A pounding woke Mackenzie from a dead sleep.
She opened her eyes and, for one terrifying second, couldn’t figure out her surroundings. The sheets were knotted around her, holding her prisoner, and the world was completely black. She strained her eyes even further, trying to make sense of why she could feel the warmth from the morning sun radiate through the window when the room was dark enough for it to be the middle of the night.
Her head spun painfully, and panic gripped her by the throat as she reached for the light switch, but nothing happened. Then the sharp edges of frustration churned in her gut as she tried again. With the same results.
She squeezed her lids tight and breathed in deeply, only the churning worsened and the pounding settled behind her eyes. Then she wished like hell it was the middle of the night, because that would mean the sun hadn’t risen, rather than she couldn’t see it.
She also wished she’d stuck with tea and her usual MO of pretending everything was just fine. In her attempt to eliminate the coulda-shoulda-wouldas in her life, Mackenzie was left with a big Oh no you didn’t!
But, oh yes, she had.
She’d gone big, then gone home, and she could still feel the bitter bite of humiliation. Had she not been intoxicated, she would have recognized the hesitation in Hunter’s tone. Could have evaluated the pros and cons of kissing America’s Sexiest Man, who happened to be the former love of her life.
Convincing herself that the nauseous feeling in her stomach was nothing more than a hangover, Mackenzie lay back down.
Big mistake. Being horizontal was like being adrift at sea in one of those tiny inflatable rafts in the middle of a hurricane.
“This is why I don’t drink,” she said, tossing the covers over her head. The motion offered nothing in the form of help, unless she counted the small comfort of familiarity. It was strange how habits stuck with a person, even when they no longer held a purpose.
Mackenzie had lots of habits—rituals, as her rehabilitation therapist called them. An order of doing things that gave her a sense of control, kept her safe.
Kept her moving forward.
Last night she’d been too thrown to think, let alone stick to the rules. As a result, she’d abandoned her nightly routine. And her common sense.
End result?
She hadn’t a clue as to what time it was, where she’d left her purse and phone, or if Muttley had gone out for his morning tour of the backyard. And, as if the day couldn’t get any worse, Hunter had driven her home last night. Which meant now he knew where she lived. And avoiding him would be that much more difficult.
What had she been thinking?
She hadn’t been. That was the problem.
Hunter had this assuredness about him that said he could handle anything thrown his way and a charisma that pulled people along for the ride, making it easy to sit back and let him take over. He was the kind of guy who would get it done—and done right.
Hunter Kane was a sure bet.
That kind of magnetic confidence was rare. The industry term for it was X factor. Mackenzie called it swagger. And Hunter had enough swagger to convince Garth Brooks to sing backup.
Metal tags jangled down the hall and into her room, stopping inches from her bed. She was immediately met with warm dog breath wishing her a good morning, although there was nothing good about what that breath did to her stomach. When she didn’t move, a wet nose nudged her foot, which was peeking out from the covers.
“Morning,” she mumbled and dropped her hand to give Muttley a quick pat.
His tail tapped the hardwood floor in pure pleasure.
“Bet you want your breakfast, huh, big guy?” Muttley nudged her hand, then let out an impatient bark. “All right. All right. I get it.”
Mackenzie needed another hour of sleep, followed by a hot shower. But Muttley was making it clear that neither of those was an option, so she settled on a cup of coffee and dragged herself out of bed.
Slipping on her house boots, she trudged down the hall and into the kitchen, to the familiar sound of her automatic coffee maker already percolating. The earthy hazelnut aroma wafted over as sunlight from the big windows that spanned the back of the house warmed her skin.
When her boots met the tile floor, she took five precise steps forward and three to the left, then ran her hand down the pitted texture of the refrigerator door and opened it. Second shelf, left-side front, she grabbed the carton of cream.
Five steps to the right and one forward was the cabinet with her mugs. She grabbed one and set it and the cream on the counter. In the lower cupboard was the sugar.
Mackenzie bent over and opened the cabinet door, and the pressure in her head swelled to the point of near explosion.
“I’m never drinking again,” she grumbled to herself while pinching her fingers to her forehead in a lame attempt to hold her brain in place.
“That’d be a shame, since I like you better drunk,” a masculine voice said from behind her. “You’re friendlier.”
Terror caught her off guard and she spun toward the voice, her eyes darting frantically around the room. A habit that did nothing to help the situation. She couldn’t see a thing.
Her hand grabbed the mug off the counter, and she threw it in the direction of the voice.
“What the—”
Porcelain shattered against the wall, the sound exploding through the room as she reached for the carton of cream.
“Whoa there.” A hand came up to stop her as she took aim. She jerked back and lost her balance, tripping over Muttley, who was barking as if he meant to tear off a limb. But instead of her falling backward, two strong arms circled around her, holding her steady. “It’s me.”
Hunter.
Relief washed through her, bringing with it a double shot of irritation. Hunter had let himself into her home.
“It’s me?” she repeated in her best Hunter impression, trying to get her heart to slow back to a speed that wasn’t bordering on stroke levels. “Unless you want me to give my dog the command to eat your nuts off, you need to be more specific.”
When she’d lost her sight, Mackenzie had lost a part of her independence that had been hard-won. Situations where she couldn’t anticipate the outcome fueled a heated panic that swept through her body, churning up her deepest fear: that something would happen while she was alone and utterly defenseless.
Not that she was going to admit that. Not to him, at least.
“Eat my nuts off?” he repeated, sounding way too amused, which ticked her off.
That easygoing confidence of Hunter’s slid beneath her barrier. She told herself she was immune to his woman-whispering ways but knew it was a lie.
“Your charm doesn’t work on me,” she said as she reached for the sugar jar. “And since the only guy with a key to my door is Arthur, and you’re clearly not him, I’d cover your boys.”
“Arthur?”
“My neighbor,” she said. “Now state your name.”
“According to People Magazine, I’m the Sexiest Man Alive and have the best buns two years running,” he said, taking the sugar jar from her and setting it down. “Want to feel?”
The familiar texture of his callused hands on her skin registered, and Mackenzie knew she wasn’t out of danger. Not by a long shot. A stranger there to steal her valuables would have been less of a threat than Hunter, who had that swagger dialed to panty-melting levels.
He took her hands and drew them around his waist to—
Oh.
My.
God.
If she didn’t do something, she was actually going to touch Hunter Kane’s butt. And then what? He’d get all charming and funny and ask her if she agreed with the press, and what was she supposed to do, lie?
“No thanks.” She jerked her hands back. “Buns aren’t on my diet,” she said, remembering just how magnificent his butt was. She’d often spent entire shifts watching it strut around the bar.
As far as she was concerned, he had the best buns seven years running.
“What? Are you gluten-free now?” he asked, and she could feel him smile.
After last night? “Man-free.”
“Does Arthur know that?” he asked, and Mackenzie had to bite back a smile. If she didn’t know better, she’d say Hunter was jealous of her sixty-nine-year-old neighbor. Not that he needed to know how old Arthur was.
“Arthur is very considerate of my need for privacy.”
“Sounds boring.” Hunter’s voice dropped to a low rumble that rippled through her. “And lonely.”
It was lonely, but it was also necessary for her growth and independence. And her pride. Hunter wasn’t just charismatic—he was in charge of his world. And Mackenzie needed to make sure she didn’t let him take charge of hers.
“Are you okay?” he asked, taking her hand.
“I think the wall got the worst of it,” she joked, but he didn’t laugh.
“I wasn’t talking about today,” he said, and she could feel him taking in every nuance of her face, tracking down her neck.
“Why are you here?”
“I was worried about you. Wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m feeling a little awkward after last night,” she admitted. “But nothing so bad it won’t pass.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m feeling a little awkward myself,” he said softly. “We’re still feeling each other out, seeing how we fit.”
“What if we don’t fit anymore?” she whispered.
“What if we fit better than before?”
Always the optimist, she thought. She could even picture that crooked grin of his slowly lighting up as he said it.
Her hands ached to glide over his laugh lines, through his hair, feel if he still kept it a little shaggy. Would his smile make her heart two-step like it used to?
“Do you want me to show you what I look like?” he asked.
“How did you know?”
“You keep scanning back and forth like you’re trying to figure out what’s changed and what’s the same.”
Hunter brought her hands to his lips and brushed a light kiss over the tips of her clasped fingers. “Let me show you.”
Mackenzie almost said no. The reality that he’d be different, that he wouldn’t look like the image she carried with her to bed each night, was terrifying. It wasn’t the him-looking-different part that ate at her. It was finally having concrete proof that everything had changed that had her hesitating.
They were different people now, with different desires and needs. Once she touched his face, the last piece of the fantasy would finally shatter.
Maybe that’s what she needed to move forward. To let go completely. Push past the ignorance is bliss and what-ifs so she could accept the here and now.
With a hard swallow, Mackenzie lifted her hands to his face, her fingers trembling as they lightly brushed his cheeks. She let him guide her at first, breathing in the scent of him as her thumbs slowly trailed over his wide jaw, hard and masculine, the scent of his skin rising from the heat of her touch.
He released her wrists, dropping his head slightly, encouraging her to explore. After a moment’s hesitation, she moved her hands toward the high planes of his cheekbones, then smoothed them over the ridges of his eyebrows.
His long lashes fluttered shut and twitched lightly under her gentle inquiry. Willing her hands to stop shaking, she trailed her fingers down the bridge of his nose, detecting the slight bump earned in a bar fight in Denver. She smiled.
Hunter’s hands slid down her arms to her shoulders, finally settling on her waist, sending a familiar zing through her body. And what a zing it was. Electric, exciting, and tempting.
He tugged her closer, their hips brushing, her breath hitching.
She continued her exploration, lingering at a puckered slice of skin over his right brow, brushing back and forth over the angry mark. “A cut? It’s recent.”
His hands splayed across her waist, urging her even closer, their bodies perfectly aligned. “Brody and I had a, uh . . . minor difference of opinion over his decision to keep you a secret.”
“A minor difference, huh?” She laughed softly, because nothing was the same, yet nothing was all that different either.
Sure, his stubble was rougher, his hair thicker, shorter. He even seemed bigger, his arms and chest more muscular, defined. But that smile.
Mackenzie feathered a single fingertip over his lips and laughed. Oh, that smile was charming, sexy, and all Hunter. It was also playful and soft. So soft she ran a finger over his upper lip, then his lower, loving their velvety texture.
“Mackenzie.” Hunter’s mouth moved under her touch, and a feeling so simple and wholly erotic shot through her, from her fingertips all the way to her toes.
Startled by how strong the attraction still was, she pulled her hands back. “Thank you,” she said. “Most people find it awkward, like their personal space is being invaded.”
“I liked it.”
So had she. Too much, in fact. “How did you get in?”
“I left the back door unlocked when I went out to go get coffee.”
When he left? Mackenzie vaguely remembered him driving her home and walking her to her room. But she thought he’d gone to his place. Only Hunter wasn’t the kind to leave the back door unlocked until morning.
“You stayed here?”
“On the couch with your dog glaring at me all night.”
“He was probably trying to tell you that camping out on a drunk girl’s couch is a huge invasion of privacy,” she said, blaming the warm pit in her belly on irritation.
“I call it being resourceful,” he said, completely unfazed. “My intentions weren’t to scare you.”
“Well, that clears things up.” She angled her body toward the front entryway, because his tone implied that he had no intentions of leaving anytime soon. “You can apologize as you let yourself out. I have a long day ahead of me.”
“Which is why I brought fresh-pressed coffee. I figured after last night you could use some caffeine. And maybe a doughnut. They were out of chocolate, so I got powdered sugar.”
He was playing dirty.
“I can make my own coffee.” Ignoring her kryptonite, she carefully walked to the cupboard and pulled out another mug.
“Yeah, but you get the prepackaged stuff. It tastes like shit.”
“It does not.” She set a second mug on the counter and made a mental note to call Arthur to help her clean up the floor. But first she had to get rid of Hunter before he asked her to touch something else.
“Only because you don’t know any better.” He took her hand to give her a paper cup, and there was that zing again. Warmer than before, sliding through her body like butter on a hot biscuit.
Her breath caught, and Hunter whistled—low and smug. “Impressive, right?”
“I haven’t taken a sip yet.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it.
“I wasn’t talking about the coffee.” With a squeeze, which took her good parts from hibernation to fully caffeinated, he let go.
Rolling her eyes, she took a sip and—sweet baby Jesus—her world felt right again. Her headache disappeared, the sun felt radiant, and she could have sworn she heard birds singing if she listened carefully.
This coffee wasn’t just better. It was magical. Smooth and bold, with a surprising sweetness on the end. Kind of like the man who delivered it.
“It’s a little too sweet and smooth for my taste,” she said, handing it back. “Plus, I like drinking my coffee while reading the morning paper.” She held his gaze, waiting for him to point out that she couldn’t read anything.
“Great, where is it, and I’ll go grab it.”
“It’s at the market around the corner. It’s a special braille edition,” she lied. “You have to ask one of the clerks behind the counter.”
“You want to walk or take my car?”
She smoothed down her hair. “I have to shower and get ready. You go and catch me up later.”
“I can wait.” He pulled out a chair at the counter and, making himself at home, took a seat.
“Okay, let me be clearer. I need to shower, so I’d like you to leave.”
“I know.” He took a leisurely sip of his coffee. “And I’d like to finish that talk we started.”
Mackenzie frowned. “I’m not in the talking mood.”
“Again, I can wait.”
Mackenzie threw her hands up in frustration. “God, you’re such a pain in the ass!”
“You’ll find that I grow on you.”
That was the problem. “When did the guy who’d drink convenience-store drip decide to become a coffee snob?”
“I’ll tell you, if you tell me when you decided to start investing in so much lace,” he said. “I must say, teal really brings out the color in your cheeks.”
“My cheeks are probably as pale as the rest of my face from too much bourbon.”
“I wasn’t talking about those cheeks, Trouble.”
Mackenzie rolled her eyes. So she liked to sleep in nightshirts. So what? She was a single woman living alone. What she wore to bed, or didn’t wear as the case was, wasn’t any of his business. He was the guest who’d worn out his welcome.
Ignoring the cool breeze blowing past her lace-clad backside, Mackenzie crossed her arms over her chest. “Grow up, Hunter.”
Hunter smiled, so big she actually felt it. “If Ben Backster could see you now.”
Mackenzie yanked the bottom of the tank top down, stretching it to cover as much of her un–award-winning buns as possible.
Hunter gave a sound of male appreciation. “I’ll be sure to tell good old Ben you like to match your lace.”
She let go of the tank and it popped up. She heard a low whistle. “Stop looking at my panties.”
“I’m too busy staring at your ass to have time to take in those panties of yours. But if you’d hold still, I can take in both.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, they’re just panties.”
“Have to disagree, Trouble. Panties are cotton with little flowers or the days of the week on them. Those there would fall under lingerie. Cheeky cut, I believe.”
“I need a shower,” she said, noting that Muttley had moved to her side and was forming a barrier between her and the broken mug. “Be sure to lock up when you leave.”
“Let me know if you need help scrubbing your back. I’ve been told I’m very thorough.”
Hunter watched Mackenzie strut down the long hallway, hand lightly brushing the wall on one side to guide her, her ass swishing like she knew he was watching.
And he was.
Hunter hadn’t stopped staring at her since she’d stumbled out of her bedroom dressed in nothing but a T-shirt, teal lace, and those fuzzy pink boots. Then there was the morning sunlight, shining on her sleep-tousled hair and making that lace more like cheesecloth than clothing.
Damn, she knew how to put the good in his morning.
Which was the only excuse Hunter had for how he’d handled things. Had the blood not been pumping south, he’d have known to gently announce his presence. Instead, he’d taken one look at that lace-covered backside, remembered how she’d felt pressed up against him last night, and immediately forgotten the plan—to keep things simple.
Then he’d scared the shit out of her.
He’d never really considered how vulnerable she was. A blind woman alone in a house with a strange man. The possibilities of what could happen if that man were an intruder instead of him made him rethink everything.
Hunter walked into the pantry and grabbed the broom and dustpan. He needed to make sure he got all the pieces of the broken mug cleaned up.
He’d just tossed the last of it in the trash and was using a wet towel to catch the tiny fragments when he was met with two big black eyes—and a growl.
“Hey, fella,” he said, but those eyes only narrowed. Hunter reached out his hand, and Muttley decided it was time to show Hunter his teeth—and whose house this was.
Hunter had been around territorial males enough in his career to recognize one. And know how to deal with him.
“You hungry?” He went to the cupboard and pulled out a bag of kibble he’d seen earlier. Filling up the bowl, he said, “How about we eat some chow, get to know each other, maybe even play some ball?”
Muttley peeled back his lips and let out a loud whoof, and Hunter began to worry that the only balls Muttley looked interested in were between Hunter’s legs.
“Right, well, that isn’t going to happen, so why don’t we get back to playing friends?”
Muttley’s eyes darted around the room, landing on the shattered mug in the trash, then back to Hunter.
“I apologized for scaring her, and then I offered her breakfast, but she turned her nose up at the coffee and disappeared into the bathroom.” With a dismissive snort, Muttley headed out of the kitchen and down the hallway. “You might be there awhile. She didn’t seem in a rush to come back out.”
Unconcerned, Muttley made three circles—his eyes never leaving Hunter—and laid his body against the bathroom door as if prepared to wait an eternity for his mistress to appear.
“Right there with you, pal,” Hunter said, tossing the paper towel in the trash.
As luck would have it, the trash can was next to a stack of unopened mail and her phone. If Mackenzie didn’t want to talk about what she’d been up to since he’d seen her last, then Hunter would do a little exploring on his own.
He swiped her phone screen to get a look at her playlist, wondering if his albums were in her favorites, except he became distracted by an unanswered text from last night. It was from some guy named Arthur.
Had it been from a Mary or Delores or Jenny, Hunter wouldn’t have paid it a second glance. But it was from Arthur and began with the word Darlin’. So, yeah, he may have “accidentally” opened the text.
Only when he opened it, a computerized female voice came from the phone.
“Yesterday at seven-oh-nine p.m.,” the phone began, and Hunter pressed his hand over the speaker to muffle the sound. “From Arthur. Darlin’, it is time for supper. Chicken is on the grill and corn bread is in the oven. Table’s set for two and door’s open.” There was a beep. “Would you like to reply?”
Hunter checked the bathroom. With the door still shut, he whispered into the phone, “Yes.”
“Go ahead with reply.”
“You are one confident prick,” Hunter began. “Too bad for you, Darlin’ was sipping bourbon with me on the porch swing last night.”
He watched the text appear on the screen.
“Would you like to send message?”
Hunter looked at the ceiling and, after a long moment, said, “No,” then set the phone on the table. With a final glare at the screen, he headed to the office, which sat off the main room and housed a baby grand.
Pushing the door all the way open, he walked into a home studio that was beyond impressive. A dozen or so instruments lined the wall, the piano sat in the middle of the room, and a big overstuffed chair rested next to a window, drenched in sunlight. There was her first guitar, a gift from her mama, leaning against the windowsill, and vases of bright flowers were scattered through the room. So many fresh-cut flowers it smelled like a rose garden.
Gone were the computers and digital production boards he’d gotten accustomed to. Instead there was sheet music, a mic, and an old-school soundboard. Mackenzie’s studio had been designed by an artist for an artist.
What caught his eye, though, was one of the sheets of music. Not one on the piano, but some chords and lyrics scribbled in an open journal, which sat next to her chair. Handwritten and incomplete, but two beautiful pages of music, begging to be uncovered.
To be played.
Hunter sat in the chair and picked up her guitar, resting it on his knee. Then he looked at the journal and began playing. A grounding warmth washed over him as he strummed the opening chords. The melody was soft and soulful, a complex combination of familiar and unexpected that drew him in and held on long after the song had ended.
Just like its composer, he thought with a smile. Because while the scribbled notes on the sheet were too masculine to have come from Mackenzie’s hand, the music absolutely had.
But it wasn’t only the chords that had him convinced. No, that honor went to the words scrawled in the lines. His heart rolled over in his chest as he read the raw honesty in the lyrics. They spoke of a love without limits, without restrictions or prejudice. A love that went beyond circumstance, to a level that was as forgiving as it was understanding.
The notes were strong, deliberate, and purposefully unique, but the lyrics . . . Christ, the lyrics. There weren’t a lot—it was a work in progress, and he could tell by the different colors on the page that the process had spanned months, maybe even years—but there was enough there for him to know it was Mackenzie. Right there on the page for him to see.
Her hopes. More important, her fears. He could feel them all as he gently strummed the strings, played the notes she’d kept to herself. He reached the end of what he knew in his heart was a hit and started over, understanding more and more about her with each note he played.
Mackenzie had always been a mystery. She never seemed to need anything or anyone. She was content to stand alone, take on whatever life threw her way with a brave smile. And it was that brave smile that had him so determined to stick around.
Hunter had never been good at sticking, but he wanted this more than he wanted another hit album. And that was saying something.
So before Mackenzie walked in and caught him peeking through her private journal, Hunter set down the guitar and removed any trace of his snooping.
He was just leaving the studio when he spotted a note resting against a vase of roses that were so big it was clear they weren’t of the average flower-shop variety. Nope, these were special-order flowers with a single purpose: to charm.
It was a play from Hunter’s own handbook. A rookie play but an effective one. As he well knew.
And the note? Made from high-quality card stock with silver edging and some fancy AC monogram branded into the front, it was bold, masculine, and enough to make his eye twitch.
He picked up the card and flipped it open. The sunlight pierced the hundreds of holes, which all had a place and purpose. Neighbor Arthur knew how to cook and write braille and had Darlin’s personal number and a key to her place. So what? The dude was clearly long-winded and a pushover.
Mackenzie didn’t like pushovers. Plus, she shared a history and connection with Hunter that couldn’t be surpassed.
Unfortunately for Hunter, Neighbor Arthur also had a signature that was identical to the scribbles in Mackenzie’s journal. Which meant she already had a writing partner in her life.
And it wasn’t Hunter.