Page 80 of Here & There

“With you,” Mac says, like I’m dense.

I laugh. “He is not.”

“You really can’t tell?”

I follow his gaze to the kitchen door again. Chip’s back, his eyes narrowed at Mac.

When I look at him, he gasps and ducks from view.

“Mac.” I give him a look. “He’s just nervous. I told everyone yesterday that a business is all about people, and that I’d be watching the staff, the most important people of all. Not testing them. Not critiquing. Just observing and learning.”

He raises a single dark brow. Ugh, even his eyebrows are hot. “Shelby, are you telling me you really don’t know what a man who’s obsessed with you looks like?”

Nerves spasm in my belly.

As I chew and then swallow the quiche, that old, insecure feeling clawing at me. Then I dab my mouth with the napkin. “No, actually. I’ve never had that experience.” I try not to let theemotion sound in my voice, but I’m not sure I’m successful. I set the napkin down. “How do I know what that looks like?”

I’m being sarcastic, but Mac, I realize, is fully serious.

His eyes freakingsmolderas he stares at me, dropping from my eyes down my face, landing on my lips.

“It looks like a man who can’t tear his eyes away from you,” he says.

As if on command, my own lips part for a moment before I remember myself and snap them shut again.

“Like a man,” he says, lifting his hand up to brush his fingers against my cheek, “who looks for any excuse to touch you.”

“Mac,” I croak, laughing nervously as he scrapes his thumb against my cheekbone.

Then he pulls his hand away. He leans back in his seat but holds his thumb out so I can see. There’s a flaky piece of pastry there. “Quiche,” he says.

Heat floods my cheeks. I clear my throat, more than once, willing my heart to quit slamming against my ribs like a damn timpani.

“Oh.” Before I can think of something infinitely more clever to say, Mac picks up my pen, holding it in front of me with a sexy-ass smirk. “You want to write any of this down?”

I snatch the pen from him.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

The front door opens just then. I glance up to see a group of beautiful women filing into the bar. They look to be around my age—mid to late twenties—with long hair, tight jeans, and high-heeled boots. They’re composed and graceful and everything I’m not.

That old, tight feeling floods back. It intensifies when Mac glances over his shoulder at them. But Mac only gives them a passing glance before pointing his chin at Lana.

When he turns back, his expression almost looks irritated. Like he wishes they hadn’t come in and interrupted the moment.

“Well, guess you better get back to intimidating my staff,” Mac says with a wink and a sexy little grin. “Enjoy the quiche.”

“Thank you,” I say, a little too squeakily. I clear my throat.

When he’s gone, I touch my cheek where his hand was.

The women at the table lift their glasses, and it takes me a moment to realize they’re toasting me. “Damn, girl,” one says.

I grin, lifting my own water.

But after taking a sip, I hold my pen over the paper.

What the hell was that?I write in my notebook.

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