Page 101 of Man Cuffed
AUBREY: Rosie told me to tell you happy birthday. She left something for you in Mac’s apartment.
ME: Is it by any chance...Mac?
AUBREY: My lips are zipped. But maybe you should go over there really quick in case your birthday gift has to pee. Okay?
My friends are a strange crew. But I guess I’ll worry about that later. Mac can’t open his own door? I’m going to have to find out why. But on my own terms.
I clear my throat. “Mac?”
“Yes, Trouble?”
“I’m in the middle of alphabetizing my sock drawer. I’ll swing by in a few.”
He snorts. “I’m not going anywhere. Apparently.”
I tiptoe to my closet. Mac hasn’t seen me in three weeks. This is one of those moments that calls for something outrageous. I start plucking hangers off the bar, asking myself: what would a sexy cat burglar wear? If I’m already breaking and entering, I might as well do it in leather...
* * *
...TWENTY MINUTES LATER
“Meg,” he demands as I’m checking out my bustier in the mirror. “If your sock drawer is in order, how about you come over.”
“Soon!” I grin at my reflection. That’s showing him.
“Just, please, come over. Were you waiting to hear the magic word?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But the magic words are: I am a stupid fucking asshole.”
“Well then I am a stupid fucking asshole.”
I blink. Because that was a little too easy. “You’re not dying, right? You’re not bleeding out, or anything?”
“No, Trouble. I don’t have so much as a paper cut. My ass is numb but I’m sure it’s not fatal. Nice of you to ask, though.”
While it’s tempting to leave him in whatever situation he’s in, I’m also dying to see what Rosie’s done. And—let’s be honest—I’m also dying for him to see me in this getup I’m wearing. So he’ll rememberexactlywhat he’s given up.
That’s what gets me onto the patio, where I shimmy carefully over the divider (because leather isn’t cheap) and make a very ungraceful plunk onto Mac’s deck on the other side. Good thing that the director ofPierson of Interestdidn’t see me just pull that stunt. She’d make me do another take.
I’m moving stealthily, like any self-respecting bad-girl would. Mac’s sliding glass door is already open. Almost as if someone left it this way, knowing I’d be walking through.
Hmm.
I tiptoe across the living room. The bedroom door is open, too. Taking care to stand back, out of sight, I peek into the room.
And there is Macklin Maguire, spread eagled on his bed, arms handcuffed overhead. He was right—he’s not going anywhere like that. My mouth falls open, and I quickly catalog two problems with this whole scenario. 1) He’s clothed, and 2) We’re not together anymore.
I’m fairly sure I can change one of those things.
I clear my throat and Mac swings his rugged chin to catch me staring. “Holy shit,” he breathes, because I’m wearing a leather bustier, leather pants, and my black stilettos. Okay, this may be an old costume leftover from summerstock when I played Sandy inGrease, but it’s a fucking great outfit. “That getup is…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. One glance at his pants, and the bulge that pops up there says everything.
“You happy to see me?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“God, yes,” he says. His eyes take me in from head to toe. Then he closes his eyes. Maybe he just doesn’t want to look at me. And that hurts a bit. It does.
“I don’t know, Mac. It’s nice that you’re happy to see me. It’s nice to hear you yelling for me. Except you’re only yelling because you need someone to unlock you.”
