a drink?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Mack pulled a chilled chardonnay from his refrigerator, uncorked it, and poured two glasses. He handed one to her and let his fingers linger against hers.
“I might need something harder than this,” she said, backing away.
“I can help with that.”
Laughter bubbled up from her chest with a buoyancy that broke the tension. She wanted to kiss him for that reason alone. “That was some bush-league sexual innuendo, Mack. I expect better.”
He chuckled in that low, manly way of his as he shoved the cork back into the top of the wine bottle.
“You seem pretty good at that, though,” she said.
“Good at what?”
She nodded at the bottle. “Sticking long things into tight holes.”
He belly-laughed—an honest-to-god, open-mouthed burst of surprise that lifted his entire face and felt to Liv like winning the lottery. Unexpected, thrilling, and totally life-changing.
Mack brought his glass around from behind her but left one hand on the edge of the counter, forcing him to lean just enough that her nipples brushed against his chest. His voice and his eyes teased. “And you think I’m bush-league?”
She shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “I might be a little rusty at the plate.”
“Haven’t rounded the bases in a while, huh?”
“I could stand to practice my bat handling.”
“Want a home run tip?”
“Always.”
He leaned again. “It’s all about how you grip the wood.”
“Is this where you teach me about finding the sweet spot?”
He winked. “It happens to be my all-star specialty.”
Liv fanned her face. “Damn. Is it hot in here or is it just my vagina?”
His laughter this time made her heart hop like a caffeinated rabbit. Still smiling, Mack leaned against the island behind him, one hand propped against the countertop and the other cradling the wineglass. It looked ridiculously fragile in his strong, thick fingers. The picture he presented was of unapologetic, effortless masculinity. And she had just enough swooning girly girl in her to appreciate every inch of it.
“This is an awfully big house for a single man,” she said.
He looked around before returning his gaze to hers. “I won’t be single forever.”
“What if the future Mrs. Mack doesn’t want to live here?”
His eyes registered genuine surprise. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“I know it’s crazy, but some women like to have a say in their own homes,” she teased over the rim of her glass.
“I can adjust. I plan to treat the future Mrs. Mack like a princess, so whatever she wants, she’ll have.”
Liv snorted. “You really have read too many romance novels.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “And you really haven’t read enough.” Mack sipped his wine. “You want a tour?”
No, Liv wanted to say. Because she didn’t want to learn anything else about him that would suck her even more deeply into his dangerous whirlpool of stereotype-defying surprises. She didn’t want to see more pictures of his family or find out which room he envisioned for the nursery one day.
“Come on,” Mack said, pulling away from the counter. “I’ll show you my book collection.”
Liv let out an exaggerated groan. “Shoot me now.”
Mack reached for her free hand and wrapped her fingers in his. “You need a little romance in your life.”
He tugged her gently to follow him back down the hallway. They turned left at the staircase and walked into a den where floor-to-ceiling bookcases in dark wood boasted an entire library of not just romance novels but books on politics, history, sports, and science. Damn him. She needed him to be a mindless playboy, not a man of deep thought.
A pair of overstuffed leather chairs bracketed a brick fireplace. One looked more worn-in than the other, and an unwelcome image flashed through her mind of Mack reclining there, feet up on the ottoman, reading a book on the fall of the Roman Empire.
On the mantel above the fireplace, a line of family photos caught her attention. She let go of his hand and walked closer to them. She brushed her fingers over a gold frame containing a photo of a smiling man holding up a fish. “Is that your dad?” she asked quietly.
Behind her, he cleared his throat. “No. My uncle.”
“Do you have any pictures of your father?”
“Not in here.”
The catch in his voice brought her around. This was why she didn’t want a tour. She couldn’t afford to think of him as a grieving son who still got choked up just thinking about his father. She sidestepped him and crossed the room to the section of bookcases where he kept his romance novels.
“Which one is your favorite?” she asked,