I go to stand, and she’s not wrong. We visited two stores and one kooky old lady, and I’m whipped. Kinley immediately comes to me, putting her arm around me. I exchange a look with Mrs. Bridgelock, who raises her brow.
“Don’t be a damn fool,” she warns, pointing her gnarled finger at me.
“Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Bridgelock.”
“Yeah, whatever. The jury’s still out on you.”
Well, I can’t disappoint her now, can I?
Chapter8
Kinley
After hittingup my accountant on the way home, we agree that Mac should take a nap before we get into the songwriting. I take it as an opportunity to freshen up back home with a quick shower. Even though it’s just Mac, I might pop on some blush and do something with my hair other than tie it back. I also grab the tinted lip balm on the way out, with no clue as to why I feel the need to get pretty for her.
Liar.
Making my way back to the cabin, I slip open the door. Mac is still asleep, and seeing her face so fully relaxed makes me realize how hard she must be thinking in her waking hours. I bet she thinks relaxation is the same as moving backward.
We might have that in common.
I step inside, and her eyes flutter open, a smile gracing her lips before she has a chance to make herself look serious.
“Hey,” she scratches out, her voice heavy with sleep. “Wow. You’ve got really pretty hair.”
“Sorry for waking you. We can do this another day if you’d like.”
She sits up—a little too quickly, judging by her slightly dazed expression. Shaking off the sleep, she answers, “No, I’ve been looking forward to this.”
My smile brightens. “Me too. I forgot how much I liked playing around with music. Even if I am shit at it.”
Scooting to the edge of the bed, a line forms between Mac’s brows.
“Don’t do that. Don’t discount what you bring to the equation just because I’m someone with a moderate amount of skill and recognition.”
“Moderate?” I raise a brow. “Don’t tell anyone, but you’re a lot humbler than your reputation would suggest.”
She shoots me the bird while grabbing her cane, and I cackle.
Walking to the kitchen, I look over my shoulder. “I want something hot. What do you want? Tea? Coffee?”
“Something hot, huh?” Mac asks, the edge of her lip tipping up into a grin. I roll my eyes. “Coffee sounds great.”
By the time I’ve put on a pot, she’s made her way over to the table and has the music sheets in front of her, along with a freshly sharpened pencil.
“I see we’ve got a setup.” I place her coffee in front of her and stifle the urge to skim my hand across her tight shoulders.
Grabbing the mug, Mac asks, “Can you bring me the sugar bowl? I like—”
“Two sugars. I know. It’s already in there.”
Trying not to grin, she chews at her bottom lip before taking a sip.
“Damn, I love this coffee.”
“It’s the water,” I admit, sitting next to her.
“Really?” She takes another sip.
