No Strings Attached (21 page)

“Attack cats?” he asked.

“It takes them a while to warm to strangers.”

How much time? he wondered. The Savannahs were shifty and suspicious, with a pack mentality.

“Do you plan to introduce us?” he asked.

“You’re a passing acquaintance and won’t be around long enough to know them well.”

“Good manners, Jen,” he persisted. “Their names?”

Her sigh was heavy; her expression exasperated. “They have African names. There are three males.” She pointed to each one. “Jengo, Neo, and Chike.”

Chike, Mac noted, was the black Savannah guarding the stairs. The cat gave him the evil eye.

“The female is Aba.” She reached down and scratched the ear on a light-colored tabby. “Care to come in?” she challenged.

He had two options: walk back to the boardwalk or survive her cats. His decision came when Aba fanned her tail. Perhaps there was hope for him yet. He could charm most females.

Mac took a chance. He climbed the steps, keeping one eye on Chike. He didn’t want his toes mauled or his calf used as a scratching post. He moved slowly.

Jen held the door for him. He entered, expecting cat paws on his heels. The Savannahs surprised him. One leaped onto the glider. The remaining three sought window boxes.

“No flowers for you,” he said to Jen.

“The cats claimed the boxes years ago. Cool spots on a hot day.”

“Do they come inside?” he asked.

“There’s a cat door in the back,” she said. “They come and go, but never leave the yard. They’re loyal and territorial.”

“You have
four.
” He couldn’t get over the number.

“They’re my kids.”

“No diapers, midnight feedings, or college funds.”

“They also don’t talk back and are more trustworthy than the men I date.” She flipped on the ceiling fan and an overhead light.

He’d expected a cat smell, but the air was clean and fresh. He believed a home fit a person’s personality, yet the cottage was in contrast to the woman. He took in her space. The inside shutters on the windows were open. The interior was bright and pleasant. Cozy.

Her furniture was overstuffed and comfortable. Bamboo runners ran throughout. What had he expected, straight-back wooden chairs and sharp-edged tables? Perhaps photos of her with the Wicked Witch of the West and her Flying Monkeys?

There were clusters of pictures, some taken of her family and others of her cats. How she’d gotten all four to pose around the base of a Christmas tree was beyond him, yet they’d stretched out, patient and alert. Mac could never have sat still that long.

His condominium was ten times the size of her cottage. Dune had helped him invest in the beachfront property. Size mattered. His place had entertainment value.

His condo had pitched ceilings, wide glass walls, and an open staircase that led to a loft. His furniture was made for his body. He’d let a designer pick the color scheme. She’d recommended pewter, sand, and sage. Chairs-and-a-half along with ten-foot couches were spread throughout.

He had an open-door policy to friends and fans. Company came and crashed at all hours. The more the merrier.

Jenna rested her hip against an armless chair. “What now?” she asked.

He glanced at her, then over her shoulder. Her backside was reflected in an oval mirror. She stood relaxed, her left hip jutting. The smooth tapering of her spine and sexy curve of her hips gave her body symmetry and flow. She had a sweet ass.

“Stop checking out my butt,” she said sharply.

Busted
. He met her gaze and smiled. “I thought we’d attend the bazaar, unless you’d rather have sex.”

She didn’t return his smile. Instead she arched a brow. “Have you seen yourself today?” she asked. “You’re a moving mess.”

He crossed to the mirror. He’d had better days. He was rough around the edges with his weed-whacker hair, dark circles under his eyes, and heavy stubble.

He’d grabbed the cleanest clothes in his pile of dirty laundry. His hoodie had paw prints near one pocket where Ghost had jumped on him after digging in the sand. He wore a white T-shirt underneath, soiled by a grease stain. He’d been eating french fries and used his shirt as a napkin. His board shorts hung just fine, low on his hips and a little wrinkled, but clean enough to wear a third day. He was barefoot and would need a pair of flip-flops or sandals to get into the Civic Center.

He glanced at Jen’s feet. Small. He could wear a pair of her flip-flops if necessary. It didn’t matter if his heels hung over the back.

“I’ve looked better and I’ve looked worse.” He was honest. “Let’s hit the bazaar for an hour, then part ways.”

“Brush your hair first.”

“I’d also like to shave.”

Her gaze narrowed. “You want to borrow my brush and razor?”

“Like we were roommates.”

“Which we’re not.” She looked inordinately pale.

“Where’s your bathroom?” he asked.

“Down the hall, second door on the left.”

He found it easily. He cleaned up the best he could. He shaved with her pink Lady Schick and wet down his hair. He liked her boar-bristle brush. He then added toothpaste to his finger and brushed his teeth. He gargled with a capful of her mouthwash.

He was soon as good as she was going to get.

He shrugged off his hoodie and tugged his shirt over his head on his way back to the living room. Jen stood in the same spot he’d left her. Her eyes widened when she saw him.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“You’re undressing.”

“Just down to my boards. I need something clean. Any chance you have an extra shirt, size large?”

“You’re imposing, Mac.”

“One shirt, one hour. That’s hardly an imposition.”

Her sigh was long-suffering. “My nightshirt might fit you.”

She slept in an oversized shirt. He liked that. He wondered if she wore panties. “No flowers, baby animals, or rainbows, I hope.”

“It’s solid black.”

He could pull off black. “I need something for my feet” came out of his mouth next.

She pursed her lips. “My uncle left a pair of gardening boots in my garage. You’re welcome to those.”

She led him to the waterproof boots. They were brown, worn, and snug. His toes curled under. The fleece lining made his feet sweat. It seemed like he was standing in hell.

“You ready to go?” he asked.

She looked down on her belly shirt and shorts. “Quick change,” she told him. He followed her from the garage.

“Care to introduce me to your vibrators?”

Her steps faltered. “Wait for me by the door.”

He preferred her living room. He checked the bottom of his boots to make sure he wasn’t tracking in mud or manure. The rubber bottoms were clean.

He walked around, biding his time. He opened and closed the shutters, sat in her antique rocking chair, and set her wall clock five minutes fast so she’d never be late.

She soon returned in a sundress and sandals. He stared. The light color set off her tan and the gauzy fabric was nearly see-through. He wondered if she wore underwear.

He was so into her, he almost dropped the T-shirt she tossed his way. He made a mad grab. He pulled it on and noticed her nipple imprints. He patted his hands down his chest. The cotton flattened.

He then sniffed his sleeve. “I smell like cake.”

“Frosted Cupcake body lotion,” she told him. “The scent is vanilla bean and butter cream.”

Great, he smelled like dessert. He’d have to skip the main crowd at the Civic Center and walk the perimeters of the exhibits. He hated smelling edible.

Nine

“Y
ou smell sweet,” Dune Cates heard Sophie Saunders say. His back was to her, and he turned to see who she was sniffing.

“Let me rub my sugar on you.”

Mac James stood a foot away. Sophie blushed when he hugged her. Dune counted to ten. “You can let go of her now.”

Mac kissed Sophie on the forehead, then released her. It was a brotherly kiss, Dune noted, and not one to provoke or piss him off. Mac was a flirt and laid his charm on thick. Not so tonight. His partner appeared friendly, but reserved. Dune wondered what had triggered the change.

“What brings you to the Civic Center?” asked Sophie.

“Jenna brought me,” Mac said easily.

Ah, crap, Dune thought. He didn’t like the fact that Jen and Mac were together. He’d lost a second bet to Sophie.

Sophie glanced up. Her eyes were bright and her smile triumphant.
I told you so
was written all over her face. She was gracious. She didn’t whoop, victory dance, or call attention to herself. Instead, she stood very still. She didn’t want Mac aware of their wager.

Dune inhaled and caught a whiff of sugar and vanilla. He eyed Mac. “Your shirt smells like a bakery,” he said.

“It’s my nightshirt,” Jen said, joining them. She carried a small terra-cotta planter painted with purple pansies. “The scent of Frosted Cupcake body lotion never fully washes out.”

Dune raised a brow. “How’d Mac get hold of your nightshirt?” he asked.

The moment turned awkward. “He followed me home,” Jen finally said.

“Followed her after her date canceled at the last minute,” Mac was quick to say.

“His hoodie and shirt were dirty, so I lent him a replacement,” Jen continued. “Mac likes art and wanted to attend Twilight Bazaar.”

“Mac and art?”
That
surprised Dune.

“So he says.”

“He says a lot.”

Mac rolled his shoulders. “Have you met her cats?” he asked Dune.

Dune nodded. He’d cat-sat for Jen on a weekend when he was home and Jen needed to go out of town. “Chike was distant, but he kept an eye on me the whole time.”

“No male bonding with me, either,” Mac admitted.

“Chike is cautious,” Jenna said. “He chooses his friends wisely.”

“Next visit and we’ll be tight,” Mac predicted.

“No more visits,” Jen said firmly.

Dune saw the look Mac gave Jen when she wasn’t watching. It was an anxious, yet purposeful stare. Dune had never known Mac to be nervous around a woman. This was a first for him.

Mac had somehow finagled a date to the bazaar. The night was young and Mac and Jen had yet to face off. Dune sensed their evening would end badly. They were two very different people. Common ground wasn’t in their future.

He happened to glance down. “Nice boots, dude.” He grinned at Mac.

“Gardening boots,” said Mac. He stepped from one foot to the other and winced. “Tight and itchy. Fire and brimstone.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Jen reminded him.

“I’m begging off shortly.”

“Feel free to leave anytime,” she said sweetly.

Underlying sarcasm? Dune heard it and so had Mac. Her tone set Mac off. A muscle jerked in his jaw. “Hard to believe she’s attracted to me,” he said.

“She is?” Sophie came alive at Dune’s side.

“So she claims.”

Jenna glared at Mac. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“I can’t believe you’re so upset.”

“Believe it.” She clutched the flowerpot so tightly, Dune expected her to crack it over Mac’s skull. Instead, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd. Her anger lingered. They all felt it.

Mac stared after her. “What the hell just happened?”

“Jen left you for dead,” said Dune.

“I can’t win for losing.”

“What, exactly, are you trying to win?” Dune wanted to know.

“Or
who
?” inserted Sophie.

Mac didn’t answer. It wasn’t like him to close down. He always had a smartass remark. Not so tonight, thought Dune. Mac was quiet and introspective. He was oblivious to the women who passed by, smiled at him, brushed against him, and gave him the sexual eye.

Sophie patted Mac on the arm. “You can walk around with us,” she offered.

“Or you can walk home,” suggested Dune.

“Thanks, Soph, you always look out for me.” Mac put his arm around her shoulders. She was the perfect leaning post for his height. “I’ll hang for a few more minutes,” he said.

“No more than ten,” said Dune.

The three of them moved with the crowd. They eventually stopped at a booth with framed pastels. “The paintings are soft and soothing,” Sophie observed. “The hammocks and bedrooms make me sleepy.”

“Bet the artist was tired,” said Mac.

Mac released Sophie long enough to pick up a small painting of a vintage wooden rocker. The wicker was intricately painted. The back curved like a spine. “Looks similar to the one in Jenna’s cottage,” he said.

“A nice gift,” Dune noted, “especially if a guy screwed up and wanted to make amends.”

Mac continued to look at the painting. He stared so long that Dune made the decision for him. Something had gone down between Mac and Jenna that only Mac could fix. He gave his partner the benefit of the doubt. He slipped his wallet from his back pocket and passed him a fifty.

“Resolve” was all he said. He left the rest to Mac.

Mac bought the painting and pocketed the change. The Civic Center was packed and people pushed around them; a few cut between them. Mac wasn’t fazed until someone stepped on his toe.

“Time to kick these boots,” he grunted. “Take care of our Sophie,” he said to Dune. “I’m out of here.” He and his painting moved toward the main door.

“Poor Mac,” Sophie sighed. “He and Jen didn’t last long. They don’t do well on dates.”

“Poor me,” said Dune. “They arrived together. That’s all you needed to collect on our second bet.”

“There are lots of choices at the bazaar.”

She took his hand as she was apt to do. Jostled by the crowd, they bumped arms, hips, legs. She stepped on his foot twice. He didn’t mind. There was something oddly comforting in knowing she walked beside him.

They weren’t an official couple, although each time he was with her, he liked her more. He found it harder and harder to remember that he was an injured volleyball player without a future. Hanging out with Sophie gave him a sense of purpose. He liked waking up to her latest adventure.

It took them two hours to view every booth and table inside the Civic Center. The vendors smiled when Sophie approached. She wanted to support every artist and merchant. She was a guaranteed sale.