Messing With Mac

“Your mother looks good,” Country Club Chick number two said, looking out into the crowd at someone Mac couldn’t see. “No doubt she’s guaranteed a successful campaign for the next election with all her daddy’s money.”

“No doubt,” Taylor said.

Mac didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, but as he hadn’t taken his eyes off Taylor, he saw something that shocked him.

Though it didn’t show in her casual stance, he saw it in her eyes. She was letting them get to her. She cared what these women thought. She cared a lot.

Oh, man. He should have run out the front door and never looked back. Why hadn’t he done that?

Another of the Sorority Bunch patted Taylor’s arm. “Well, I for one think it’s very brave of you to keep your chin up.”

“And at least you still have all your amazing clothes.” This from the redhead, who was eyeing Taylor’s gorgeous dress. “You can just learn to repeat wear.”

“Hey, and don’t worry, we’ll pick up your tab on our monthly lunches,” offered yet another.

Mac’s fingers itched to wrap themselves around a few necks. The urge made no sense, as only a few moments ago he’d have sworn Taylor fit perfectly into this not so cozy little circle.

But suddenly she didn’t look plastic like the others, she looked…real.

And, damn it to hell, she also looked hurt.

“Really, it’s touching how concerned you are about my financial affairs,” she said in a voice dripping with chill. “Truly touching.”

No one but Mac grinned.

“But don’t worry about me. I’m going to be just fine.” She turned and walked away, away from the women, away from him.

Head high, she avoided any more conversation by striding with direct purpose to the veranda doors, which led to the botanical gardens kept by the Historical Society.

She walked right out the doors and into the night. And like a puppy needing a belly rub, he followed.

5

TAYLOR DREW A DEEP BREATH as she stepped into the hot, hot summer night, refusing to react. If she remained numb, then she wouldn’t feel her burning throat and eyes, or the ache in her chest. If she remained numb, she wouldn’t feel the fist around her heart, squeezing, squeezing.

It wasn’t just the pettiness that upset her, or that she’d thought of those women as friends.

She didn’t care about them. She didn’t care what they thought.

It simply all came back to that alone thing. And she felt so damn alone. Ironic, when she considered her own mother had been inside the party. Oh, they’d kissed hello, air kisses of course, not daring to wrinkle their clothes with a hug. They’d smiled and had made light conversation.

How are you?

Fine, thanks.

Oh, good. You look great.

Surface stuff that meant nothing.

The night was hot, the air thick with the humidity that hadn’t faded from the heat of the day, but that was good. She needed the warmth after the chill of the past hour.

The noises of the party followed her onto the veranda as she walked to the railing and looked down onto the gardens that were considered the most beautiful in all of South Village.

They were stunning, lovingly tended to by generous Historic Society volunteers. Volunteers not afraid of getting their hands dirty or their silk wrinkled.

Which meant a Wellington had never gotten on their knees and so much as pulled a weed in those gardens, including Taylor. Oh sure, she’d volunteered in other ways, by attending expensive charity functions and writing big, fat checks backed by her grandfather.

What kind of woman did that, got to the age of twenty-seven completely supported by someone else’s money? She deserved the pity she’d gotten from those women tonight, but not for the reasons they thought.

She’d never actually worked hard at anything.

Until now.

Leaning on the railing, she rubbed her temples, shedding her tough shell and half her makeup by swiping beneath her damp eyes. Poor little rich girl, she thought with loathing for the moment of self-pity.

Ex-rich girl.

Was it so odd that she’d wanted something from her own mother tonight, after all this time? A real hug? A real smile? Even a real touch? She shouldn’t have bothered coming, should have stayed home.

At the thought of what awaited her there, an empty building stripped down to the studs and a stack of bills so high it made her head spin, her eyes filled again.

God, she felt so alone. So damn alone.

“Taylor.”

At the low, gruff voice she was beginning to know all too well, she stilled. He had a terrible habit of coming up on her in the most vulnerable of moments. “Go away.”

“Yeah, about that.”

She heard his footsteps. Coming closer, damn him. “Mac-”

“You’d like me to vanish, I know. And believe me, I’d like that, too.

In direct opposition to those words, he came even closer. Then closer still, until he set a lean hip against the railing, facing her, his chest brushing her shoulder as he stared down at her while she did her best impression of someone desperately interested in the flowers.

“I wanted to leave before I even got here,” he said.

“So what’s holding you?” She wouldn’t look at him, couldn’t. No one saw her vulnerable and lived. She didn’t care how big he was, how warm- Oh God, he was warm. Heat radiated off him, and despite the hot, sticky night, she wanted more of it.

The need alone made her eyes sting all over again, and released a few of the tears she couldn’t blink back. And then, because she’d been holding her breath, she gave herself away with one horrifyingly obvious sniff.

“Ah, hell,” he muttered. His big hands settled on her bare upper arms as he turned her to face him, and for the life of her, she couldn’t look away. “What’s going on?” he asked.

What was going on? Only everything.

“Princess?”

Suddenly his pet name for her didn’t seem like an insult, not when uttered in the husky, slightly rough voice that was far softer than she imagined he could ever be. Unable to talk without making a bigger fool of herself, she just shook her head.

With the rough pad of his thumb, he stroked a tear off her cheek. She hadn’t worn waterproof mascara, so she probably looked like a raccoon, but even more worrisome than that was the way she reacted to his touch. His thumb continued to make lazy passes over her cheek, his other fingers sank into her hair, and she stood there fighting the most insidious need to sob her heart out.

Silent and strong, he waited, not rushing her, not freaking out because she was crying, not doing anything but waiting patiently for her to pull herself together.

And suddenly she didn’t want to pull herself together, she wanted to bury her face against his shoulder and let go. It was humiliating, appalling, and as if he could read her mind, he made a low, soft sound of empathy in his throat that completely undid her.

“Everything they said was true,” she whispered. “I grew up a spoiled brat.” She waited for some sort of recrimination but he said nothing.

His fingers on her temple were the most soothing touches she’d ever felt. And maybe because of it, or maybe because it was the dark, her mouth ran away with her good sense and she spilled it all. “My family…we’re not close.