Keep On Loving you (6 page)

On the one hand, she was single and alone. On the other, she had her well-valued independence.

The front door pushed open and Tilda Smith came inside. You had to love the girl—not just because she was an eager employee, never saying no to extra hours or extras tasks, but also because she was a by-her-bootstraps kind of person. She'd been raised by a single mom who'd scraped by as a barmaid at various establishments—a single mom who hadn't always made the best emotional choices for herself. At the woman's sudden death several months before, Tilda had kept on marching, though, moving into a tiny apartment with two other girls and working for Mac and occasionally for one of the caterers in town as well as picking up any other odd job that she could.

Like dropping off groceries for Zan Elliott.

“Hey, Tilda,” she called out in greeting. “I've got the cleaning caddy all ready for you.” One day a week Mac devoted to paperwork, so the young woman was going to be cleaning a four-bedroom luxury lake-view condo on her own.

“Thanks.” The girl seemed a little distracted as she approached, binding her wealth of long, wavy hair in a rubber band at the same time. Shadows beneath her green eyes only made them appear more jewel-toned. Ah, youth.

“Are you okay?” Mac asked, studying her with new concern.

Their relationship went beyond employer-employee. Not just because she recognized a like soul—they both were tough-skinned survivors—but they'd shared a lot about themselves when they worked together. Polishing two dozen place settings of silver or scrubbing a kitchen sized for an army turned out to be natural times to trade confidences.

They began with how best to stretch a dollar and which bank had the most generous overdraft protection, then moved on to the more personal.

Tilda had revealed her mother's history of affairs with married men as well as her own lackluster attempts at romance.

Mac had talked about the three times she'd attempted commitment in her early twenties—all awkward failures that had left her believing she was better off being alone. She'd even explained about the postcards that arrived at the office from around the world...and about what their sender had once been to her.

“I'm okay,” Tilda said now. “Fine.” She pushed through the swinging door cut into the counter. “Any special instructions?” she asked, first snatching up the keys to one of two small sedans with the Maids by Mac signage on the side. Second, she scooped up the plastic holder that contained gloves, cloths and their preferred cleaning products. It would take another trip for her to retrieve the vacuum cleaner and mops and stow them into the car's trunk.

Mac narrowed her gaze, taking a closer look at the younger woman's face. “You're not coming down with something, are you? Did Zan pass along the same flu that flattened him when you delivered the groceries?” That had been two days ago, long enough for illness to incubate.

“I didn't even see him then,” Tilda said.

“Really?” Mac frowned. “But he sent me a text, thanking me for the delivery. How did you get into the house?”

“Ash Robbins was there.”

“Ah. John and Veronica Robbins' kid.” The couple's home was on a regular rotation for Mac's cleaning service now that they'd retired to the mountains. While she didn't know them well, it was clear they loved their son. “According to his mother and father, the boy can do no wrong.”

Tilda flushed. “He's not a boy. He's a man.”

O-kay. Mac knew Tilda didn't have much to do with boys—uh, men. Keeping oneself financially afloat took a lot of time and energy—at least that had been Mac's excuse the past several years. “I didn't realize you two knew each other.”

“We don't, not really.” The girl lifted a shoulder. “We ran across each other last May. But we're not in the same league.”

“What?” Mac bristled. “Is that what he said?”

She shrugged again. “Imagine what his father's opinion of me would be.”

His father? What would his father have to do with anything? She frowned. “Til—”

“I need to get going,” the girl said, spinning around to head out.

Mac bustled into the back room to grab up the mops and wheel the vacuum toward the street. Before she reached the front door, Tilda had returned. “I've got this,” she said, taking over.

Frowning again, Mac put her hands on her hips. “I can help.”

The girl shook her head. “I don't want to get used to that.”

Mac let her go but continued to watch as she exited. Clearly Tilda valued her autonomy, and her boss could appreciate that, but as a friend it worried her.

Then the door reopened, letting in a blast of winter air and someone she'd been thinking about since the moment she left him alone at his house two days before. She allowed herself a single assessing glance at Zan, then deciding he looked back in good health—and as handsome as always—she turned and pushed through the swinging panel to put the countertop between them.

Stacking the papers on her desk, she threw him a polite smile. “Hey, there.”

“Hey back,” Zan said, looking curiously about the room. “This is nice.”

“It's small.” Truthfully, she could have run Maids by Mac from her duplex, but it seemed more...businesslike to have a dedicated office space. The rent didn't kill because the office was, indeed, Lilliputian-sized. And with Zan's broad shoulders and long legs between the four walls, it felt just that much more crowded.

No wonder she could hardly breathe.

Mac took another peek at him. He wore dark denim and a high-end, high-tech-looking winter jacket with a wealth of pockets that probably cost more than her monthly profit margin. “Did you need something?”

“To say thanks for the groceries. They kept me fed and indoors for another twenty-four hours, which allowed me to kick the bug for good.”

“Awesome.” She rubbed at the touch pad of her laptop, bringing the screen to life so she could focus on the spreadsheet there instead of the man and his big...presence.

“I also hoped to talk you into coffee with me.”

“I'm too busy to go...” she began, the words automatic, but they trailed off as he placed two paper cups on the counter. So eager to avoid looking at him too long, she'd neglected to notice what he'd carried.

“From Oscar's,” he said, pushing one of the beverages her way. “They told me your favorite order.”

“I...” She was forced to leave the desk to retrieve it. Refusing seemed too rude, even though she'd decided the safest way to deal with Zan and all the memories his presence invoked was to keep her distance. Instead of rattling those bones she wanted to pick with him, she'd decided to let them settle. That would, she figured, keep the unwelcome Ghost of Love Gone By as undisturbed and inactive as possible. “Uh, thanks.”

Watching her, he shook his head as she took her first sip. “I can't get over the fact that you drink coffee. When I left you wouldn't touch the stuff.”

“People change.” Some traveled the world. Took lovers named
Simone
. “I learned to like coffee.”

He leaned against the counter as he picked up his own beverage. “The village and the mountains are much the same, though.”

“Still beautiful.”

With a smile, he toasted her with his coffee. “Present company included.”

She ignored the stupid flutter in her middle. “Well, see, you're much the same, too. Still a charmer.”

He only smiled again at that, so she moved back to her desk and fiddled with a pencil. “This is my paperwork day, so...”

“Oh, you won't get rid of me so easily.”

Well, that didn't seem fair when he'd left the mountains so easily before, she thought, frowning at her cup. Not to mention that he'd left without even taking the photo of them she'd presented him with before he'd packed his truck and driven it down the hill. That knowledge, she had to admit, still rankled.

She had a matching picture herself, now relegated to the dark corner in her chest of drawers under the single socks she was too cheap to throw away.

Hey, you never knew when their partner might show up again.

After all, hadn't Zan returned?

Not that they were parts of a pair or anything.

Annoyed at her train of thought, she squared her shoulders, took a bracing swallow of espresso and steamed milk, and told herself, rude or not, it was time to show him out.

Of her office.

Of her could-have-been file, too.

Clearing her throat, she met his gaze. “Zan—”

“I brought you something else.”

The expression on his face gave her sudden pause. It was half guarded and half pleased. Exactly how he'd looked when he'd presented her with her eighteenth birthday present—the receipt for four brand-new tires for her battered baby SUV.

I know it's not romantic
, he'd said.

Then she'd thrown herself into his arms, grateful, touched to the bone because those tires would keep her safe on the mountain roads for years to come. He'd known pride would never have allowed her to accept them as charity, but as a birthday gift...yes.

She thought of what Angelica had said to Brett the night of their wedding reception.
You know what I need.

But the way of those memories lay danger and not the distance she'd decided upon, so she returned to the moment at hand. “A croissant? One of Oscar's cinnamon buns? I warn you, I don't like the lemon cake.”

He grinned. “I recall your aversion to citrus paired with sweets.”

It took effort to pretend that didn't stab. He remembered? “That's right. No lemon bars. No key lime tarts.”

“But you indulged my love of peach pie.”

Mac's body froze. Had he really said that?
Peach pie?
Um, sexual innuendo, much?

But before she could think of how to respond, he pulled something out of one of his many coat pockets and set it on the counter. The item was about the size of a large baked potato. Which turned out to be a very weird first impression of the actual object.

Her gaze glued to it, she moved forward, unable to stifle her curiosity.

“It's a Russian nesting doll.”

Her fingertip stroked the smooth surface. More than that, it was a work of art. On the carved hourglass shape, a woman's face and figure decorated the pale wood. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, she was delicate and so, so lovely.

“I watched the artist paint her,” Zan said. He cleared his throat. “She, uh, makes them by request.”

Her head shot up. It didn't take a genius to realize the rendered woman had her coloring...even, perhaps, her features. Mac put her hands behind her back. “It's wonderful.”

His mouth quirked. “I thought so.” Then he picked it up and twisted.

A bleat of protest escaped her mouth.

He laughed. “Watch.”

It was a work of moments. Inside, were five other figurines, each one opening to reveal a smaller figure, similarly painted, until the smallest was revealed, the size of a thimble.

Mac stared at them, noting that each had the same features and each wore a beautiful blue gown, highlighted with what looked like gold leaf. So exquisite. Inhaling a breath, she shifted her gaze to Zan again. “For me? Really?”

One of his long fingers brushed the painted hair of the largest of the dolls and his gaze tracked the stroke. “Yeah. I'll miss her, though. She's been with me a long time.”

Like the long time he'd been gone. Ignoring the hot pressure behind her eyes, she watched him renest the dolls into one.

Then he cradled it in his hands like a kitten, bringing it close to his face. “We had many the long, dark-night conversations, didn't we, girl?” he asked, addressing the piece.

Oh, man. That burn intensified behind Mac's eyes and she felt a traitorous twinge in her chest. On long dark nights, had he needed a friend? During those lonely hours, had he been talking to a surrogate for her?

She curled her hands into fists to keep herself from reaching out to him.
You need to keep your distance
, she reminded herself.
You need to keep up your guard.

But when he offered the object to Mac, she couldn't help but lean closer to take it from him. As her fingers neared, he lifted it just out of reach. “Now, what am I going to get in return for this little pretty?” he asked with a roguish glint in his eye.

It was charming as heck, so the look she sent him was stern. “A simple ‘thank you' won't do?”

“Surely you can do better than that. Think of the miles I've traveled to bring her to you. The terrain I've overcome! The dangers I've braved!”

“The bullshit you've dished out along the way,” she said drily.

His lips twitched. It drew her attention, reminding her of kisses, hours of them, that mouth on hers, taking her to new and heated places. That mouth, exploring new and heated places.

Peach pie.
She felt a blush rush up her neck and cursed the persistent memories.

“I think you've turned into a cruel and cold woman,” Zan declared.

She latched on to that. “And don't you forget it.”

“But still,” he said, in that teasing tone, “one small kiss doesn't seem too much to ask.” His fingertip tapped the edge of his jaw. “And then I'll be on my way.”

And then she'd be safe from him, her space once more her own. And yet... “Zan...”

He wiggled the doll back and forth. “Please?” His smile was boyish and friendly. “With sugar on top?”

“Good God,” she muttered but found herself giving in to his ridiculous request. Bellying up to the counter, she closed the gap between them. Then she fisted her hand in the lapel of his jacket, drew his face close and rose onto her tiptoes. “Thank you,” she grumbled.

And moved her lips to his cheek.

At the same instant that he turned his mouth to meet hers.