no rush to take the second step. “I need more time.”
“How much more time are we talking?” Brody asked.
“Maybe a few more months.” Or never. Never worked for her.
“I can bring it up in a few months, or you’ll be ready in a few months?” Brody asked, and damn, he was catching on to her strategy. “I only ask because a few months ago, you said you needed a few more months. And, well, here we are.”
“Now you’re just being pushy,” Mackenzie said.
“If I were a woman, you’d call it communicating,” he said and had a point.
Mackenzie had clearly communicated her wishes when it came to Hunter. Although her answer remained the same, Brody felt the need to readdress the situation, in case hell had finally frozen over. There might be a few snowflakes on the distant horizon, but they wouldn’t stick long enough to change her mind. Not right then anyway.
The only reason she was still sitting in his office was because Brody was the closest friend she had left, and she’d promised to hear him out before disappointing him—yet again.
And damn, if that wasn’t her second greatest fear.
“You can’t avoid him forever.”
“I’m not avoiding him,” she pointed out. “I just don’t see the need to rush into an awkward face-to-face.”
Brody’s tone turned gentle, sympathetic enough to have Mackenzie shifting in her seat. “It’s been a year since the divorce. Three since disappearing.”
Nashville was a big city. Surely, she could make it another few years. If she were really determined, she could make it a full decade. Because it had also been three years since the doctor visit that had derailed her life.
Since she’d learned that her mother’s blindness was also hereditary. And since Mackenzie’s life had spiraled out of control. She had been a rising writer in the music industry, creating songs that were paving her way toward success. Then the vision loss Mackenzie had experienced in her right eye became permanent and, over the following year, moved to the left, forever blurring her path.
“I finished rehab eleven months ago. I need more time to adjust.”
“You walked out of rehab eleven months ago,” Brody corrected.
“Right.” There is that, she thought, reaching down to pet Muttley.
She didn’t have to reach far, because Muttley was ninety-five pounds of poodle-mastiff mix who preferred to be on Mackenzie’s lap. Not the typical behavior for a Seeing Eye dog. Then again, nothing about Muttley was typical. He was the size of a bear, hated loud noises, and was a three-time guide-dog-school failure. But he had heart, and that’s what mattered.
“I can barely remember how many steps it is to the bathroom,” she added. “I don’t need to tell you how meeting with Hunter before I’m ready would set me back.”
“Or maybe it will be the thing you need to move forward,” Brody said. “I know the weight it will take off my chest to come clean.”
“I never meant for you to be stuck in the middle.”
“But I am.”
“I know.” And she hated that but didn’t know any other way. While Mackenzie wished things could be different, her music was the only thing she dared share with Hunter right now. Anything more had the potential to take her under.
With a heavy exhale, she ruffled Muttley’s ears. The sound of his wagging tail thumping the floor echoed, cutting through the ever-growing silence.
Putting her best friend in an uncomfortable position was the exact reason she’d thought long and hard before reaching out to Brody in the first place. She’d needed an agent, and he was the best. She would never want to come between family but didn’t know who else to go to. It wasn’t as if there were job listings for blind musician-songwriters.
Brody had vowed to do whatever he could to help, but she doubted he’d meant lying to his family when he’d made the promise.
A light disturbance in the air brushed over her cheeks, carrying a faint hint of leather, testosterone, and frustrated man. Brody rounded the desk and nudged Muttley aside. It was a big nudge, followed by an even bigger bark, because Muttley fancied himself a watchdog in a guide dog’s vest.
But Brody wasn’t having any of it.
“Back off, Cujo,” he said, then squatted down in front of Mackenzie, resting his hands on the chair’s arm. “I’m not suggesting you rekindle the relationship, but Hunter has a right to know you’re okay.”
The exact reason she needed more time. She wasn’t okay. She would be, she’d make sure of it, but that day wasn’t today.
She was pretty sure tomorrow wasn’t either, but she knew it would come. It had to.
Mackenzie might be a runner, but she wasn’t a coward.
“I have a right to my privacy,” she said, smoothing her palms over her thighs. “I am sure he understands a person’s right to privacy.”
“And as your paid adviser, it’s my job to tell you when something isn’t working anymore.”
He captured her hands between his, stilling her nervous habit and gently brushing his thumb over her knuckles in a familiar and brotherly manner. “Hunter wants to collaborate with you. And I think it’s a great idea.”
“It’s a horrible idea.” Fear clogged her throat, and she jerked her hands back. Before she could break contact completely, Brody tightened his grip.
“It’s a great opportunity to put the past where it belongs and move forward. For everyone,” he said gently. “Imagine what you two could produce.”
She knew exactly what they were capable of together. Just like she knew exactly what she was capable of handling at the moment. And it wasn’t being confined in a small space with the one man who could remind her of all that she’d lost.
Hell, the thought of writing with him again sent her heart into a free fall. That he wanted to work with her, had specifically asked, terrified her as much as it pleased her. That alone was enough to say no.
Over the years, she’d fought hard to forget the way his arms felt around her while they’d strummed the same guitar. The passion and emotion that had come out of their music but never translated into their relationship. She’d never let it, because she’d known since she was eighteen that she carried the mutated gene and that there was a solid chance she’d end up like her mom.
And she knew, no matter how desperately she wanted to go back, to see him, those moments could never be relived. Not without sacrificing some of the headway she’d worked so hard to claim.
Hunter was a force of nature, picking up everything in his path and taking it on the journey with him. It was what made him so successful—in business and in life.
Mackenzie had a different life now. One that didn’t involve being carried anywhere. She needed to create her own path. He needed to live out his. Neither of them could do that if they refused to let go.
“It isn’t going to happen.”
“Savannah told me you’d say that. She also said to pass along that either you get a life that extends beyond occasional Sunday supper at our house and going to the dog park, or she was going to put you up on one of those dating sites.”
“I would just move,” she said, even though the thought of packing up and starting over again sounded daunting. She’d done it before—several times with her mom, then again after she was released from rehab—and hoped she’d never have to again. The last thing she needed was to let her past find her.
Or define her.
“Savannah would hunt you down and bring you home.” With a quick squeeze, Brody released her hands and sat in the chair next to her. Muttley took up residence on her feet, sprawling across them. “I know the past few years have been difficult—”
“Difficult?” She laughed, because one word could never describe what she’d been through. The changes and the struggle she’d been forced to endure. And she’d done it, survived even. Then she’d written a portfolio of songs about it.
More important, she’d made steady progress. Then three months ago, she’d hit a wall. One she didn’t know how to climb over without confronting her past.
“Okay, they’ve been hell,” Brody amended. “But Jesus, Mackenzie, you’ve had more than a dozen Billboard hits. I get calls every day from artists wanting to work with you. And while I appreciate the spike my cool-dad factor has taken from accepting awards on your behalf, not to mention seeing Savannah in a slinky dress, this needs to stop.”
“I know.”
“The only time you get out is when I have papers for you to sign. And you only agree to come after-hours, when my staff has gone home.”
She forced herself to breathe, then channeled her inner badass. “Only because you refuse to come to my house for our appointments. That was our deal. Read the contract if you’ve forgotten. You get thirty-five percent, which is virtually unheard of, by the way, and I get my anonymity.”
Taking another deep breath, she called for the courage to deliver the ultimatum that, if he took it seriously, could successfully destroy what little human connection she had left. “If the arrangement is no longer working for you, and you decide you would rather terminate our agreement, then I understand.”
Brody’s exhale was slow and tired. “Never going to happen. We’re family, and I hate upsetting you, but it kills me to see you so isolated.”
“Me too,” she whispered.
Brody pulled her to a stand and into his embrace. Slowly, her arms slid around his waist, and her forehead rested on his shoulder.
“I understood your need for privacy at first, but this has gone on too long. You’re going to end up some old lady with only a collection of clutch purses, porcelain plates, and that dog for a bed partner.”
They remained in that embrace for a time, both letting the words sink in. It wasn’t often Mackenzie allowed herself the luxury of leaning on others. She had learned from her mother how easy it was to become dependent. Mackenzie would never do that to herself—or anyone else.
But for a moment, she allowed herself to be held. Let herself imagine what it would be like to not be in this all alone.
“Muttley isn’t so bad,” she said, rubbing her face back and forth across Brody’s shoulder, wiping off the tears she knew had escaped.
“The dog snores worse than I do,” Brody said with a low chuckle. “And if you want to give your songs to someone else, I know Carrie Underwood is interested in ‘To Fly’ and Keith Urban wants ‘Friday Night.’”
She pulled back. “Those aren’t available. I wrote those for Hunter.” Brody was silent for a long moment, and a bead of unease began in her belly. “He doesn’t want them, does he?”
The unease grew with the silence until it was a big ball in the center of her chest, twisting and tightening, suffocating her.
She amended her earlier statement because this, right here, was her worst fear. That Hunter would outgrow her songs or get to a point in his career where he wrote all his own stuff. If he didn’t want her music anymore, then he would finally sever the last connection she had to him, the only thing that kept her writing. The constant that had pulled her through the darkest moments.
“He says unless he meets the writers behind the music, and I use the term writers lightly”—Mackenzie snorted at this—“then he won’t record any more of their songs.”
“But my song was his first number one hit. I’ve had at least three tracks on every one of his albums. All number ones. And these new ones are even better. They’re perfect for this point in his career.”
“I know that, you know that. Hell, he even knows it, but Hunter’s playing hardball.”
Mackenzie stepped back until her heel connected with the foot of the chair, reached for the arms, and eased herself down. “Did he even listen to the new tracks? I mean, does he know that some of the industry’s biggest musicians are dying to get their hands on them?”
“He did. He does. And he doesn’t care. He made it clear he won’t record your songs unless he meets the writers who are able to ‘put to sound what his soul sings’ or some flowery artistic bullshit like that,” Brody said. “You know how stubborn he can be.”
Mackenzie knew better than anyone that getting Hunter Kane to change his mind once set was like steering a horse into a burning barn.
“Why change what’s working?”
Writing at home gave her the comfort she needed to write and the privacy she needed to allow herself to be vulnerable. Sitting in a studio for weeks on end with the band staring at her? Asking her what had happened? Dealing with the silent pity?
No thank you. She wasn’t ready for that.
“It’s not working anymore, honey,” Brody said gently. “Not for Hunter. And not for me.”
Her stomach twisted at the idea that she might never get to write another song for Hunter, hear his voice breathe life into her music. Every word she wrote was for him, from her heart.
Only he didn’t want them. Not on her terms anyway.
“Would it be so bad to see him again? To reconnect?” Brody’s voice dropped, as if he wanted to lessen the impact of the conversation.
Brody had always been that way with her. She’d been nineteen with no work experience and desperate for a job to help with her mother’s bills. Desperate for a life that wasn’t defined by appointments, rehab therapy, or limitations.
Brody had been the one to get her a job waiting tables at his dad’s bar. He knew her résumé was BS, even knew she was lying about her age, but he’d hired her anyway.
Given her a shot.
She’d worked every night shift she could, waiting for her mom to adapt to her new life, waiting for her own life to begin. It seemed as if Mackenzie’s entire life had been spent waiting. Until she’d forced her mother to take a big step—a step she wasn’t ready to take.
The guilt was still suffocating and would have taken her under too, if she hadn’t turned to her music. Which was how she’d met Hunter. And he’d filled her world with some of the lightness that she’d been craving.
Now everything was dark—and there was no escape.
“We both know that can’t happen,” she said.
“I don’t see why not—”
The beep of his phone cut him off. He answered and turned his back to her. “Brody Kane here.” The person on the other end said something, and then Brody said, “No, I said seven, not seven fifteen and . . . You’re late . . . Uh-huh. Whatever, I’ll be right down.”
Brody disconnected. “That was dinner. Fried chicken and waffles. Your favorite. I have to go let the guy in, since you refuse to come during normal business hours, when the front-desk clerk is still here.”
Guilt for keeping Brody from his family rolled through her. Even stronger was the comfort that warmed her chest at the idea of sharing a meal in a family-like setting, even if it was just her, Brody, and some takeout. But she couldn’t afford to fall back into old patterns. Relying on others to make her world safe was a dangerous habit. “Thank you for the sweet thought, but I already ate.”
“Uh-huh, and when was the last time you ate something that wasn’t from a microwave?”
Well, there was that.
“Last Sunday, when you used your same guilt tactics.” She stood and gathered her things. “Plus, you get to feed me next weekend at Caroline’s birthday dinner.”
Immediately, the crushing uncertainty that came every time she left the familiar began to build and take hold. Her breathing picked up, her hands began to sweat, and her heart pounded erratically against her breastbone.
Sensing her rising panic, Muttley pressed his body into her side, letting her know he was there. As quickly as it had come on, the unease and panic dissipated, leaving behind a feeling of serenity and autonomy.
“I’m fine for tonight,” she finally said. “Plus, Savannah is probably waiting at home with supper in the oven.”
Brody snorted. “She told me I’d better feed you or I was sleeping on the couch. She’s afraid you’ll lock yourself in a room, start writing, and remember your supper two days later.”
“If Arthur ever thinks I’m working too hard, he lets himself in and force-feeds me,” she said, referring to her sweet silver fox of a neighbor who had become more than a friend—he had become her self-appointed keeper. “So, thanks, supper would be fun, but—”
Brody sat her back in her seat. “Great. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a sec.”
Mackenzie got comfortable in the chair with a small smile. Even though her continued success demanded independence, the occasional pampering was nice. Stall tactic to talk about Hunter or not.
Her heart fluttered at the thought, which was all kinds of ridiculous. It wasn’t as if she could ever escape Hunter. Nope, when you were in love with a celebrity whose personal life was plastered all over the tabloids and entertainment news shows, trying to put him in the past was difficult. Steering clear of him when you worked in the same industry, lived in the same city, and had the same agent was damn near impossible.
High five to her. Mackenzie had managed the impossible for nearly three years. Facing the impossible seemed a hell of a lot easier than sharing her secret.
Her decision to remain anonymous had never been intended to hurt anyone—it was for their protection. Hunter would have insisted on taking care of her, watching over her. It was the kind of person he was.
Luckily for both of them, she refused to be a burden to anyone.
Not to mention Mackenzie was barely dealing with her own loss. She could only imagine how Hunter would react. God, the outpouring of concern would only add to the already staggering weight.
Remembering the pain of watching the man she loved love someone else had her turning her head toward the exit.
He’s single now, her heart sang. But the little voice in her head, the one who waited until she was ready to give in to hope, spoke up and reminded her that Hunter could never be hers.
It wasn’t a new realization but a fact Mackenzie had accepted early in her life. And the reason behind her decision to leave three years ago.
A decision that not everyone agreed with or even understood. But not having someone to fall back on would force her to stand on her own two feet, reemerge as a stronger—healthier—person. It had taken a lot of convincing on her part, but Brody and Savannah had reluctantly supported her decision to withdraw into anonymity. It had been necessary for her healing, but she hated that she’d put Brody in the middle.
The door squeaked behind her, and Muttley let out an impressive whoof. An unwelcome prickle of unease raced down her spine, as the feeling of being watched sent her senses into hyperdrive.
Mackenzie jerked her head around to face the door. A faint hint of something earthy and dangerous made her breath catch.
“Who’s there?”
Hunter hadn’t even started negotiating and already he knew it was a nonstarter. No amount of beer or shooting the shit was going to make this a successful pairing. Because his good old boys weren’t boys at all.
And Brody was a fucking liar.
This meeting was with a petite brunette with bright mossy eyes. Eyes that had haunted his every thought for the past three years. She was wearing one of those long sweater dresses that clung to her body, showing off enough curves and manufactured bravado to level a guy. But it was the way she struggled to straighten those delicate shoulders, which he knew were strong enough to carry the entire world, that had his heart clenched so tight he thought he just might pass out.
All the fear and worry he’d harbored came back in full force, quickly followed by confusion and finally anger. White-hot anger that burned the back of his throat.
He was calling bullshit. On the whole thing.
Hunter had looked everywhere for Mackenzie. Spoken to friends, his family, industry connections. No one had heard from her. Leaving a giant hole in his world since that last dance.
Mackenzie had bailed on his wedding, not even bothering to show up for his big day, then did him one better and left for good.
Mackenzie hadn’t just been his writing partner. She’d been like family to him. But she’d disappeared and hadn’t said a fucking word.
To anyone.
Or so he’d thought.
Except there she was. Sitting in his cousin’s office, looking like the answer to all his problems. Gorgeous as ever. Like nothing was amiss and he hadn’t spent the past few years obsessing over what he’d done to deserve her silence.
Wondering if she was okay.
Jesus—he felt his eyes burn with relief—she’s okay.
She was alive and well and his prayers had been answered.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. In a pair of red cowgirl boots and matching red lips, she didn’t look anything like the timid coed she’d been a few years ago. Her wavy hair spilled down to the middle of her back, her hands rested on the chair as elegant as ever, and there was an inner strength that radiated from her core.
Mackenzie Hart was even more stunning than he remembered. That sensual beauty in contrast to her petite size brought out a protectiveness in him that he hadn’t felt since that first time he’d seen her all those years ago at Big Daddy’s.
The band had been finishing up their practice session when a pretty little waitress in a skirt that showcased one bombshell of a body came walking over.
“Last call,” she’d said, her sweet Georgia drawl rolling over him like honey. “Can I get y’all anything?”
“A Lone Star,” he’d said. And then, because he’d been a cocky twentysomething with a hard-on for spinners, he’d added, “And maybe a kiss.”
“One Lone Star.” She’d scribbled it in her little notepad—which told him she was new. Big Daddy didn’t let waitresses write stuff down unless they were in training. Plus, he’d have remembered a face like hers. “Anyone else?”
“Aren’t you going to even ask me where I want that kiss?” he’d asked.
“Not interested.”
“You sure looked interested a few minutes ago when I was picking up my guitar.” The guys had laughed, but not Mackenzie. Nope—she’d yawned. “Couldn’t keep your eyes off me. Or my instrument.”
“Actually, I was trying to figure out what you were doing with your hands. I mean, if you can’t get the chords right, what makes me think you’d be any better with your lips?”
Hunter had redefined his type right then. Oh, he’d liked his women bold, and her bite-me attitude was right up his alley. But there was something about her melt-your-soul eyes that drew him in.
“Not only am I great with my hands,” he’d said, hopping off the stage, “but these fingers here have been hailed as poetic genius.”
Unlike the rest of her gender when under his scrutiny, she’d never once broken eye contact. The closer he got, the bigger she tried to make herself appear—head high and shoulders squared as if she could handle anything.
He’d leaned a hip against a booth and said, “I believe the Nashville Tribune wrote, ‘The most skilled since Merle Travis.’”
“Merle might have had something to say about that.” She’d shrugged but couldn’t seem to help stealing glances at his satin vintage Les Paul Junior—a present from his dad. “Especially about those last notes.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
That time when she’d smiled it had been big and real, so bright it lit up the entire room. And her eyes, those warm green eyes, had twinkled. “The last notes you played were wrong. You know, the ones going into the chorus.”
“I wrote it. There’s no way they’re wrong.”
“If you say so. I’ll be back with that Lone Star.”
But he hadn’t wanted her to go. She was the first woman who didn’t pretend that his shit didn’t stink—which was exciting. And sexy as hell.
Then there was her confidence. Hell, he’d started to question his own freaking chords. “Hold up a second, Trouble. I don’t want to look like an ass. Well, at least a bigger ass than I already am. Show me what you mean.”
She’d shoved her notepad into the V of her top, securing it under her bra strap—her black lacy strap—and held out her hand.
He’d offered up his guitar, but when she grabbed for it, he didn’t immediately let go. “What’s the magic word?”
“That would be asshole, remember?”
He’d laughed. Cocky twentysomething Hunter knew jack shit about women. But he knew there was more to Mackenzie than a pretty face and smart mouth.
Without asking permission, she’d taken the guitar and cradled it close to her body, balancing it on her knee. Her familiarity with the instrument said she’d put in a lot of hours strumming. And when her hands glided over the strings with grace and patience, Hunter had known she’d been playing her whole life.
She’d strummed a few chords before her fingers came to rest and she closed her eyes, blocking out her audience, and transitioned effortlessly into the song he and the band had been hashing out all morning and the better part of the afternoon.
“Well, shit.” Confident, sexy, and talented.
She’d played the entire riff from memory, chord for chord. Her beautiful voice had hummed the melody as she played the chorus then stopped, hitting him with a pair of double-barreled dimples that stirred up all kinds of trouble south of his buckle.
“See? Way too flashy,” she’d said. “With your voice, you don’t need to go all American Idol. It takes away from your talent. It would sound better like this.”
Mackenzie played a more complex combination of notes that called for rooted singing. Her version ended up landing them their first paying gig at a bar by the university.
The unexpected connection that hummed between them that night had been so intense and so right it was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Then he’d discovered she was nineteen—a little too young for his twenty-eight-year-old self—and put her firmly in the friend zone. And by the time Mackenzie was old enough to be an option, she was so ingrained in the band and such an important person in his life he was afraid to go there.
Hunter didn’t have the greatest track record when it came to women. And he didn’t want to risk screwing things up and losing her. Only she’d left anyway.
But she was back. And that chemistry he’d done his best to ignore over the years? Yup. That was back too. A blast of heat strong enough to take him out at the knees.
Lust wasn’t the only emotion humming through his veins. There was plenty of anger and frustration pumping, a lethal combination that had him dialed to shit just got real.
Hunter knew Mackenzie was a loner. Had learned that she’d rather go it alone than rely on anyone else. One of the many cruel lessons life had taught her early on. So yes, he understood her obsessive need for independence. But to disappear on him when all he’d ever done was care for her?
Yeah, there was a serious come-to-Jesus meeting headed their way. It wouldn’t be fun, but Hunter needed answers. Long-overdue answers.
He stepped past the threshold into the office, and Mackenzie whipped around. Placing a startled hand on the back of the chair, she rose and faced him.
Hunter put on what he hoped came across as a fancy-meeting-you-here smile but didn’t bother to hide any of the worry or heartache she’d caused. Those green pools hit his, and not an ounce of recognition registered on her face. No regret, no shame, not a single glimmer of apology was aimed his way.
Nope, she stood there, arms at her sides, shoulders back, eyes wide with confusion. As if she was the offended party.
And, okay, those wide eyes weren’t aimed at him, per se. It was more like she was staring off into space. Collecting her thoughts for some BS explanation or whatever. So Hunter crossed his arms too, determined that she would be the one to do the explaining.
“Brody?” she asked. “Is that you?”
Hunter didn’t know what pissed him off more. That she was still playing some fucking game or that in less than six-tenths of a second her sweet drawl settled right in his chest.
He was about to tell her that he wasn’t pussy enough to be confused with Brody when Mackenzie took a hesitant step forward, her foot catching on the leg of the chair. For a solid heartbeat, he froze as she stumbled. Her second step wasn’t much better, and she pitched forward, thrusting her hands in front of her to break what would have been an epic fall.
Only she didn’t fall. Before Hunter could move, a dog shot out from behind the chair and placed itself under her, maneuvering his big body into the perfect position and bracing himself like he’d done this a million times before. Even more shockingly, Mackenzie grabbed on to the dog’s back and avoided toppling over.
She let out a frustrated breath, then straightened. With her eyes closed and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, Mackenzie reached down to pat the enormous dog, who was anchored to her side. The furry savior was also wearing a leather harness with a green vest.
The dog’s eyes locked on to Hunter’s—friendly but fiercely protective. The same expression Hunter had worn whenever he’d been around Mackenzie.
“That was close,” she said with a self-conscious laugh, her hand on her heart and her breathing labored. “You’re a good boy, Muttley.”
For a solid heartbeat, everything stilled. It was as if a freight train were coming straight at him. He could feel the floor vibrate, smell the truth as it careened right into his chest.
Then it stopped. A full stop. His breathing, his heart, his anger. It all stopped and refocused with a single thought. Mackenzie couldn’t see his anger or his worry.
Mackenzie couldn’t see a fucking thing.