Page 14 of Rising Heat

I was seeing a nurse from MGH named Gina. One morning we’re sitting at her kitchen table after spending the night together, coffee brewing, sunlight coming through the window over the sink. I remember thinking she looked happy. I remember feeling happy too, which should’ve been my first mistake.

“You know what I like about you? You never make things heavy.”

She had said it like it was a compliment. Maybe it was.

It was sitting in traffic in my Jeep on my way home when I realized we’d been seeing each other for two months and she thought easy was the most interesting thing about me.

Afterward, the gig with Mack started making a lot more sense. It wasn’t just once in a while anymore; it became the standard. Because nobody was pretending it was anything other than what it was. No expectations beyond fun. No discovering six weeks in that somebody decided who you were without ever checking if they got it right.

I hadn’t thought about Gina in a long time.

Then Darcy Reed spent twenty minutes walking through this house looking at things like she was actually seeing them. When I handed her the key, she looked at me like I’d given her a reason to trust me.

Like what I thought mattered to her. I don’t get that too often. Mack does.

When a call goes sideways or a decision needs to get made fast, people look at Mack. They should. I’ve watched him earn every bit of that trust. Watched him stay late, work harder, carry more than anybody asked him to and then act like it was no big deal afterward.

Still.

Every now and then I wonder what that feels like. Not respect or being liked—I’ve never exactly struggled in that department. I mean that moment before somebody knows you, when they decide you’re worth betting on anyway.

The way Darcy had when she took the key from my hand.

I stir the pancetta through the hot pan and let it go. Or at least try to.

A second later, the front door opens.

I feel Mack come home before I hear him. The hinges give their usual complaint, followed by the sound of boots on hardwood, and I don’t even bother looking up. Nobody else walks through this house like that. Like the floor owes him money.

The kitchen smells like butter, garlic, and pancetta. Above the range, the spice jars I alphabetized three years ago line the open shelf in neat rows—a system Mack claimed was unnecessary right up until he started using it.

Home. Ours.

We bought the place from our grandparents and spent eight months tearing it apart and putting it back together, which mostly meant Mack refusing to let anyone touch the original bones and me eventually admitting he was right. Dark leather sectional. Reclaimed wood coffee table. The mezzanine railing casting shadows across the living room.

I drag the spoon through the sauce, taste it, and reach for the sea salt.

By the time Mack crosses the living room, I’ve already clocked the mood. He’s still in station sweats, hair damp from a shower, moving through the house with the kind of purpose that usually means somebody’s about to get a lecture. On anyone else it would read as tired. On Mack it means his patience is already running about a quarter low.

I’ve been reading that look since we were kids.

I grin before he even says anything.

“That bad?”

He doesn’t answer, just holds up his phone from the other side of the island. Darcy’s signed lease agreement glows on the screen. Sent fifty-seven minutes ago.

His voice is too calm.

“Ty.”

I wince internally.

Right on time.

“Why,” Mack says evenly, “did I just get an email with a signed lease agreement from a woman neither of us have vetted?”

“She’s nice.”