Page 34 of Hearts Don't Lie
Mac flung the door open, the glass of wine in her hand, her brow furrowed. “Hardin.” She took a sip and cast a cool look in his direction, blocking his entry.
“Hey,” he said, feeling tongue-tied as his eyes traveled her body. She was barefoot with navy-blue toenails, wearing short cutoffs showcasing shapely lean legs and a red-and-blue-striped sleeveless tank that skimmed her flat stomach and perky, full breasts. There wasn’t a woman alive who had anything on the beautiful McKenna Rose Vesley Eliot. His gaze lingered on those chestnut-brown eyes. He blinked in response to her hard stare and the thickness pressing against his fly. “Yes.”
“What’re you doing here? And how do you know where I live?”
“Um…” His eyes watched the movement of her lips as they covered the glass and sipped, then traveled the delicate column of her neck as she swallowed.
She shook her long wavy ponytail, then cocked her head. “Oh, never mind. I forgot you hired a PI.” Mac took another sip and pivoted, saying over her shoulder, “Come in, I guess. Shut the door behind you. Homer’s about.”
Her kid is named Homer?He shut the door and locked it and slipped off his sandals. Movement in the hall caught his attention. A small gray-and-white bunny with long floppy ears hopped slowly in front of them. “I see a rabbit.”
She continued walking. “Well, aren’t you astute? Homer has run of the house when we’re here. He doesn’t bite and, before you ask, he’s litter trained.”
“Hm. Okay.” His brain cells seemed to have short-circuited. Mac had worn more clothes during their trip, and far looser. What she wore now left little to the imagination. He focused on the space around him. She had made the old house a home. Small, the bungalow was a mishmash of color and texture, bohemian style. It felt cozy, warm, and very much like her—well, the Mac he knew when her guard wasn’t up like it was now. “I like your home.”
“Thank you. It works for us. I was just making dinner. Hungry?”
He was ravenous. For her. “Yes, that’d be great.” He winced, hearing himself. Too enthusiastic.
“It’s just a simple dinner, Hardin. So if you’d prefer something fancy, you might mosey back into town.”
She was as edgy as hell, but he was going to try to win her over. He’d made inroads during their trip between her bouts of closing herself off and reerecting emotional walls. “I’d like to have dinner with you.”
Cooked pasta sat in a colander in the sink. Red bell pepper and broccoli lay on the counter along with a large bowl filled with different colors of freshly shredded cheese and two smaller bowls—one with crushed crackers and the other with bacon pieces. Mac pulled milk from the fridge and a large cutting board from a shelf beneath the small center island, then turned on the oven.
“You want a glass of wine?”
“Sure, but I can get it.” He began to move around the kitchen and opened an upper cabinet.
“I’ll get it.” She pulled a glass from the cabinet near the hall, filled it a third full, and handed it to him.
Their fingers touched and an electrical current raced through his body. He was positive Mac had felt it too because she pulled her hand back as if she’d been burned. The air in the kitchen sparked with sexual tension.
“Sit yourself down.” She pointed to the other side of the island with a large knife. “I was just getting ready to chop the veggies up when you knocked.”
The big knife cooled him right back down. Hardin made himself comfortable on a stool, propping his elbows on the stone surface, observing how relaxed Mac became as she concentrated on her task. When she was finished chopping, Mac filled a measuring cup with milk and turned the gas on under the saucepan.
“What’re we having?”
“Cheese pasta pie.”
“Never heard of it.”
She turned away and focused on making the roux. “It’s an Eliot family favorite. My version of mac and cheese.”
“Geez. I love mac and cheese. The only time I got it was when I spent the night at friends’ houses or after I went to college. My mom refused to make it. Said it held no nutritional value. Had a bunch of crap in it. Drove me crazy. It was so damned good.”
“You remember that crap was a staple in my life? It was the first thing I learned to make because I had to eat something. I think I was five or six,” she said softly, adding flour, salt, and pepper to the melted butter.
“I’m sorry. I forgot. I didn’t mean to bring up an unpleasant memory.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She looked over her shoulder and flashed him a genuine smile, continuing to stir, then whisked in the milk. “If it was unpleasant, I wouldn’t be making this version.”
Out of habit, he tilted his glass and viewed the wine. It looked clear, yet was dense near its edges. Swirling to coat the glass, he noted that the deeply saturated liquid clung to the inside of the glass and how the legs ran, promising a robust flavor. Hardin took a sip and was not disappointed. The flavor was ripe and mouth-filling. “This is really good. What is it?” he asked, looking up right into the amused eyes of Mac, who had turned to watch his tasting ritual.
“A red zin. My favorite summer wine. I buy it by the case. Think I wouldn’t know anything about wine?”
“Not exactly, but a lot of people don’t know much about wine.”
