Stumbling Into Love (Fluke My Life 2)

I want to insist on picking her up, but I can tell by the look in her eyes that she won’t give in. Knowing I need to pick my battles right now, I don’t fight her to get my way.

“All right, we’ll meet at the restaurant,” I agree. I give her the name of the place I have in mind before she leaves the room.

Once I’m dressed, I head out into the main part of the office and find her laughing with a guy—not just any guy, a good-looking guy who is standing way too damn close.

I clear my throat and watch as her head swings my way. My instinct is to puff up my chest when the guy looks me over, sizing me up.

“Wesley, this is my friend Edward. Edward, this is Wesley.”

I take the guy in. He’s tall, with the body of an athlete. His hair is short and his jaw is clean, which fits with the suit he has on. He looks like a sleazy banker.

“Nice to meet you.”

Edward lifts his chin, and I do the same in return before looking at Mackenzie. I move toward her with purpose, needing and wanting to stake my claim on her in some way.

“See you tonight,” I tell her as I drop a kiss on her cheek.

I feel her breath come out in a puff across my ear. I lean back, searching her gaze and feeling self-satisfied when I see that her eyelids have lowered and her face has gotten soft.

“Yeah, I’ll see you tonight,” she whispers.

I swear it takes everything in me to leave her there with another man. It kills me a little when I hear her office door shut and lock behind me once I’m in the hall. Then I remind myself that she’s not mine. That still doesn’t stop the caveman in my head from growling. Mine.

Chapter 4

COMPLICATED

MAC

Stripping out of my clothes, I take a seat on the side of my bed in my tank top and panties. I scratch my hands down my face, thinking about tonight. I have a date. Not only do I have a date, but I have a date with Wesley. I couldn’t believe it when I looked up and found him standing in my doorway this afternoon wearing jeans, his leather jacket, and boots. His hair was mussed like he had run his hand through it a few dozen times. I had thought that I was imagining him since I had just taken his number out of my desk and dialed it—but I hung up before I pressed the last number. It wasn’t until he said my name and stepped toward me that I realized he was really there.

Flopping back onto my bed, I close my eyes. I think about the scars on his shoulder and his tortured expression when I asked about them. There was something about it that made me want to crawl into his lap and hold him, to tell him that it would be okay. I don’t know what happened to him, but I know that whatever it was still affects him. He shut down completely when I brought it up. That stung. I didn’t know how to react or what to say, so I pulled away in response.

Only that wasn’t working for me, either. I didn’t like the distance or weird energy that settled over us like a wet blanket just then, which is why I told him about being arrested when I was younger. I wanted to make him smile or, better yet, laugh. I didn’t expect him to open up to me and tell me about a piece of his childhood in return, but he did. That made the connection I feel with him grow a little more. It also made it easy for me to agree to go out with him. Well, that and the fact that he looks at me like I’m already his.

At that thought, my skin tingles and my body hums. Intellectually, I know I shouldn’t find it as hot as I do that he seems so possessive about me, but my body has other ideas. There is something powerful in knowing that I can cause those kinds of emotions. When he saw me talking to Edward, I thought for a moment that he was going to storm across the room, pick me up, toss me over his shoulder, and carry me away with him.

I swallow, and hard anxiety hits the pit of my stomach. Reality crashes down around me like a ton of bricks. The last time I thought I had a connection with someone, I was very, very wrong. Am I just as wrong this time around? I need to stop thinking of this thing between us in terms of something serious. I should just think of it as a little bit of fun. No-strings-attached fun that won’t lead to me being brokenhearted. I shouldn’t assume anything more. We are just two people who are attracted to each other and who have over-the-top, out-of-this-world chemistry.

“Mac?” Libby’s singsong hello floats from the living room, cutting into my wayward thoughts.

I sit up on the side of the bed.

“I’m in the bedroom!” I shout back, wondering why it’s necessary to inform her of that—our apartment is less than five hundred square feet. She would have found me eventually, even without looking.

“What’s up, sister dearest?” She comes into the room with her long, dark hair tied up into a neat bun and her makeup done perfectly.

“Nothing much,” I answer, watching her dump her purse on her twin bed, which is directly across from mine.

She starts stripping out of her slacks and fitted blouse—something that she always does the moment she gets home, which makes me wonder why she bothers wearing things that are obviously so uncomfortable. “Do you feel like ordering a pizza and watching a horror flick?” She turns to look at me once she has on her baggy sweats and an even baggier T-shirt.

“I’m actually going out in a bit. I’m meeting a friend for dinner.”

“Oh, can I come?”

Oh lord. How do I answer that? Libby often comes out with me when I’m meeting friends, so I know if I tell her she can’t come, she will have a million questions for me—questions I’m not ready to answer.

“Never mind. I don’t feel like getting dressed again,” she says as she heads toward the bathroom, taking her hair out of the bun as she goes.

Sighing in relief, I play it off like I’m disappointed when she comes back out. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s freezing out. They said it’s going to snow. I don’t want to be stuck outside wearing heels if it’s snowing.”

“You could just wear regular shoes . . .” I point out the obvious.

She rolls her eyes at me, making me smile. I don’t know how Libby does it, but she manages to wear heels even though she’s on her feet all day doing makeup for the who’s who of New York City at the posh upscale boutique where she works.

“I own one pair of rain boots and one pair of sneakers—and they are both still brand new and in the box they came in.” She lies down on her bed, then rolls her head toward me. Her eyes scan my face. “Are you okay?”

“Yep,” I say. Maybe I answered a little too quickly, because her eyes narrow. She lifts herself up on an elbow and rests her head in her hand.

“You’ve been weird since before Thanksgiving. What’s going on?”

There is a six-foot-two gorgeous, giant man taking up my every waking thought, I think but don’t say.

“Nothing’s wrong. Just a little tired.” I shrug one shoulder.

“Hmm.” She studies me like a speck of dirt under a microscope.

Needing to avoid the interrogation I feel coming, I stand and head for the bathroom.

“So tell me about Wesley.”

Dammit! I pause and turn to look at her over my shoulder. “Wesley?” I feign ignorance.

She huffs out a breath. “Yeah, Levi’s hot friend Wesley. How do you know him?”

Bunching my eyebrows together to give her the full effect I ask, “Know him?”

“You know what? Never mind.” She sits up, then pushes herself off the bed and starts for the door, grumbling as she goes.

“Libby . . .”

“No.” She shakes her head, turning to face me. “You, me, and Fawn used to be close. We used to tell one another everything. Now I feel like everything is some big secret. It’s annoying.”

“It’s complicated,” I admit.

She frowns. “Life is always complicated. That’s what family is for—to help you uncomplicate things, to talk things out, and to be there,” she says. Before I can open my mouth to reply, she continues. “All I’m saying is if you guys don’t want to share what’s going on in your lives, then I won’t be sharing what’s going on in mine.” With that parting shot, she leaves me standing in our bedroom, feeling two feet tall and riddled with guilt for not opening up to her.

I should tell her and Fawn about what’s happened between Wesley and me. But the idea of doing that and having to risk seeing the pity in their eyes later if things don’t work out leaves me feeling torn. I hate that they witnessed my crush on Edward, that they saw firsthand how desperately I tried to get him to see me, how I went out of my way to spend time with him. I looked like an idiot, pining over a guy who was never more than a friend, who never led me to believe that we could be more. I’m supposed to be the oldest one, the experienced one. Instead, I’m the one who wasted two years of her life on a crush. A crush on a guy I now feel nothing for. How crazy is that?

When Edward came to my office today, I didn’t get butterflies like the ones I get whenever I see Wesley. My pulse didn’t kick into overdrive. My palms didn’t itch to touch him. My mind didn’t scream at him to kiss me. I really don’t remember any of those things ever happening before when I was around Edward. In fact, in hindsight I have no idea what I saw in him in the first place.