He didn't bother texting. Viola hadn't answered his last three messages, and after what happened with her ex, Mack wasn't about to sit around twiddling his damn thumbs.
The sun was low, casting golden light over the hill as he pulled into the long gravel driveway, his Jeep growling beneath him. He parked without ceremony, killing the engine and slamming the door with purpose.
Sam answered the knock with a smirk and a spoon in her hand, half a tub of ice cream in the other.
—Oh, he's on a mission. This should be good.
Mack didn't even glance at her. "Evening," he said curtly as he walked straight past her into the house.
Viola was right where he knew she'd be. Slouched on the couch, messy bun threatening to slide sideways, glasses askew, an oversized hoodie swallowing her body. A laptop was tossed beside her, and the grumpy scowl on her face told him she hadn't had a great day.
Perfect.
"Up," he said.
She blinked at him. "What the—Mack?"
He didn't answer. Just strode over, hands on his hips, dark gray sweatpants slung low and a black Glock cap pulled over his brow. The loose white tee did nothing to hide his broad chest or the veins that ran down his forearms.
"Mack, I swear, if you try—"
Too late.
He bent, scooped her off the couch like she weighed nothing, and slung her over his shoulder.
"Put me down!" she shrieked, pounding on his back. "This is not normal behavior!"
Sam howled from the kitchen. "This is the best show I've seen all week!"
Mack slapped Viola's thigh once, grinning. "Stop squirming. You're lucky I let you have clothes on."
"You are insane!"
He carried her straight to the car, opened the door, and set her in the passenger seat like a grumpy little doll, clicking the seatbelt into place before she could escape.
"Mack—"
"Shut it, baby girl," he said, brushing a stray curl off her cheek with maddening tenderness. "I'm cooking. You're eating. End of discussion."
Her cheeks burned. "You could've just called."
"I did. You ignored me. This is what happens."
He shut the door, rounded the front, and climbed in.
She stared at him for a long second. "Is this what kidnapping feels like?"
He shifted the car into drive with one hand, the other resting casually on the wheel. "Only if the hostage is into it."
Viola hated how that made her toes curl.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The kitchen smelled like garlic and herbs, the warm scent wrapping around Viola the moment she stepped inside. She crossed her arms, still barefoot, still very much annoyed—but also trying not to look too impressed.
Because Mack, in sweats, barefoot and wearing that damn backwards Glock cap, was at the stove.
And he was cooking.
Muscles flexed under his loose shirt every time he stirred the sauce. His veins popped with every movement, and she hated herself a little for noticing that more than the actual food.
"You cook now?" she muttered, perching on a stool at the kitchen island. "Should I be afraid?"
Mack turned just enough to shoot her a smirk over his shoulder. "You like pasta."
"You barely know me."
He set down the spoon and walked over to her, crowding her with that slow, predatory energy that made her mouth go dry. One hand rested on the marble next to her hip, the other lifted to her chin, gently tugging her gaze to meet his.
"I know enough to tell when you're spiraling in your head. And I know when to drag you out of it and feed you."
Her breath caught.
He was too close. Too calm. Too intense.
So she did the only thing she could—deflected. "Do you seduce all your hostages with spaghetti?"
That earned a grin. "Only the stubborn ones."
He stepped back before she could fully melt and returned to the stove. Viola watched in silence as he moved with quiet confidence—chopping, stirring, tasting. The tattoos on his forearm peeked out beneath his sleeves, each one a secret she hadn't earned the right to ask about yet.
But god, she wanted to.
He poured her a glass of wine and slid it across the counter.
She took a sip and said, "Thanks… for showing up today."
Mack didn't look at her. "That prick shouldn't be anywhere near you. You looked wrecked."
Viola inhaled sharply. "It was a long time ago."
"Doesn't mean he gets to walk in and pretend none of it happened."
The tension sat thick between them.
He finally plated two bowls of pasta—rich, red sauce, fresh parmesan, garlic bread on the side—and set hers in front of her. Then, instead of taking the stool across from her, he leaned against the island, right beside her. Close enough that his thigh brushed her knee.
They ate in quiet for a moment, and then Mack said low, "You know I'd never let anyone hurt you."
Viola's fork paused halfway to her mouth.
"You don't even know if I want that kind of protection."
"You do," he said without hesitation. "Even if you don't admit it. You crave safety."
Her eyes narrowed. "What else do you think I crave, Mack?"
He set down his fork, then turned, brushing her hair behind her ear with infuriating gentleness.
"Me."
Her heart punched her ribs.
"You want me," he said softly. "You fight it. But your body doesn't lie."
She shook her head, voice barely above a whisper. "Mack…"
He leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"I'm not gonna touch you tonight unless you beg."
Her legs clenched under the counter.
"But know this," he murmured, "when you do… I'm not stopping."
She exhaled a shaky breath. "You talk a lot of shit for a guy who didn't even bring dessert."
He chuckled, dark and rough. "Baby, I am dessert."
Viola swallowed hard.