Page 13 of My Dearest Mackenzie

“Of course, great, thank you.”

He rattled off an intersection and added, “It’s in the Meatpacking. Don’t be late.”

I knew where he meant—it was a member’s-only spot for the creative world. A safe, chic, and beautiful haven in the middle of a concrete jungle. “I won’t,” I assured Corey.

He disconnected the call, and I went to pee, wondering while crouching over the toilet if this was a true olive branch or a pity lunch.

Armed in a white summer cashmere sweater and linen pants, I stepped inside Mack’s club at five minutes to one on Saturday. I’d been to the elusive venue a few times before…when I was still with Jeremy. I’d made a habit of not returning until now. But who was I to argue with Corey?

“Can I help you?” the skinny woman in all black asked me from behind the front desk.

The club was for wealthy creatives—movers and shakers in the arts, music, and things like advertising and public relations—so I couldn’t help but wonder why Mack went there.

“Frankie Burns. I’m meeting Mackenzie Miller.” I took in her muscular arms on display and the black lacy tank covering her flat chest. I was sure she didn’t have a belly like mine. Or an ass, but none of this mattered.

“Oh, you mean Mack?”

Of course she called him Mack. Most CEOs would expect to be referred to as Mr. So-and-So, but not Mackenzie Miller. He exuded an air of confidence and power coupled with a casual nature…with everyone but me.

“Yes, Mack,” I confirmed.

“He’s on the rooftop, by the pool. Can I see your ID and then you can head up.”

I swiped my wallet out of my tote, snagging my license from the side, and handed it over.

This place was such a sideshow in and of itself. It was just lunch. I wasn’t going to steal anything or take anyone’s photo. I knew that to be a rule—no photos in the club.

She perused my information and handed me back my license and waved me on like the insignificant person I was.

In the elevator, I reprimanded myself for my outfit. Who knew he would pick outside to eat? Not me. I imagined Mack spent his weekend in a suit, and I was way off base when I stepped off the elevator and found him waiting directly outside the doors in khaki pants and a polo.

“Frances.” That was how he greeted me, low and laced with a masculinity I couldn’t quite describe.

“Mack,” I served back. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” I offered.

“It’s my pleasure,” he lobbed.

“Shall we?” He motioned toward the bar and a few tables speckled around it.

“We shall.”

We continued to spar with words as he pulled out my seat.

“Hope this is okay,” he said, looking my white outfit up and down.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You’re…a little dressed up. Are you supposed to be showing your angelic side? Did you think this was a date?” He slid across from me, the sun plinking off his dirty-brown hair. I hadn’t noticed before, but Mack Miller didn’t look Jewish… It wasn’t a kind thing to think, and I centered my thoughts. I wasn’t that person. Jewish didn’t have a look…

“I’m hardly an angel, but I don’t date men who went out two nights prior on a different date.”

“You like a fairy tale, don’t you?” His left eyebrow rose as he asked, and I felt the urge to flight or fight.

I looked away. All of a sudden, I wasn’t sure if I could do this.

“I’m sorry. We’re all entitled to like what we want. Sometimes my cynicism ruins everything.”

It was the most honest moment we’d shared. Turning back toward Mack, my gaze caught his gray eyes, a tad softer, almost somber. “If you must know, I do believe in fairy tales…and nightmares…and something mediocre in between. You know, like enough, but not really? My Paps lived in the in-between, in the gray area where he was happy but not ecstatic. But he dreamed about what it would have been like with his Rosie. I bet it would have been multicolor and glittery and more than a fairy tale.”

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