Messing with Mac
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Jill Shalvis
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Harlequin🏰 Historical
HarlequinChapter 1
CHAPTER 1
ONE OF THESE DAYS, Taylor Wellington figured she’d be old, maybe even wrinkled, and then, finally then, her best friends would stop trying to convince her she needed love.
No one needed love.
Having been both with it and without it—mostly without it—she knew this for a cold, hard fact. Still, Taylor held the cell phone to her ear and let Nicole and Suzanne, via three-way conferencing, ramble on about how amazing the L-word was.
“You’ve got to try it.” This from Nicole, who’d been swept off her feet a few months back by Ty Patrick O’Grady, Taylor’s rebel Irish architect.
“It’s even better than ice cream,” Suzanne promised, and coming from Suzanne, this was quite the promise, but she’d recently fallen in love, too, and had even gone one step further and gotten married. “Come on, Taylor, give up on singlehood and try a man on for size. It’ll change your life.”
Taylor wasn’t buying it. Not one little bit. In her opinion—and she had very strong opinions, thank you very much—love sucked. Always had, always would.
She was speaking from firsthand experience and hard-earned knowledge, not that her friends would understand. They wouldn’t because she hadn’t explained, she hadn’t known how to in the short time they’d been together, which had begun when, in order to keep up with life’s little luxuries like eating, Taylor had rented out two apartments in the building she’d just inherited. Suzanne had come first, then later Nicole, and both had happily joined her in a solemn vow of singlehood.
Only they’d each caved like cheap suitcases in the face of true love, and had both recently moved out again, having found their soul mates.
“Just because you two willingly gave up your freedom doesn’t mean I have to—” Taylor stopped at an odd noise and cocked an ear. “Hang on a sec.”
The building, her building, shuddered. Not surprising really, as she considered it an amazing feat the entire thing hadn’t fallen down long ago, but in Taylor’s world, things didn’t happen off schedule. Her building crashing to the ground definitely wasn’t on her schedule for today.
And yet there it went again. Another shudder. And then again. Something was systematically banging, in tune with her growing headache. “Guys, much as I’d love to listen to you tell me what’s wrong with my life in singular excruciating detail, I have to run.”
“Hold up. Is that more construction I hear?” Suzanne asked casually. Too casually.
The question didn’t fool Taylor. Both Suzanne and Nicole had found their happiness due to construction. Her construction.
Now they had equally high hopes for her.
They were going to be disappointed, as Taylor didn’t intend to fall for anyone. Feeling like a heel, she pulled the cell phone away from her ear and simulated a static sound with her mouth. It wasn’t a kind thing to do to the only two people in the world who truly cared about her, but all this talk of love, no matter how well-meaning, was making her perspire.
And a Wellington never perspired, especially in silk. That was one thing she’d learned from her mother. “Gotta go, bad connection!” she yelled into the phone and disconnected.
Damn it. She loved Suzanne and Nicole, loved them like the sisters she’d always wished for instead of the two she had, but any more talk of love as it pertained to her and she risked losing her wits, something she couldn’t afford at the moment, as she needed each and every available wit to keep her sane.
Oh, and in the black. Her every thought these days seemed to focus on finding enough money to pay for the work that needed to be done. That alone was enough to give her insomnia. This was a real kicker of an inheritance from her grandfather—this falling-off-its-foundation building she stood in, and not a single penny to go with it. No trust fund, no cushy little savings account, nothing.
After a lifetime of paying for all her fancy education and everything else, the distant, cruel bastard had cut her off cold turkey, giving all of his substantial wealth to her mother, who hadn’t seen fit to share.
The woman wouldn’t, not when all her life she’d been so cheap, so tight with money, she squeaked when she walked.
Well, tough. Taylor wouldn’t wallow over that, or the fact that her family—called such only because they shared the same bloodlines—probably wouldn’t notice if she succeeded, but would most definitely notice if she failed. And she wouldn’t think about the fact that she only had to sell this place and walk away if she chose, because sheer stubborn pride refused to allow her to walk away from the first real challenge in her life.
She would do this. She would take this place and make something of it. And of herself. She’d started months ago, one room at a time, but had decided to sell several of her precious antiques—which had been worth more than she’d imagined—using the opportunity to renovate all of it in one fell swoop.
Starting tomorrow.
Hard as it would be to maintain her notorious cool, maintain it she would. With a nod of determination, she slipped the phone into her pocket and narrowed her eyes at the walls, which were still quivering from the rhythmic blows.
Oh yes, she was quite certain she’d agreed with her new contractor that he could start tomorrow.
Not today.
And if there was one thing Taylor didn’t appreciate, it was someone messing with her carefully laid plans. She needed today, her last day alone, her last day to buck up, thrust out her chin and get ready to show the world what she was made of.
Her building had been built circa 1902, and looked liked it. The Victorian style had nooks and crannies everywhere, windows galore and all the old charm and personality from the turn of the previous century, but with a hundred years of neglect added in. To say it was falling apart was the understatement of the new millennium. Bad trim, bad siding, bad paint, bad electrical and never mind the termites and last year’s flood damage from a busted pipe.
The bottom floor had two storefront units. The top floor had one loft apartment and an attic compartment. The middle floor had two apartments, one of which she’d claimed. Shutting the door of her apartment now, she headed downstairs, toward the hideous banging.
Outside, the streets of South Village were gearing up for what promised to be another profitable day.
Los Angeles, only five miles away, had been kind enough to share its smog and muggy heat, but Taylor didn’t mind the summer months like so many others did. She loved it here, felt perfectly at home among the young, hip, urban crowd which was drawn to Southern California’s premier pedestrian neighborhood. And why not, when any day of the week one could walk to a theater, an outdoor café run by someone famous or simply stroll through a mecca of interesting galleries or shops.
Taylor was counting on that crowd, as someday soon her two storefronts would be ready for lease.
Suzanne was taking one of them for her catering business, she’d already committed to that. A relief.
But there was still the other one. Leasing it out would keep her bank account happier than it was at the moment. But the truth was, she’d held out a little tiny seed of hope that someday she could use it for herself, opening her own shop. That is, if she had any antiques left after using them to finance the renovation.
A definite pipe dream at the moment.
The banging sounded louder now, and was definitely coming from one of the dusty, dirty storefront units. Outside, from beyond the front gate, she could hear people walking by, talking, laughing. Shopping. Once upon a time, that had been her favorite pastime, shopping, and a silly part of her suddenly yearned to be out there.
But that, too, was for another day.
As she reached the left unit, the banging increased in intensity. Opening the hallway door, which led into the back, she was greeted with a thick cloud of dust. The banging was so loud now she could hardly hear herself think, but as she stepped inside, the noise abruptly stopped.
Stunned by the silence, Taylor inhaled dirt in the already hot, muggy, spring California morning, and wondered how long before her carefully curled hair, flowing in a purposely artful and loose manner beneath her straw hat, sagged into her face.
“You’re in my way,” said a low, gruff voice from behind her.
Whirling, Taylor blinked into the cloud of dust as it slowly settled. Standing there among the dirt and grime was a man. He had one long arm propped on his hip, the other holding a huge sledgehammer, which rested against his shoulder.
Paul Bunyan, came the inane thought, if one substituted the sledgehammer for an ax. But why was Paul Bunyan standing in her building? Confused, a rare occurrence for Taylor, she found herself momentarily speechless.
Another rare occurrence.
The dust started to settle, and Paul materialized into her contractor Thomas Mackenzie, and though most of their contact had been handled by e-mail and telephone, she had seen him before. Clean and dressed up, that is. He wasn’t clean or dressed up now.
At least four inches taller than her own willowy five-foot-ten frame, she found it a bit of a surprise to have to tip her head back to see his face. The last time she’d seen him, they’d sat at her table, and for the life of her, she didn’t remember him being so…tall, so built, so imposing.
His mouth was scowling. His eyes were the color of expensive whiskey, two liquid, shining pools of heat and annoyance, and his hair, an exact match to his eyes, fell over a blue bandanna which had been tied around his forehead. Combined with his unsmiling, and rough and tumble expression, he looked more than just a little dangerous.
At the thought, a completely inappropriate shiver of thrill raced down her spine. Now was not the greatest time to remember that while she’d vowed to remain single for the rest of her life, she’d never vowed to remain celibate. She had a great appreciation for all things beautiful and finely made. And this man—tall and edgy and frowning as he was—was beautifully and firmly made, a magnificent male specimen, one who seemed to awaken every hormone and nerve ending in her entire body.
But she most definitely did not have a thing for a rebel-at-heart, and it didn’t escape her that this man was one-hundred-percent pure attitude.
In light of that, she repeated the same thing she told herself at estate sales, when she saw some spectacular piece of furniture she quivered to own but couldn’t afford… Walk away. Just walk away. Repeating that mantra, she took a careful step backward, taking one last glimpse to tide her over.
Hard, powerful looking legs were encased in soft, faded denim. His work boots were well worn, with a sole made for the long haul. She’d already noticed his very capable arms and his chest, which was wide, hard and covered in a T-shirt that clung like a second skin to his damp body. He was long and lean, rugged and virile, the way she preferred a man, when she chose to be with one.
But she wasn’t choosing now.
“You’re still in my way,” he said.
“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Mackenzie.”
He blew out a breath. “Mac.”
“What?”
“You can call me Mac. That’s my name.”
“Really? It’s not Mr. Attitude?”
His lips twitched. “I respond better to Mac.”
“Okay, then. Mac.”
He stood there politely enough, and…waited for something. At his raised brow, she realized he was waiting for her to leave.
Too bad he didn’t know her better, or he’d already know she did only as she pleased, not as expected. “I didn’t approve for the demo to begin today,” she said.
“You signed the contract.”
Yes, she had. She’d sold her beloved Queen Anne headboard to give him the first payment of many, but she’d agreed upon tomorrow. Damn it, she needed today.
Apparently deciding they were done, Mac turned and walked away, moving with the easy, loose-limbed stride of a man who knew the value of patience. With that patience, he hoisted up the sledgehammer and brought it down on the south wall. And then again. His arms strained and stretched, his muscles working in perfect synch, taut and sleek with sweat as he completely ignored her while simultaneously stripping down the wall to the framing.
Unable to help herself, she stared, utterly fascinated by the unrestrained violence of what he was doing. By the hone of that well-built machine that was his body. “Um…excuse me?”
The sledgehammer continued to rise and fall with amazing regularity. What kind of strength did that entail, she wondered, watching with utter fascination as Mac’s muscles flexed and flowed. Another shiver wracked her frame, and it had nothing to do with a chill. The room was hot. He was hot…and so, suddenly, was she.
Definitely, it had been too long since she’d had any sort of physical release besides her handy, dandy, trusty vibrator. “Mac?”
He never even looked at her, which was a bit disconcerting. Taylor had matured at an early age, her long, gangly body turning into a man’s wet dream. In all the years since, she’d never failed to turn a head.
And yet she was being completely ignored now. Vexing. So was the cell phone ringing in her pocket. Pulling it out, she put it to one ear, finger in the other to hear over Mac, and yelled, “Hello?”
“I have bad news,” said Mrs. Cabot, the owner of a very upscale antique shop in town.
“Bad news?”
Sledgehammer raised, Mac turned.
Their gazes locked.
It was like a chemical reaction. Unintended. Unavoidable. He had the most amazing eyes, and for the first time in her life, Taylor lost her place in a conversation. Chewing her lower lip, she wracked her brain for working brain cells, but her pulse tripled when Mac’s gaze dropped from hers, and locked on the movement of her mouth.
This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t attracted to her. She wasn’t attracted to him. That would be bad, very bad, but while she’d promised herself to never again engage her heart after the devastating loss she’d once suffered, she was no monk.
But even so, sex had become a very fond, distant memory.
She licked her lips, a nervous habit. Again, her contractor’s gaze flickered downward, becoming hot, focused and filled with frank sexual curiosity.
Oh boy. With sheer will power, she concentrated on her phone conversation. “What’s the bad news?”
Mac set the sledgehammer on the floor. In deference to her call? No, that would mean he had a considerate streak.
He was probably just done.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Cabot said. “But you lost your bid on that nineteenth-century chandelier.”
Instantly forgetting about Mac, she gripped the phone. “What do you mean? Who else bid on the chandelier?”
“You were outbid by…” Papers rustled. “Isabel W. Craftsman.”
Taylor might have guessed. There was only one person in town who would have coveted that piece as much as she had, and that was her own mother.
It only had been Taylor’s greatest heart’s desire to own it, but hey, she figured her mother knew that, too. Her mother was highly educated, incredibly brilliant and had eyes in the back of her head. Bottom line, she knew everything, she always had.
Well, except how to be a mother. Shocking how she’d screwed that up, but maybe Taylor was partly to blame. She’d always resented her mother’s vicious drive, sharp ambition and ability to multitask everything in her world except when it came to her own daughters.
When Taylor had graduated from college and had moved out of the house, she’d decided to be the grown-up and let it all go. She’d told her mother so, saying she’d forgiven her for all the missed events, the forgotten birthdays, the lack of any physical attention whatsoever. She didn’t know what she expected, but it hadn’t been to be cut off by her mother’s cell phone. Her mother had held up a hand to Taylor, answered the call, dealt with some business problem, then absently kissed the air somewhere near Taylor’s cheek and walked away.
Having completely forgotten they were in the middle of an important conversation.
After standing there in seething resentment, Taylor had shrugged and moved on. She’d had to. Not every mother was cut out to be a warm, fuzzy type, and she needed to get over it.
Then a few years ago Isabel had done the unthinkable, she’d gotten married again, and had dropped everything for one equally ambitious, equally cold-blooded Dr. Edward Craftsman, brain surgeon. Taylor had gone to the wedding, and if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she would never have believed it.
Her mother lived for this man, gushing all over him. Constantly. Kissing, hugging, leaning, more kissing.
It burned just thinking about it. So did her mother buying this chandelier from beneath her. “Thank you,” Taylor said into the phone. And as if it were no skin off her nose, she dropped the phone back into her pocket. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. She’d wanted that chandelier with a ridiculous passion. Served her right, wanting something so badly. Hadn’t she learned that nothing, nothing at all, was worth the heartache?
She had other things to worry about. Like she had a building in disrepair, and a man was reminding her of things far better forgotten.
Mac had tossed the sledgehammer aside, but he hadn’t been idle. There was now a shovel in his hand and he was loading debris into a wheelbarrow with the same narrow-minded intensity he’d had when swinging his sledgehammer.
Eyes narrowed, she set her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. “We never solved the problem of why you’re here a day early.”
He kept loading until the wheelbarrow was full to bursting. Slowly he straightened, then eyed her with that light brown gaze, completely inscrutable now, without a trace of that intense sexual speculation.
Had she only imagined it?
“I didn’t think twenty-four hours would make any difference to you,” he said. Tossing the shovel aside, he grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and lifted. Muscles strained. Tendons corded.
Taylor tore her gaze away. “I needed this last day before the hell of the next three months of construction and renovation. You’ve ruined it.”
He swiped a forearm across his forehead, looking tired, sweaty and temperamental. “I think that phone call ruined it.”
Deep within her, a pesky lone hormone quivered. “I’d really like you to go and come back tomorrow.”
That got his attention. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“You need to be alone bad enough to disrupt the start of your own renovation?”
“I do, yes.”
“Fine.” Dropping the wheelbarrow, he propped his hands on his hips. “Have your way, Princess. Tomorrow it is, but don’t even think about pulling this again. I’m not going to postpone this job further, no matter what kind of day you’re having.”
Princess? Had he just called her Princess? She’d show him princess! Reaching up, she yanked off her wide-brimmed hat, which once upon a time had cost her—make that her grandfather—a bundle. She’d die before explaining that her fair skin required she protect it from the harsh summer sun, especially since he seemed like a man to mock such a weakness. “Tomorrow will be just fine,” she said through her teeth, hat in her fist.
Mac stretched his shoulders, which put a strain on his T-shirt, not that she was noticing, and rubbed his eyes. “Good. I’m outta here. But since I am, and since steam is still coming out your ears, why don’t you do both of us a favor.” Retrieving the sledgehammer, he held it out. “Start pounding walls. Consider it anger management.”
She stared down at the tool, having never in her life so much as lifted a screwdriver. She might have blamed her uptight, pretentious family for that, though she’d been on her own for a while now, and could have made the effort to learn such things.
Should have, because it would feel good to swing the thing with authority and knowledge, surprising that smirk off his face.
He wriggled the sledgehammer enticingly.
Odd how a little part of her tingled to touch it, hoist it over her head and let loose. Barbaric, yes, and suddenly very appealing.
“You know you want to,” Mac said in a low, husky dare. “Touch it.”
She cocked a brow and looked at him from beneath lowered lashes. “So…are they all the same size?”
His eyes sparked, heated and flamed.
And one question was answered…she had most definitely not imagined that intense sexual speculation.
“I thought size didn’t matter to a woman.”
She lifted a shoulder. “That’s just the story some woman started in order to appease her poor husband who didn’t have…the right equipment.”
“Hmm.” He lifted the sledgehammer again, his eyes amused now. “The right equipment, huh?”
“That’s right.”
He looked at the sledgehammer with a new light, then back into her eyes. “Seeing as I have the right equipment, are you going to go for it?”
Oh yeah, she was. For the sledgehammer anyway.
What could it hurt? She had aggression coming out her ears; for her grandfather, who was probably sitting on a cloud laughing down at her right this very minute, for her mother, who would rather do anything than be a mother, for her dwindling bank account, for the chandelier she’d lost out on…for being alone in all this.
For just about every damn thing in her entire life, she needed that sledgehammer.
Mac held it out.
Her fingers itched.
His eyes sizzled with the dare, and a potent, heady male heat.
“Fine.” She set her hat back on her head, snatched the tool from him, then swore in a very unladylike way as the thing jerked both her arms down with its weight, slamming the heavy sledgehammer to the floor.
Mac tsked. “Sorry, I thought you were stronger than that.”
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