Page 28 of My Dearest Mackenzie

I assumed the latter when he suggested we go get the provisions and toast to our grandparents’ story. All of a sudden, Mack Miller was compliant and congratulatory—it was confounding, yet I liked it.

“Add two tablespoons of the Dijon and two of olive oil. Two of each, okay?”

I nodded. “Bossy, much?”

She side-eyed me. “Next, whisk them together before adding a dash of pepper and some red pepper flakes. Got this? Whisk again.”

Frances gave me step-by-step instructions, with me in her profile as she seasoned the filets with a dry rub. “Got it, coach,” I said with a fist in the air.

We’d settled on steaks and some mustardy potato recipe, which was what I was currently working on, and a salad with warm, fresh pita. The last item because Frances was practically orgasming over the bakery counter.

“It’s summer, and I didn’t barbeque yesterday,” Frances had stated in the small grocery store near her apartment. “We should grill,” she’d mumbled to herself.

We gotten grass-fed beef and the ingredients for a side, and then we went to grab a baguette. That was when a moan of epic proportions had escaped her mouth.

“Warm pita, mmmm. My favorite. Do you care if we skip the baguette?”

“Frances, even if you weren’t looking at me with your big green eyes full of desire and want—just to clarify, for the bread, not me—I’d say yes after hearing you moan like that. I’d say yes to anything…even you pulling my toenails off.”

She’d laughed and promptly turned and asked for four pitas, explaining she’d freeze any leftovers. “It’s the water,” she’d said.

“I’m quite aware. New York water makes the best bagels, pizza, and apparently pita.”

Frances dragged me back to the current moment. “Okay, toss that over the potatoes and pop the baking sheet in the oven.”

I needed to remember this was a friendly night, not a lifetime commitment. Although it felt as seamless as one could be. The shopping, joking, cooking side by side…I’d never done that with anyone so easily.

“I’m going to go grill,” Frances declared.

“I’m actually qualified to do that… We had a grill in college. The team used to grill out every weekend.” It was an easier time, less pressure and even more limited reality. I’d been thinking about it a lot and how I should have embraced it more.

“I’d rather do it than be subjected to the neighbors’ questioning later. They watch everything.”

Off she went to grill the steaks on the common deck in the back of the building, and I was left to tend to the side dish and stare at the looming picture of her Paps. He was a good-looking man, despite his age in the photo. I could tell he had blond hair when he’d been younger and eyes the same shade as Frances. Deep green orbs that my grandmother supposedly loved at one point.

He wore a taupe suit complementing the pale pink sheath Frances chose for the event. Her eyes sparkled with excitement in the picture, a champagne glass in one hand and her Paps holding a tumbler of brown liquid.

I wondered who her husband was; there wasn’t another name on the address when I’d googled her. My heart ached for Frances in a way I didn’t know possible, and my head argued with me to turn the oven off and get out. But I couldn’t. Problem was, I’d eventually hurt Frances too—because there was no positive ending in sight. We’d figure out the sordid details of our grandparents, all signs pointing to us falling for one another, and then I’d have to end it.

Yet I wanted to use my kickboxing moves and more on her ex-husband. What kind of asshole didn’t want a child he took part in creating?

Oh right, someone like my own mother.

Which was why this whole scenario was even worse news for me. And why, despite the fun nature of college and being on the football team, I’d never been able to fully immerse myself in it. Because of her.

I sipped the chilled wine, allowing the alcohol to tickle my throat and dull some of my emotions. Except it didn’t work—I wanted to ransack the place and look for evidence of the ex and go find and hurt him. It was irrational but it was happening.

Luckily, Frances showed back up with the steaks, and stated, “I’m going to let them sit for a few minutes while I whip up a salad. Can you check the potatoes? They’re tiny suckers so they should be softening.”

I was grateful for the small task but had to ask, “Um, how do I do that?”

There she went again with the type of laugh her whole body participated in, her neck falling back, exposing her smooth throat. I loved the blouse she wore; I wanted to rip it open and watch the buttons scatter all over the floor before running my tongue over her neck, down to her cleavage, nipping my way up, careful not to leave marks.

“You put a fork in one and see if it’s tender.” She said it before turning around and grabbing a container of spinach, her bun plopping to the side.

I did as she told me to do, and exclaimed, “Tender!” I didn’t add that I was the opposite of soft, my hardened heart doing things it didn’t ever do, and other parts of my body responding in very firm ways.

Another giggle from Frances as she tossed some spinach and cranberries and artichokes had my pulse flaring. She whisked—her word, not mine—a quickie dressing and tossed it all together.

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