Messing With Mac Read online

  Mac figured once a princess, always a princess.

  He, on the other hand, had to park a good three blocks away, even though it was still practically the crack of dawn.

  The building was silent. Letting himself in with the key Taylor had given him, he walked up the stairs. They’d come so far in all these weeks. They were working in the apartment across from Taylor’s today, putting in kitchen cabinets, and for a moment he let himself relish all they’d done up to this point.

  The place was looking good, really good. With all the wood trim, brick and wood accents, the natural charm and personality of the old building was shining through.

  He put on his tool belt because he liked the weight of it, and because he liked the work. He wasn’t, and never would be, a Cadillac contractor, someone who ran a job and yet never picked up a hammer.

  He wanted to lift a hammer. Hell, he wanted to do it all.

  He looked around for the plans, and remembered he’d left them in Taylor’s room when he’d been with the painter. A glance at his watch reminded him it wasn’t quite seven.

  Taylor Wellington was not a morning person. He’d learned this. Though she always appeared by eight, perfectly dressed and perfectly made-up, looking stunning as usual, she rarely spoke until she’d walked across the street to the coffee house and purchased a very large coffee.

  Mac enjoyed watching the process, though he’d cut out his tongue before admitting it to her. Except for business, they hadn’t spoken since the water fight. He told himself that was a good thing.

  Letting himself into her apartment was easy, he had a key for that, too. But walking into her bed room, where he’d left the plans, wasn’t quite as simple. There were scents in there, scents of soap, per fume…and the woman who wore them. There were clothes, perfectly folded as always, but clothes that made his fingers itch to touch. And then there was the bed, with the luxurious sheets and fluffy pillows that made him want to climb on, jerk her close and mess up both the woman and the bed.

  Those luxurious sheets started moving, and were tossed aside as Taylor sat straight up. Her hair was wild, she wore no makeup, and nearly no clothes.

  What she did have on made him swallow real hard. It appeared to be a teddy, all pale yellow lace.

  The teeny tiny straps had fallen off both shoulders, rendering gravity his greatest ally as the generous curves of her breasts nearly spilled out, until she put a hand to her chest. “Mac?”

  “I…I’m sorry.”

  She just blinked.

  He knew he should spin around and walk out the door, but he couldn’t quite feel his feet. “I didn’t think you were home.”

  Another slow blink.

  Oh God. Go, just start walking. Do the noble thing here, Ace, and get the hell out. “Your car isn’t out front.”

  With a huge yawn, she raised her arms over her head and stretched, allowing the lace to slip another fraction of an inch.

  His heart nearly came right out of his chest. “Uh…” He waggled a finger in the direction of her chest. “Your pjs…they’re falling.” Oh man, she was incredible, all soft and glowing and rosy from sleep. She stretched and yawned again, her legs shifting, pulling the sheet down to her thighs. The little—and the key word here was little—nightie barely covered her panties.

  If she was even wearing any.

  The thought made it difficult to breathe, as every ounce of blood in his body headed for parts south.

  Another stretch from the princess, and this time she added a little moan of pleasure at the feeling of her muscles loosening. The sheet fell all the way off, and her creamy thighs came into view, along with the smallest peekaboo hint of matching yellow lace between them.

  Mac nearly moaned, too. Was she teasing him on purpose? And was that the morning chill making her nipples pout up against the lace, or something else, something like…him? Be professional, he told him self. Get out. Now. He even backed up a step, but then his feet stopped working. “Taylor.”

  “Hmm?” She yawned, eyes closed.

  His eyes narrowed as the truth sank in. “You’re not awake.”

  Her eyes jerked open. Her body stiffened in mid-stretch. “Mac?”

  God save him from sleepy, sexy-as-hell, scantily-clad women so early in the morning, when his resistance was already down. All the way to zero down.

  He had to give her credit though, as her eyes cleared from dream to reality. She didn’t screech.

  She didn’t dive back under the covers. Not Taylor Wellington. Instead, she slid out of the bed and crossed her arms.

  Though he did top her by several inches, she man aged to look down her nose at him. “You.”

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  She turned from him and headed toward the bathroom.

  And the words backed up in his throat, because her nightie dipped down in back to the curves of twin sweet cheeks, the thin lace clinging to every inch.

  Then the bathroom door shut, cutting off the view. He had to shake his head, hard. “Taylor.” He put his hands on the wood. “I didn’t know you were still here.”

  “We’ve been working together for how long now, Mac?”

  Her conversational tone confused him. “A long time.”

  “Yes, a long time,” she said calmly through the door. “And have I done anything, anything at all, that would give you reason to think that I’m a morning person?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “Have I ever gotten out of bed before I had to?”

  Her voice was so even. Was she mad or not? “No, but—”

  “You know what I thought when I opened my eyes and saw you, Mac? I thought you were part of my dream. It was a good one,” she added, and just her voice made him hard.

  “I—”

  “You should have just joined me, instead of standing there watching me.”

  And on that heart-stopping statement, she cranked on the shower, drowning out any reply he might have had.

  MIDSUMMER HEAT hit with a vengeance, but neither Taylor nor Mac had a spare moment to dwell on the sticky heat. Mac was surrounded by roofers, painters, flooring technicians and enough laborers that Taylor felt dizzy watching them work.

  But work they did, and work hard. Her building, once the eyesore of the neighborhood, was shaping up into a beauty right before her very eyes. Pedestrians on the street, walking to dinner or the theater or wherever, stopped to ooh and ahh.

  Taylor loved it, loved every little bit of it, including watching Mac work.

  Especially watching Mac work.

  He caught her at it, the watching, at least once a day. But she caught him, too. She’d be pouring over plans, over tile samples or even on her cell phone and she’d…feel him. She’d look up and there he’d be, eyes filled with heat and awareness.

  And reluctant affection.

  Oddly enough, for a woman who had spent a decade avoiding such emotions from a man, it was the last that got to her.

  One afternoon she came staggering up the stairs to her apartment under the weight of a small writing desk. The thing wasn’t heavy, just awkward to carry, and worth a small fortune.

  She’d picked it up at a garage sale for a song, and was so happy about it that nothing could dim her mood. “Don’t you look pleased with yourself.”

  Mac stood in the doorway of her bare living room.

  He wore jeans that had seen better days. They were faded, torn at both knees and one hard thigh. The soft denim fit him perfectly, outlining every nuance of his lower body. His T-shirt had come untucked on one side, caught on the tool belt slung low on his hips, exposing a strip of flat, rigid belly.

  Her own tightened uncomfortably in response. “I am pleased with myself.” Having caught her breath, she hoisted up the small desk again.

  “What’s that?”

  “Just something I picked up. Do you like it?”

  He eyed her slowly up and down. “Very much.”

  “I meant the desk.”

  “Oh.”

  Since