Page 38 of Anchor Point

“Sounds like it. Don’t get any ideas,” he warned.

“Gah, you’re just as bad as she is,” she huffed, turning on a heel and leaving us alone again.

Mac ushered me down the hallway to a kitchen that overlooked a large living room. Tall windows lined the far wall, probably overlooking the lake, though it was too stormy to tell. Rosie sprawled on a big comfy sectional sofa, using a yellow Labrador as a pillow. The dog, obviously in heaven, lay there with an eye on me, tongue lolled out, almost smiling.

“You got bags in the car?” Mac asked. He stood at the counter, arms braced, wet patches dotting his dark-gray shirt. The tattoos that covered his forearms drew my attention. What was it about really good forearm porn?

I realized belatedly that he’d asked me a question. “What?”

“Bags,” he repeated, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “Are they in the car? I’ll go get them when the rain lets up.”

“Oh, I wasn’t planning on staying. I was just going to grab Rosie and head home.”

Mac frowned. “You aren’t going anywhere in this weather.”

I opened my mouth to argue.

“Nope. Putting my foot down.” His voice was gruff, full of authority, and a total turn-on. And now was not the time. “There’s no reason for you to be on the road,” he continued, despite my turmoil. “I have plenty of room for you to stay. Besides, you already skipped out of the conference. Might as well enjoy the rest of the weekend.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up, and my ovaries flipped. I’d recognized in the few weeks that I’d been on the job that he was usually stern, almost hard. That ghost of a smile did things to me.

“I can’t put you o?—”

His hand shot up, stopping me.

He held my gaze and shook his head. “It’s not safe, Liv. I’d rather you not be on the road if you don’t have to be.” His soft request tumbled my insides until all that existed was the desire to hear my name in that voice again. His stare held me in place until it became clear I was not going to win this argument. He was braced and ready for a fight, taking up all the space in the room. All the air. A memory of his focused intensity flashed bright and hot, and I had to lick my lips to keep from gasping.

Heat grew in his gaze as if he could read my thoughts. His eyes dropped to my lips, and I felt them on me as if he’d physically touched me.

“Okay.” The simple word came out so breathy and soft, I had to break the lingering eye contact before I completely crumpled. “If you’re sure it’s not a problem,” I said more firmly, “my bag is in the back seat.”

Mac gave a nod and stalked out of the room. I let my gaze wander over his wide shoulders that nearly filled the hallway, and his firm ass in cutoff sweatpants. He really had kept in great shape over the years.

A giggle drew my attention.

“He’s hot for an old guy, right?” Rosie stage-whispered.

Heat crept up my cheeks. “Rosa Nell.” But I had to stop at her name because I didn’t know what else to say. “Watch yourself, young lady,” I finished weakly.

Mac braved the unrelenting storm and brought in my bag, ushering me to the other spare bedroom. I changed and explored the house more, noting the decided absence of decorations. Only a few photos here and there. But no trinkets or personal items. As if he’d been there but hadn’t ever settled in.

“You’ve got a nice place, Mac. Thanks for letting us stay,” I said, joining them on an old blue L-shaped sofa. Mac stretched out across the shorter end, and Rosie had her legs curled up in the middle of the larger section, Buster lazing between them. Outside the large windows, lightning continued to flash as the storm lingered.

“Thanks. Dad fell in love with the place when he saw it. Now it’s just me here, mostly.”

I didn’t know how to respond. The thought of Mac spending most of his time alone made me sad. With nothing left to say, the subject dropped.

The evening passed, and the whole time, I tried not to notice the way Mac’s thighs bunched any time he shifted or the way his biceps bulged when he folded his arm behind his head.

But despite me actively avoiding checking out his body, my gaze seemed to be drawn there. Especially when he and Rosie had an in-depth conversation after realizing they had a shared love of old-school westerns. Curled up next to her on the couch, I sat as an outsider, witnessing my daughter fall a little bit in love with her father.

Despite my fear of her being hurt, it was sweet that they had so many similarities. What would our lives have been like if he’d been in it all along? And now that he was here, would she choose him over me? The thought sank like a stone, settling somewhere in the pit of my stomach where it rolled and churned.

Between the drone of the old black-and-white western—I didn’t even know the name—and their hushed conversation, the long, stressful week caught up with me, and my eyelids grew heavy. I drifted somewhere between a dream, where this was our family, and reality, where I was chaperoning my daughter as she got to know her father.

She had endless questions for him, and he answered every one, his deep voice wrapping around my dreamlike state, bathing me in safety and comfort.

I didn’t want this.

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