Page 25 of My Dearest Mackenzie

“Yeah, it’s me.”

I slid over toward the store’s window so I didn’t get trampled by busy New Yorkers.

“What are you up to?”

“Buying some fruit.” I sounded like an idiot.

“Oh, yeah? Making a smoothie?”

I finally got my mojo back. “What do you need, Mack?”

“I was calling to see if you were free for dinner. Maybe a walk and dinner? A show? Whatever you feel up to…”

I tilted my head back, allowing the sun to shine on me, maybe warm my chilled heart. I’d spent the Fourth of July sulking and decided to not allow my mood to ruin the weekend. “Whatever? What are you talking about? You made your point. You don’t do sentiment or long-term emotions. All I wanted was your help with my Paps. You can’t even do that.”

“I’m trying to make it up to you.”

“Make what up?”

“I don’t know. Can we just do dinner?”

“Why didn’t Corey call?” I started to walk toward home. I had to allow some of the anger, want, need, and confusion to move out of my body.

“Because this is personal.”

“But you blocked your number,” I blurted out.

He laughed on the line, the rumble touching my nerves and flickering down my spine. “My number is always blocked. If it means you’ll say yes, I’ll give you my digits. You already know my address.”

“Oh, that’s an easy one to find. It’s online. I even know how much you paid for your penthouse in Hudson Yards.”

“Figures.”

I countered his sarcasm with a question. “Do you cook?”

“Me?”

“Yes…” I was taking long strides, making my way home, fast and furious. Even though my brain said to slow my roll, my heart pumped a steady beat, wanting me to have dinner with Mackenzie Miller. And I needed to shower, change, and pluck my eyebrows before doing so. “You,” I finished my thought. “You said your grandma was all about cooking. Do you cook?”

“No. Sadly, no, I do not cook. She would be disappointed in me.”

“Okay, so let’s cook. You want to have dinner? We can make it.” Honestly, I had no idea what I was suggesting, but the fear of being dumped at a restaurant again—by Mack—loomed large.

“Ooookay, we’ll cook. And the groceries?”

“Why don’t you come up to my end of the island, and we can shop and then prep at my place.”

“Are you inviting me over, Frances?”

“I guess I am…against my better judgment.” Luckily, my small touch of sarcasm returned. “I’d hurry up and ask for my address before I change my mind.”

“That’s okay, I found it. Right here, on the internet.”

“Touché. See you later?”

“Sure,” he said and hung up before we could nail down a time.

I assumed he’d be over around five or six, giving me time to ready myself and my place. Heading back to the Upper East Side condo, my anxiety was hitting all-time highs. What if he didn’t like my apartment? Or me? Oh wait—he didn’t like me. He was doing me a favor, I reminded myself.

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