Page 17 of My Dearest Mackenzie

Sweat beaded on my back as we filtered in front of our punching bags and started the routine. Frankie was composed and chill as she kicked the bag, raising her leg and whipping it through the air. Her hair bounced in the process, allowing her scent to waft my way. Milly’s…I noted.

“Having fun?”

Her words were meant for me, but Roy noted our conversation and took the class up a notch. Falling in line with his sequence of jabs and kicks, there was no way that ass was going to get the better of me.

Of course, I’d need some ibuprofen in the morning.

With a wink, I went back to work on my bag until the very end of class when I said, “I won’t ever doubt you can’t look out for yourself again,” to Frances. When her head tilted back, a soft giggle escaped her vocal cords. My choice of stripping down to my athletic shorts was clearly a mistake. They did little to cover up my body’s reaction to the supple skin leading from her collarbone to the top of her tank.

“You hung in there, tough guy,” she sort of complimented me. She followed it up with, “Thanks, Roy,” and of course the asshole winked and flexed his bicep before waving.

“I’m not that old, you know?” No clue as to why I confessed feeling ancient next to Roy or even Frances, but it rewarded me with another neck drop and a view at an expanse of skin I wanted to run my tongue along.

“So, dinner? And we can talk Milly?” She pulled her hair loose, allowing it to flow over her shoulders, shaking it out.

A strong desire to grab her—gently—and pull her in for a kiss took me over, and I had to shove this nonsense down. “Yeah,” I agreed. “I need to grab something to wear…from my office.”

We were in Chelsea, which was about twelve blocks from my offices in Hudson Yards.

“Okay,” she readily agreed. “I can change, and we can go? Or should I meet you there?”

“I’ll wait, take your time…”

Surprisingly, she didn’t take long. I’d just finished a bottle of electrolyte water from the studio’s smoothie bar when she came out of the locker room in her street clothes, smelling like eucalyptus-scented soap with a dash of Milly’s perfume.

“All set?”

She nodded and we made our way out of the small storefront without seeing Roy again. Thankfully.

“No car?” Frances eyed me up outside as if this was a test.

“I walked.”

She nodded, noting I’d passed her first quiz. Then fired off another question. “Either you don’t get chauffeured everywhere or you didn’t want to tell anyone where you were going…” Her hip hiked, head cocked, she watched my every move on the sidewalk.

I felt the sides of my mouth turn up. She had such nerve or chutzpah…

“What?”

I debated lying or saying nothing as we started to walk. “At least I don’t have to tell you where to go. You’ve bombarded my office enough times.”

“Very funny,” she replied, turning and winking. “I’m sneaky like that. Now tell me what had you cracking a smile-slash-smirk.”

“Are you sure you’re not really a spy?”

“Simply smart and astute.”

“And cocky?”

“Are you trying to avoid my question?”

“Milly,” I admitted. “I thought about Milly, who you are only dying to discuss, and how she would say you had chutzpah.”

“Hutzpah! My friend, Rachel, said the same…”

Of course she had a hard time getting out the ch sound. “Chutzpah,” I corrected. “In the back of your throat, feel the rumble of the sound.”

She gave it a few tries and ended up saying, “I know, I can’t do it. Just get on with it.”

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