Page 47 of Just for Tonight

I still think of it as a near escape. I was lulled into a kind of complacency, seduced by regular and reasonably good sex. I can’t even imagine what a future with Chelsea would have been like. I don’t want to. In fact, Chelsea and her compulsive planning convinced me of the merit of spontaneity.

Yet I am thinking of future encounters with Mackenzie. I know this is dumb. I know I am, once again, being seduced by the prospect of regular sex but of the stupendous variety. I’m maybe confusing sex with something of a wider scope. I tell myself that, but I’m not quite convinced.

This is the dangerous magic of Mackenzie Rhodes.

I turn off the shower and step out of the steam, grabbing a towel. Mackenzie has claimed the fluffy white bathrobe that was there and is twisting her hair up, standing in front of the mirror with the front of the robe open. She’s watching me in the mirror, waiting for my reply with admirable patience.

She will wait, I know, to the end of time for my reply.

I might as well compose a good answer. I consider the intriguing shadows behind the opening of the robe, the sweet curve of her neck, her graceful fingers and bare feet, and can make a list of things I’d rather do than talk. I know she can read at least the direction of my thoughts.

Lust is not simple, much less covert, when a guy is naked.

“Why?” I ask. I unwrap a toothbrush and brush my teeth quickly. I’m wondering if there’s any food in this place. There is nothing like mind-blowing sex to make me snackish. I could call for delivery from some place, since we are in greater metropolitan Havelock.

Mackenzie smiles, as if I’m a comedian. “Well, it’s something people do.” Her voice lowers a little. “Another kind of intimacy maybe.”

I pretend to shudder, then rinse and finish up. In reality, I should take that as a warning flag on the field. Emotional intimacy? No, thank you. That’s a slippery slope. “I’ll stick with what I know, thanks. Hungry?”

“No. Thanks.”

I pull on my briefs and get my phone, searching for options, acting as if I’m unaware that Mackenzie has followed me out of the bathroom. She’s still waiting. I try to ignore her obvious expectation and it’s not easy. The thing is, I don’t have a stellar reply. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I turn to face her. “We’ve talked about ice wine, and family businesses, about ambition and about Empire. What else is there to talk about?”

“I thought you might want to talk about your dad.”

I scoff. “No.” That answer is easy.

“Sure?”

“Trust me. I never want to talk about my father.”

“Even though his death is the reason you’re even here?”

I don’t have to look up to know that she’s watching me. “Especially because of that.” I look back at my phone. There is nothing in Havelock, sweet or spicy, that tempts me.

Except Mackenzie.

Her feet are bare and I can see them in my peripheral vision. She curls her toes in the carpet, probably unaware that she’s doing it, and everything in me hums approval. Another round would not be all bad. It’s still comparatively early, not even midnight.

I look up to meet her gaze, hauling my thoughts out of the gutter.

She’s still watching as if she has laser vision into my deepest secrets. “Go on,” she invites. “Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I say with impatience. For the record, I’m not impatient because she wants to talk. Women always want to talk afterward. I’m impatient with myself, because I feel like I should indulge her. I try to shut down the conversation before it really starts. “My father was a miserable, horny, controlling bastard and now he’s dead.” I raise a hand. “I’d call it a win but even I know I shouldn’t say that out loud.”

“But you did.”

“Yes. Who are you going to tell?”

Her smile becomes mysterious. “No one, of course.” She heads down the stairs toward the kitchen, moving so gracefully that she could be floating.

Of course, I follow her. I remain mesmerized at this time, despite my efforts to change the status quo.

If anything, another night together has only increased my interest in Mackenzie Rhodes. I refuse to be concerned – yet – about any implications.

I watch her choose a champagne glass – no surprise that this place has glasses for every kind of wine – and open a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge. Every movement is elegant and efficient, as if choreographed for a dancer. She fills the glass, then takes a sip before continuing. “I suppose you learned some of this prickliness from him.”