Joe must be a sucker for punishment, because three days later, he stood on Mac’s doorstep again, ringing her bell. Either that, or he was in far deeper than he liked to admit. He’d spent three days wandering restlessly around the tiny cottage after he’d finished at the clinic, picking up his phone to send her a message every once in a while, only to toss it on his sofa in disgust. Replaying the sounds of her laughter in his head, recalling the feel of her silky hair, the taste of her mouth that made his heart begin to pound. He’d rescheduled his next morning’s appointments—Mr. Douglas’s three-month check up could wait until after lunch—and had boarded the last ferry of the day.

Footsteps sounded from the other side of the door, and the outside lights came on. With a smile he hoped was charming rather than needy, he dredged up his overused “just happened to be in the neighborhood” patter. The door swung inward to reveal Mac winding a knitted scarf around her throat, already bundled up in a thick padded jacket.

Is she going out on a date? The thought exploded into Joe’s head, and he froze, drinking in the sight of her tight blue jeans and tousled ponytail, the dangling silver earrings in her ears, while simultaneously analyzing what he knew of women’s clothing preferences when heading out on a hot date. He had nothing.

“Joe!”

Her lovely face creased into a smile, but her eyes were wary as they scanned him standing there with a bottle of wine in one hand and a chocolate box in the other. He’d spotted a couple of gold wrappers in her trash last time he was here and figured an extra bribe wouldn’t go amiss.

“Guess I should’ve sent you a text,” he said. “You’ve got plans.”

Mac’s mouth twisted. “Obligatory dinner with my mum.”

Dinner with her mother. Oh, thank the baby Jaysus. “I’m familiar with the obligatory dinner. Roast beef and a thorough grilling about your life?”

“Roast chicken, but yeah, there’ll be some grilling.” She slanted another glance at him, slipping her hands into her jacket pockets. “You could come, if you’d like. If you can handle two hours of inappropriate interrogation.” Then she gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Or, if you’re sane, you can opt to stay here and watch the sports channel with Reid upstairs until I get back.”

“You want me to hang around?” he asked. “You’re not mad?”

“About you acting like a jackass to your sister?” She cocked her head. “Yeah, I’m still a little steamed. But I guess you could hang around and drink wine and eat chocolate in bed with me later on.”

“For a reward like that, I can handle a few inappropriate questions,” Joe said.

“You’re sure?”

Hope colored her voice, and something inside him warmed.

“If I can handle Betsy Taylor at her worst, I can handle your mother.” He cleared his throat because maybe they were overdue for a little vulnerability. “And I’d like to meet her.” And he was curious to find out everything he could about Mac and what made her the woman she was.

Fifteen minutes later they arrived at Mac’s mother’s house, Joe having offered to drive while Mac sent her mother a text to let her know about the extra guest.

Cheryl Jones’s face lit up like that of a kid on Christmas morning when she spotted Joe standing behind her daughter.

“You’re the friend Mac mentioned?”

She tucked a lock of blond hair the same shade as her daughter’s but shot with fine strands of silver behind her ear.

Joe stepped forward and draped an arm around Mac’s shoulders. “Mac’s being coy. I’m Joe Whelan, her boyfriend.”

“Her boyfriend.” Cheryl’s smile grew even wider. “Come on in. I’m sure we’ve got a lot to talk about over dinner.”

Mac elbowed him in the ribs before she followed her mother into the hallway. They stripped off their jackets and scarves.

“You’re not my boyfriend.”

She handed him her jacket to hang up, which he did without complaint. And because he was a good boyfriend, he held out his hand for her scarf, which she also passed to him.

“I am. Unless you want to reintroduce me to your mum as your hot, studly lover.”

“I really don’t like you,” she muttered as he followed her through to the dining room.

“Your mother does.”

He pasted on his most disarming smile and approached Cheryl, who was peeling the foil off a wine bottle.

“Can I help with that, Mrs. Jones?” And maybe he thickened his accent just a little.

“Oh, it’s Cheryl, please.” She beamed and passed him the bottle and a corkscrew.

He flicked a glance to Mac who slid into one of the dining chairs at the table, which was already laden with the roast chicken and all the trimmings. Dimples had appeared in her cheeks, and her lips were pressed tight together. She rolled her eyes at him and mouthed, suck-up.

“This is a nice wine, Cheryl.” He uncorked the bottle and poured a measure into each of the three glasses. “We’re spoiled to be drinkin’ it.”

“I had been saving it for a special occasion.” She fussed around with the folded napkins beside each plate. “Hoping that Andrew might pop the question. But, alas, it wasn’t to be.” Cheryl took a seat at the head of the table, leaving Joe to sit opposite Mac. “Still, this is a special occasion, too.”

He didn’t miss the glance Cheryl slid toward her daughter as he handed Mac a wineglass. Neither did he miss the subtle drawing back of Mac’s delicate shoulders, the absent dimples a clear indicator that her upbeat mood of a few moments ago had vanished. The dead giveaway, though, was Mac draining half her wine in one go.

“What happened with Andrew?” she asked. “I thought you two were getting on well.”

“Oh, we were,” Cheryl said, offering Joe a platter. “Chicken? There’re a couple of legs on there.”

“I’m a breast man, myself,” he said.

Either ignoring the corny boyfriend joke or just intent on her mother, Mac leaned forward. “Andrew’s a nice guy, Mum. Don’t tell me you broke it off with him.”

Joe dumped a leg and a chunk of breast meat onto his plate, went to pass the platter across the table, decided his arm muscles would give out before Mac was ready to take it, and set it down again.

“He wasn’t ready for commitment,” Cheryl said.

“Neither are you.”

“That’s not true. Roast spuds and kumara, Joe?”

“Sure.” Joe took the second platter off Mac’s mum and loaded up his plate. With enough food to stuff in his mouth to keep it full, he wouldn’t be invited to contribute to this conversation. That was his plan anyway.

Mac propped an elbow on the table and pulled down the index finger of one hand with the index finger of the other. “Kevin,” she said.

“Was more interested in being a grandpa. All I could see in our future was trips with his grandkids to that dreadful indoor kids’ playground. You know, the one with all the high-pitched squealing and a guy dressed up as a giant rodent.”

Mac ticked down her second finger. “Robert. He moved in with you after three months of dating then moved right back out again two weeks later.”

“Difference of opinion regarding personal hygiene. I told you that, sweetie. Peas, Joe?” Cheryl asked.

“Why not?” Half the serving dishes were now down Joe’s end of the table.

He scooped a spoonful of peas onto to his plate. Behind Mac, there were a dozen framed photos arranged on the wall, three of which jumped out immediately at him as wedding portraits. The first was a black and white photo of a very young Cheryl with long, straight blond hair and a stiff-looking white wedding dress, posed with an equally young pale-blue-tux-wearing man. They were smiling into each other’s eyes, filled to the brim with teenage hopefulness—or so it would seem.

The second portrait was of an older Cheryl, this time in a less flamboyant wedding gown but with a teased ’80s hairdo that would’ve made Van Halen jealous. The groom’s arms were wrapped possessively around her like a boa constrictor, but by the bride’s huge grin, she didn’t seem to mind.

In the last portrait, Cheryl wore a simple summery dress in pale yellow, her hand linked with that of a tall sandy-brown haired man. He had sun-creased hazel eyes and a kind smile that suggested he’d happily give you the shirt off his back should you need one. That must be Dennis, Mac’s dad. His daughter was the spitting image of him.

“Andrew made me happy,” Cheryl said. “But so does a bubble bath and a good book. And a few moments of happiness can set up the false expectation that the relationship will survive reality. We couldn’t make it past the first real-life hurdle without crumbling.” She pulled a face then fixed a bright smile on her mouth. “This isn’t a conversation to have in front of your new boyfriend, is it? Now, pass Joe the gravy, and tell me how you two met.”

Mac dropped her elbow off the table and blew out a sigh. Fine lines etched either side of her mouth as she lifted the gravy jug and handed it to him. Their eyes met, and in hers Joe saw tired resignation. Was that resignation there for her mother’s love life? Or was it for her own? Was he her boyfriend, her lover, or whatever—or was he just some guy who made her happy? Temporarily happy, like a bubble bath and a good book. Wine and a box of chocolates.

Then her gaze sharpened on his, warmth spilling through the clear green irises, and the dimples returned.

“Joe’s the resident doctor on Oban. He was checking me for gonorrhoea. We hit it off during the pelvic exam after he said my cervix was a very pretty shade of pink.”

Cheryl dropped her fork, her mouth sagging, gaze zipping between her daughter and Joe. Laughter and something else swelled inside Joe’s chest. Surprise and unbridled affection. He wasn’t just crazily attracted to her and wanting to get back into her bed—though he did—but, by God, he really, genuinely liked this girl.

“She’s not wrong. She has a lovely cervix; I was quite taken with it,” Joe said. “Could you pass the salt, please, Cheryl?”

Mac’s mum handed over the shaker without a word and picked up her fork again. “I’m pretty sure you’re teasing, MacKenna, but for goodness sake, don’t scare the poor man off.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t scare easily,” Joe said and dug into his meal.

The rest of the visit passed quickly enough once Cheryl had refilled hers and Mac’s wineglasses again, Joe opting for water since he was designated driver. He could see many of Mac’s positive traits reflected in her mother—and understood why men gravitated toward them both—though Mac had an edgier side to her that he didn’t see in Cheryl. He got Mac a little more by the time he’d offered to help her mum with the cleanup and was ordered to relax in the living room. Cheryl, the female Peter Pan who didn’t want to grow up beyond the young woman in the wedding photos. Cheryl, who talked about Mac’s father often and referred to him as her “husband” before quickly correcting herself by tagging on the “ex.” Cheryl, the three parts romantic optimist to the one part skeptic, and Mac, the polar opposite of three parts skeptic to one part romantic.

Cheryl hugged them both goodbye before they stepped out into the crisp night air. Joe took Mac’s hand as they strolled down the driveway.

“All right, then?” he asked, following her to the passenger door of her car and backing her into it, keeping her curvy body tucked close to his as he braced his hands on the roof.

“I’m sorry you had to hear about her latest dating disaster. Three failed marriages and she still thinks her Prince Charming is out there somewhere, and she’s determined to find him by testing out one man at a time.”

He dipped his head, resting his forehead on hers. “Yet she sounds as if she’s still hung up on your dad.”

“Yeah.” Mac’s hands came to rest on his hips then burrowed under his sweater to hook onto his belt. “You’re pretty astute for a doctor. Ever consider swapping to psychiatry?”

“I do find a woman’s mind sexy,” he said.

She chuckled, low and dirty, and reeled him in closer, their hips bumping.

“Take me home, Doctor,” she said. “I’ll show you just how sexy my mind can be.”

That was an offer any sane man wouldn’t turn down.

* * *

The Stewart Island ferry pitched sharply into another wave trough as it wallowed through Halfmoon Bay Harbor toward the wharf, and Mac’s stomach did a triple flip. For the past hour, she’d moved back and forth from her seat inside the ferry to the small, outside deck to suck in deep breaths of fresh, sea air. Deep breaths, gaze locked on the horizon, iron-willpower—all were meant to help Mac not puke on her brand-spanking-new hiking boots.

She’d survived the hour-long trip. Barely. Normally she didn’t get seasick, but with the knots that grew larger and tighter in her stomach all week since the night Joe had dinner with her and her mum, motion sickness was the least of her concerns.

A gust of wind whipped strands of her hair into her face. One of them got snagged on her oversized sunglasses, and she carefully peeled it off. It wouldn’t do to yank too hard on her scarily high ponytail in case it and the bona fide, polka dot scrunchie avalanched down her scalp. She slid a sideways glance at a uniformed man who was getting the ropes ready for docking in Oban. He’d given her a polite but bland nod as she’d boarded the ferry this afternoon, showing no signs of recognition. The scrunchie, skinny jeans, hiking boots, and hooded windbreaker were a strategic disguise. So far, she’d blended in perfectly. Like a chameleon, baby.

Just another young twenty-something, planning to walk part of the Rakiura Track over the weekend. Nothing to see here, people. Definitely not the cousin of one of the local women, arriving for a long-distance booty call.

Her nose crinkled. Rock, hard place, Mac squished in the middle. She’d been ordered

by Laura and Reid to get her cranky, horny butt over to Oban for the weekend. Laura, of course, had been given the low down by Reid approximately thirty seconds after the three of them had congregated for brunch the morning after Joe left.

Then there was Holly and the girls in Oban. Even though Holly was distracted by wedding fever—though she swore she wouldn’t be after Shaye had nearly turned into the mother of all bridezillas—she’d know something was up if Mac was spotted in Oban for no good reason. Mac couldn’t think of a good reason. She couldn’t seem to think of any reason or anything other than Joe. And that was the last thing she wanted to explain to her cousin.

So she’d booked a room in a B&B that was located on the other side of town from where Holly and her friends lived, and she’d go do her thing in stealth mode. Nobody needed to know about the booty call with Oban’s Doctor Sexy McSexface.

Mac slunk off the ferry as soon as she could, collected her hiker’s backpack—all part of the disguise—and headed at a fast clip off the wharf. A misty gray afternoon with a chill wind had kept all but the hardiest tourists inside their lodgings, and the few locals about didn’t give her a second glance. You could tell the locals by their complete indifference to the weather, while tourists would huddle together and toss around words like “unpredictable” and “bloody colder than I expected.” A few determined gulls swooped through the dull sky, the sway of wind soughing through the trees a waving audience below them.

She hiked in the opposite direction to the smattering of small businesses that made up the tiny Oban township—including Holly’s hair salon and Holly’s soon-to-be sister-in-law Bree Komeke’s combination gift shop and gallery. Farther along the curving shoreline of Halfmoon Bay beach loomed Due South, the pub’s windows steaming up from the heat of warm bodies inside.

She refused to even glance at the road that led to the tiny medical center and the doctor’s lodgings behind it. She hadn’t seen the medical center or the cottage that was part of the package deal in years. Not since she was a kid who’d sprained her wrist while staying with Holly and her parents during the Christmas holidays.

Turning off the main road onto a narrower bush-lined one, Mac followed the attached map noted in the confirmation e-mail she’d been sent from Southern Seas B&B. She’d seen the surprisingly tech-savvy owner, Mary Duncan, around town over the years, and Mary’s reputation for being somewhat of a loner made her an obvious choice when it came to booking accommodation.

A tall woman with iron gray hair and wearing denim dungarees uncurled upright from her garden as Mac faltered in the driveway. She tossed a handful of weeds onto the pile she’d created and strode over, offering Mac a mud-streaked hand.

“I’m Mary Duncan,” she said.

Mac shook it, impressed at the strength in the elderly woman’s grip. Mary had to at least be knocking on the door of her seventh decade, but she moved with the agility of a woman half her age.

“You’re Laura Manning?” Mary’s gaze skimmed over Mac, another crinkling line adding to the mass of wrinkles on her face. “You look familiar.”

“I get that a lot,” Mac said with a toothy smile. “People say I look like Reese Witherspoon.”

Mary poked her head forward. “Nope. Don’t see it myself.” She shrugged and brushed her palms down the legs of her overalls. “Never mind. I’ll show you the room. We’ll sort out the paperwork sometime later—we’re pretty informal ’round here.” She paused, pursing her lips. “Or do you need me to make small talk with you? Some guests like that. Local character tells tall tales sort of thing.”

“I’m good,” Mac said, this time giving Mary a genuine smile. “No small talk required.”

“Righty-o, let’s go.”

Mary bustled past Mac and onto a paved path that led down the side of the big two- story house. The path continued around the back of the house and past sets of sliding glass doors, each with a hand-carved wooden sign above them. Drapes concealed the rooms behind the first two sliding doors—“Sea Lion” and “Shark” according to the signs—but the drapes hanging on the last sliding door at the end of the house were open.

Mac’s jaw sagged, her gaze torn between the “Whale” sign above the door and the room, which was anything but retreat-ish.

“I’ve not long redecorated, so I’ve put you in the whale room.” Mary slid the door open wide. “It’s my favorite.”

Whale room was apt. There was the gigantic black-and-white orca head print duvet cover on the queen bed, a collection of whale silhouette cushions on the couch, plus a fluffy printed throw rug featuring a spouting whale. Then there was the framed whale photographs covering the walls and a collection of whale figurines sprinkled around the room, including a glazed pottery one positioned on a chest of drawers opposite the bed. Goodness knew how a person could get any sleep with that one giant eyeball staring at you all night. Mac didn’t need to poke her head around the en suite bathroom door to guess the whale theme would be continued throughout.

Mac shrugged off her backpack. “It looks very cozy.” And not at all creepy, like, say, what she imagined now was inside the shark room. “I’ll settle in and let you get back to your garden.”

“Excellent,” Mary said. “Holler if you need anything.” Then she bustled away, leaving Mac alone with the whale pod.

Thirty minutes later, after Mac reconsidered her “text Joe and get him to come to her B&B room for more toe-curling sexy times” plan—because who in their right mind could have any type of sex with a whale audience?—Mac flipped up the hood of her windbreaker and turned onto the main road back toward town. Sexy time would have to take place at Joe’s place, and, God, what if it was his turn to host poker night? Worse—what if he had another woman already lined up for his Friday night entertainment?

She chewed on her lower lip, thankful for the light rain falling as she speed-walked past the white-capped waves hurling themselves at the wharf’s pylons. She couldn’t text Holly and ask if she knew what Sexy McSexface was up to—her cousin was way too savvy, even in her being in love is awesome fugue state. And she couldn’t text Joe because if he did have plans, Mac sure as hell didn’t want him knowing she was even there.

The medical center came into sight, and her chest loosened at the lack of cars parked alongside the grass verge. The center closed in ten minutes, that much she did know, and given a little luck, she’d have time to snoop around Joe’s house. If she peeked inside his kitchen window and saw poker game supplies, such as chips and nuts and empty beer boxes, she’d haul ass back to her whale sanctuary. If she peeked in his bedroom window and saw an exotic beauty in matching lingerie sprawled out on his bed, she’d also leave. Then later, she’d circle back with a pound of locally caught seafood to hide in his house until the smell of rotting fish drove him insane.

Mac continued to plot diabolical ways to exact revenge on Joe for sleeping around as she hurried down the driveway leading to the doctor’s cottage and a small patients’ parking lot. She crossed the parking lot and made a beeline for the side of the cottage.

“Can I help you, love?”

Mac spun around to see Maggie, the center’s nurse, unlocking her car door, her gaze crawling over Mac with curiosity but no recognition. Yet. The fact Mac still wore sunglasses in the rain would stir some questions she didn’t want to answer in three, two, one…

“Oh, I was, um…” About to start snooping around private property. “Looking for the doctor, but I can see you’re closing, so I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Maggie said. “We’re not open on Saturday. Unless it’s an emergency.” Her mouth pursed, gaze switching from curious to concerned.

“Nope, not an emergency.” Step away from the hottie doctor’s house, Mac ordered her legs. “Just a little thing that can wait until I get back home.”

“Ah. A little lady thing, I’m guessing?” Maggie said with the tone of a woman who’d dealt with her fair share of womanly issues. “Urinary tract infection coming on? Cranberry juice is good for that.”

Mac’s core muscles involuntarily squeezed. Oh yeah, she had a lady thing problem, all right. But nothing to do with an infection. “Um. Yeah, okay, cranberry juice. I’ll try that.” She retreated another two steps.

Maggie’s nose lifted toward Mac like a hunter’s dog catching the scent of a wild boar. “Worse than that, is it?” she said. “How about I check to see if Joe can squeeze you in? You don’t want to have to wait until Monday.”

Mac’s heart rate quadrupled. “I’m fine. Please don’t bother the doctor—”

“He won’t be bothered at all. He’s a lovely man, our Doctor Whelan. He’ll fit you in. I can see you’re in a bit of pain, so he won’t mind a bit.”

Maggie turned toward the center’s back door just as it swung open and Joe stepped out, his gaze locked on the phone in his hand.

“Oh, there he is now. I’ll ask him for you,” Maggie added.

Before Mac could either run like a startled rabbit or fall flat into a commando crawl and scurry into the undergrowth, Joe looked up, and across the parking lot their eyes met.

Obviously unaware of the giant arcs of sexual tension sparking overhead between Joe and Mac, Maggie hurried the few steps from her car to Joe, leaned in, and murmured something quietly to her employer. Joe’s head jerked back, his eyes widening, then a slow, sexy-as-hell smile spread over his face.

“Sure,” he said, loud enough for Mac to hear. “I can fit her in.”

He gestured Mac over, and without looking like a complete bubblehead, she couldn’t very well refuse. The lovely Doctor Whelan was apparently up for The Most Selfless Doctor of the Year award.

Mac sidled over, simultaneously trying to shoot bullets out her eyeballs at Joe while maintaining a grateful expression for Maggie. “I don’t want to interrupt your Friday night plans, Doctor.”

“I’ve nothing planned for tonight. Just a quiet night in.” A flash of straight white teeth. “Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable all weekend. We’ll pop back inside and figure out how I can help.”

Her cheeks heated, because, dammit, the man was blatantly sexualizing his words even though only she could decipher the flirtation in them, and Maggie just continued to stare at her boss as if he was the best doctor ever.

“Do you want me to stay, Joe?” Maggie asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Joe said smoothly. “Unless you want my nurse to stay, Miss…?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Laura. Laura Manning.” Now she actually was running a temperature. Mac squirmed on the spot. “And there’s no need for you to stay, thank you.”

“Sorted, then.” Joe gave Maggie a friendly pat on her shoulder. “Off you go home. I’ll lock up here when I’m done checking out Laura.”

Maggie sent Mac a comforting smile and went back to her car, unlocked it, and climbed inside. It started with a muted roar, and the nurse-cum-receptionist reversed out of the parking spot.

“Lady problems, eh?” Joe said.

Maggie gave them both a little wave through the car’s windshield.

“Shut up.” Mac’s lips peeled into a fake smile as she waved cheerily in return. “I’m leaving once she does.”

“Chicken.”

Maggie drove past them and disappeared from sight. Joe turned and locked the center’s back door.

“I’m not a chicken,” Mac said. “I came all the way over here, didn’t I? But if you have a hot date already, just say the word.”

“No hot date.” He spun the keychain ring around his forefinger a couple of times. “I was merely asking if you’d like to have a chicken dinner with me, since you’re here and since I know you like it. Or maybe I really should check out your ladytown because it could be a case of gonorrhoea. Or honeymoon cystitis.”

“Ladytown?” Mac trailed behind Joe as he strolled across the parking lot toward his front door. “Please tell me you don’t say ‘ladytown’ to your female patients.”

“Uterus,” he said in a raised, outside voice, not breaking stride. “Clit—”

“Shut up!” Her roots flamed hot, and her hair would catch fire any second. Not helping at all that the two body parts mentioned had reacted to Joe’s voice with perky, tingly enthusiasm.

He stopped just before he reached the cottage, and whirled to face her, blue eyes sparkling with humor and challenge. “Labia minora.”

“Joe!”

“Tell me the truth, MacKenna. Did you need a doctor, or do you need me?” He spread his arms, showing her his palms, emphasizing the breadth of his chest beneath his navy blue V-neck sweater.

And Lord, help her, she allowed herself a moment’s weakness to enjoy him. The scruff on his chin that she itched to scrape her fingernails down, the slight cowlick that gave a lock of sandy-brown hair an adorable twist and loosened something deep inside her one notch toward liking him even more than she already did. The chinos that were cut just tight enough to have given her a glimpse of his tight butt as he’d walked away—and, yes, the sight of it had definitely raised her blood pressure and given her a little lower-belly flutter.

He assumed the position of a male, digging in his mental heels with folded arms and a wide-set stance. “Labia majora.”

“You’re going to run out of body parts soon.”

“Vagina.”

How the man made a less-than-attractive body-part name sound sexy, she didn’t know. She only knew she wanted him to thoroughly investigate all her body parts, and not in a “doctorly” way.

“Fine,” she said, ignoring the tingles that had spread out from her uterus and down through her vagina. “You win. I’m here because I need you.”

“There, now.” Joe unfolded his arms. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He unlocked his front door and disappeared inside.

She had to give him round one, the cocky Irish mongrel.