Keep On Loving You. Christie Ridgway
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brows shot up in surprise. “Manners?”
Showing her he had them might dull her at-the-ready thorns and render her a little more approachable. He was serious about wanting to reconnect with the Walkers, if only for his short time in their mountains.
Noting the two pain reliever tablets set by one of the glasses of orange juice, he smiled a little. “Taking care of me some more?” he asked, scooping them up. “Is that what you do—nursing?”
She made a face. “Hardly.”
Odd that she didn’t elaborate. “Well? Should I guess?” He cast his mind back to her childhood ambitions. “Snake charmer? Fortune-teller?”
At her snort, he tilted his head, considered the lovely angles of her face and the crystalline quality of her blue eyes. “Fashion model?”
She rolled them. “No.”
He waggled his brows. “Lingerie model?”
A flush pinkened her face. “I clean houses.”
“Clean houses.”
“Yes! There’s nothing wrong with honest work, you know.”
“I never said there was.” Jeez, she was so touchy now. “You clean houses. Good for you.”
“I run my own business,” she mumbled, gaze on her plate. “Maids by Mac.”
“I’m not surprised, Mackenzie Marie.”
Her head came up, her eyes narrowed. “What? That I clean up other people’s messes for a living?”
“That you’re a businessperson. That you’re in charge.”
“Oh,” she said, her expression evening out.
“You always were a bossy little thing,” he added.
“Oh!” She tossed her balled-up paper napkin at him.
He laughed. “Tell me everything about everyone. About Brett and Poppy and Shay. And anyone else I used to know.”
“Does that mean you’ve missed us?”
“I...” Christ, had he?
Instead of waiting for him to answer, she began to talk. It was grudging at first, he decided, but soon her voice warmed as she filled him in on her brother and sisters. In a few minutes he knew about Brett’s landscape business and his wife, Angelica, about Shay with a stepdaughter-to-be and the builder she was about to marry. Finally, he heard about Poppy, her little boy, Mason, and Ryan Hamilton, former actor-turned-producer whose bride she would become in a few weeks.
“How could all this have happened?” he wondered aloud.
“Ten years,” Mac said, her demeanor cooling again. “It’s been ten years. Maybe if you’d bothered to stay in contact, none of this would come as such a shock.”
He hadn’t wanted to stay in contact. At the time, it had seemed smartest to leave without backward glances.
“So...you?” Mac gathered up their plates and took them to the sink.
“Let me do that,” he protested, but she ignored him.
“Pay me back,” she said. “Your last ten years?”
Exciting. Challenging. Wearying.
“Something about a documentary?”
At his puzzled glance, she explained. “I heard you talking to Mr. and Mrs. Robbins at Oscar’s yesterday. Earth Unfiltered?”
“Oh. Yeah. In my travels, I stumbled upon the crew in their early days. Joined them. Learned a hell of a lot, at first from just humping shit from place to place, then I did more. Research, camera work, a little writing.”
“Wow.”
It had been wow so much of the time. But there’d been arduous treks, long delays, bad reactions to strange foods...and, finally, a pervasive sense of dissatisfaction. “Traveling to remote corners of the world has a way of making one feel small. And unconnected.”
Mac was looking at him funny. He tried to make a joke of it. “Did I just say that out loud?”
“A person can feel alone anywhere,” she said, then turned her back to put the plates and utensils in the dishwasher.
A weird vibe entered the room. Zan rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to dissipate the sense of needle-toed fairies dancing over his skin. Christ, he’d thought conversation would get him comfortable with Mac, bring them back to friendly footing. But so far...
“Who’s Simone?” she suddenly asked.
“What?” It came out like a squawk.
“Simone. You talked about her in your sleep last night.”
Simone. Zan squeezed shut his eyes, saw her golden tan, her wild, streaky hair, heard her throaty laugh. They’d been two of a kind, each recognizing the other instantly. Wanderers. Adventurers. Nomads.
People tied to no one.
“Zan?”
He cleared his throat. “She was part of the documentary crew the last couple of years. We were...coworkers.”
“Lovers.” She didn’t say it like a question.
“For a time we shared a bed on occasion.” He glanced up at Mac, but her back was still to him. “For a very short time. Neither one of us was interested in anything remotely permanent.”
Mac’s head bobbed in a nod. “Where is she now?”
He hesitated.
“You wanted her to come back.” She shut the dishwasher door with a clack. “That’s what you said last night, anyway.”
Oh, shit.
“She can’t. She died.” He winced, hearing the bald way he’d said the words when Mac stiffened. “I’m sorry to put it like that. It’s just...”
Mac turned and leaned back against the counter, regarding him with serious eyes. “It’s just...what?”
“It was such a random thing. The act of a moment.” Zan scrubbed his hand over his face. “We’d been to the Russian steppes and the Sahara Desert and the Solomon Islands. Cozied up to tribal warlords and run from violent warthogs. Scaled slippery waterfalls and explored deep, bat-filled caves. We ate things that make my belly cringe thinking about, not wanting to offend our hosts. Any one of those things could have ended in death.”
Mac reached for a fresh glass, filled it with water, then brought it over to him. Grateful, he took a long swallow. “It was in Berlin. We were walking to lunch, the lot of us. Simone was trailing behind, looking at her phone, checking the weather for our next day’s flight. As mundane as that.”
“And?”
“And she stepped off a curb without looking. A truck took her out. The driver couldn’t stop in time—there was no time.” He closed his eyes. “No time left for Simone.”
“I’m sorry.” Mac’s voice was low. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He was sorry that Simone was gone, too. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
And how sorry was it that he wanted to turn into Mac’s body so badly. Bury his head between her breasts and bury his sadness in the familiarity of her body. Lose himself in his lust for her that apparently hadn’t dissipated in ten years.
Hold her as if she was more than just an old, old friend.
AS SHE CLIMBED out of her shabby sedan, Tilda Smith glared up at the gathering clouds, hoping a challenging stare