probably smell Mr. Smith.” She scratched Strudel’s chest and beneath her chin. When the dog dropped down again, Mackenzie took a step backward. “Anyway. I wanted to say thanks. You said all the right things last night and I really appreciate that you didn’t start looking for the exit the moment I started crying.”
She shrugged, so self-conscious it was difficult to watch. He understood why—she’d been intensely vulnerable last night, stripped bare—but he hated the idea that she thought he was judging her for having such a human, understandable reaction to disappointing news.
“Four months ago I discovered my wife was having an affair with her former boyfriend.” The words were out before he could think about it. “In fact, it turned out she’d never stopped seeing him for the six years of our marriage.”
Mackenzie’s eyebrows rose toward her hairline. Even though he could feel his face heating, he held her eye and kept talking.
“Like I said last night, everyone’s got their own shit to deal with.”
“God. I’m really sorry, Oliver.”
He shook his head. He hadn’t told her because he wanted her pity. “It is what it is. I’m dealing with it. Just like you’re dealing with your stuff. And some days are good, and some days suck the big one.”
“Yeah, they do.”
“I figure there isn’t a rule book for getting through crap. You get through it however you can.”
She cocked her head. “Including driving a thousand miles south to clear out a dead woman’s house?”
“Yeah. Including that, along with some inappropriate use of alcohol, punching of inanimate objects, self-pitying moping and late-night jam sessions on the guitar.”
Truth be told, a part of him had envied her the crying jag last night. At least she’d found an outlet for her pain and frustration. And she hadn’t had to do it alone the way he’d done those times he’d broken down.
“Hang on a minute—was that you playing the guitar the other night? The acoustic stuff?”
He winced. “You could hear that? My apologies.”
“Are you kidding? It was great.”
There was no doubting her sincerity. He shrugged. Apparently it was his turn to be self-conscious.
“I was messing around. Self-indulgent doodling.”
“I meant to ask you who it was so I could buy the album.”
He barked out a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been on the other side of the mixing desk.”
“Maybe you should reconsider that.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” His days of being a professional musician were long gone.
She studied his face for a moment, her eyes warm and searching. Finally she smiled. “Thanks, Oliver.” There was a world of meaning and nuance in her voice.
His gaze dropped to her mouth and he found himself fighting the very inappropriate urge to lean forward and kiss her. She was complicated and a bit messed up, but so was he and he’d dreamed about her last night. About how she’d feel in his arms, and that kiss she’d pressed to his cheek and the round curves of her ass and breasts.
He really wanted to know what she tasted like. What that full bottom lip of hers would feel like pressed against his, and if the connection he’d felt when she’d touched him last night had been a fluke or something more important.
As though she sensed his intent, Mackenzie took another step backward. “Give me a yell over the fence when you’ve finished with the plate, okay?” She turned to go.
For the second time that morning Oliver found himself opening his mouth without first weighing his words. “Strudel and I were about to go for a walk along the beach. Would you and Mr. Smith want to come?”
She paused, and he couldn’t read the expression in her eyes.
“Actually, that sounds good. Can you give me a few minutes?”
“Sure.”
“Then I’ll be back in five.”
He stared after her as she walked along the driveway, wondering at himself.
What was he doing, exactly? Making a play for the neighbor? Exercising his rusty charm?
It was one thing to acknowledge he was a single man and another thing entirely to act on it. If that was what he was doing.
He thought about it for a minute, then went inside to find Strudel’s lead.
The truth was he had no idea what was going on in his own mind at the best of times. And this was definitely not the best of times.
CHAPTER SIX
MACKENZIE SHED HER VEST and shoved her arms into her warmest wool coat, then reached for the fluffy scarf her niece had knitted her for Christmas. Made from