“So do I. It’s my fatal flaw, not yours.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Her jaw dropped. He rarely swore. “It’s—”

“You don’t have any fatal flaw. What you have is an ingrained habit of looking at marriage, for yourself, from one angle only. And from that angle all you see is failure.”

“That may be true, it’s probably true. But I’ve shifted that angle more for you, with you, than I have with anyone. I don’t know if I’m capable of more.”

“I’m not going to push you, but I won’t lie and say I haven’t thought about it. That I haven’t thought about making a life with you. It’s difficult to look inside myself and know, without a single reservation, that’s what I want. And to look at you, and know it’s not what you think you can have.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know if you can understand I’m more afraid of that than being hurt myself.”

“I don’t need your protection.” He reached out, tapped the dangle of diamonds she wore. “You thought when I gave you these there might be an engagement ring in that box. You looked stricken.”

“Carter—”

“What would you have said, I wonder, if there had been? I’m not asking. We’ll call it a rhetorical question. I’ll make you a promise right here and now, which may put your mind at ease. There won’t be a ring or a question until you ask for them.”

“You’re too good for me.”

“I’m forced to repeat myself. That’s bullshit.”

“It’s not. And I actually think quite a bit of myself. What I should be, Carter, is on my knees asking you if you’d have me. And I can’t get it out. It’s stuck. It’s stuck right here.” She pressed her fist to her chest. “And every time it starts to loosen, just a little, something slams it back down. You’re so much better than I deserve.”

“Don’t do that to me.” He took her by the shoulders. “Don’t put me somewhere I don’t want to be.”

“I don’t know what I’d have said if there’d been a ring in that box. And that scares me. I don’t know, and I can’t see if whatever I’d have said would’ve been the right thing or the wrong thing for both of us. I have to see. I know the angle’s wrong. More, the lens is defective, and I know it.”

She stepped back from him. “I want to change it, and that’s a first.”

“That’s a start. I’ll settle for that, for now.”

“You shouldn’t settle for anything. That’s my point.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, or who to love. You’re the one. You’re going to be the one tomorrow, and fifty years from tomorrow.”

“I’ve never been the one. Not for anybody.”

He closed the distance between them. “You’ll get used to it.” He tipped her face up to his, kissed her.

“Why? Why am I the one?”

“Because my life opened up, and it flooded with color when you walked back into it.”

She wrapped her arms tight around him, pressed her face to his shoulder as emotion swamped her. “If you asked, I couldn’t say no.”

“That’s not good enough, for either of us. When I ask, you need to want to say yes.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

MAC HEARD THE THUMP, THE HISS OF BREATH, AND OPENED one eye. Snuggled in bed, she watched Carter hobble over to get his shoes.

“What time is it?”

“Early. Go back to sleep. I managed to get up, shower, and nearly get dressed before I ran into something and woke you up.”

“It’s all right. I should get up, get an early start anyway.” Her eyes drooped closed again.

Carrying his shoes—and limping only a little—he walked over to kiss the top of her head. She made a murmuring sound of pleasure, and dropped back into sleep.

By the time she surfaced, the sun was beaming in.

Not such an early start after all, she mused as she rolled out of bed. Still, one of the perks of running your own business—and having no morning appointments—was sleeping in a little. She started for the bathroom, then shook her head and went back to make the bed.

It was the new Mac, she reminded herself. The tidy and organized in all areas of her personal and professional lives Mackensie Elliot. The Mac with the new, fabulously designed closet where everything had its place—and was in it.

She fluffed the pillows, smoothed the sheets, spread the duvet neatly. See, she told herself as she did every morning, it only took two minutes. With a nod of satisfaction, she surveyed her room.

No clothes tossed anywhere, no shoes kicked under a chair, no jewelry carelessly scattered on the dresser. This was the room of a grown-up, a woman of taste—and a woman in control.

She showered, then reminded herself to hang up the towel. In the bedroom she gave herself the pleasure of opening her closet and just standing there, looking at it.

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

Her clothes hung in precise lines, according to function and color. Every pair of her impressive collection of shoes nestled inside its clear protective box, in stacks of type. Evening shoes, daywear, sandals, boots—pumps, peeps, spikes, wedges.

Things of beauty.

Handbags, again by function and color, sat easily accessed in generous cubbies. Inside the glossy white drawers of the built-ins lived scarves—once doomed to tangled knots or jumbled piles, neatly folded, as did her dressier sweaters, her hosiery.

It made getting dressed an absolute stress-free pleasure. No more hunting, no more cursing, no more wondering where the hell she’d put that blue shirt with the French cuffs then having to settle for another blue shirt when she couldn’t find it.

Because the blue shirt with the French cuffs was right there, where it belonged.

She pulled on a white tank, a navy V-neck with jeans, suitable wardrobe for the morning’s work, and the early afternoon shoot. Satisfied and smug, she strolled out.

Strode back in to stuff her pajamas in the hamper.

She walked downstairs just as Emma came in the front door.

“I’m out of coffee. Help me.”

“Sure. I was just about to . . . Oh, Carter must’ve made some before he left.”

“I don’t want to hate you for having someone who’ll make coffee while you sleep, but I need caffeine for my altruistic side to wake up.” Emma poured herself a mug, all but inhaled the first sip. “Life. It’s good again.”