Chapter 12
Who does Blake Moffitt think he is?
I slash toothpaste across my brush and re-cap the tube before whipping the brush into my mouth, determined to get every bit of his “sweet macaroni” out of my mouth.
If only Blake himself was as easy to scrub from my mind.
What was with him tonight? He was being so…sexy.
Ugh, not that he isn’t always sexy. But this was more than a sexy existence. This was raw male power—perhaps even flirtation—and it was allllll directed my way.
It was all I could do not to tip my head upward and pull his face toward mine.
But then—then!—he backed off. Shook off whatever was between us. Declared Thomas the winner (he wasn’t). And ran away.
Just like he did nearly twelve years ago.
Of course, back then I told myself I must have been mistaken. In all my teenage adoration of him, it was easy to put the blame squarely on my shoulders.
But now I’m an adult.
And adult Lucy saw what teenage Lucy couldn’t—that man is into me.
Or at least, he felt something.
Doesn’t mean adult Lucy knows what to do about it, though.
I wince as the bristles of the toothbrush swipe my gums with ferocity. Ouch. If I’m not careful, I’m going to bleed my mouth dry. Spitting into the sink, I wash my mouth out with water and clean the paste from the brush. Then I give myself a quick once-over in the mirror—since Blake moved in, I’ve started wearing pajama pants and baggy T-shirts to bed—and open the bathroom door into the hallway.
Where a shirtless Blake is standing.
His hand is extended like he’s reaching for the doorknob. Because of course he is. “Sorry. Didn’t know anyone was in there.”
I should speak. I know I should. But my eyes are busy drinking him in.
Gaaaaah. He’s so beautiful, with his golden skin on display, his muscles well-defined and just the right size. His clavicle sweeps down from one shoulder, across him, to the other. And the rest of him—his pectorals, his flat stomach, his gym shorts hanging low on his tapered waist—beckons my hands, which I fist at my sides to keep from reaching where they shouldn’t.
“You okay there, Sunshine?”
“What?” My guilty eyes dart back up to his face, where his gaze is lit with a faint hint of amusement. Sweet macaroni, I’ve been staring like a lovesick fool. But I’m not. Lovesick, that is. I’m just a woman, appreciating the form of a man. I don’t have to think more of it than that. He has no reason to be amused.
Maybe he’s laughing at me. Maybe earlier, at the Robin, he just wanted to see how far he could take things before I broke.
Well, Lucy Reynolds doesn’t break for anyone. Most especially him. And since I can’t show him ire anymore—darn truce!—I’ll just have to be overly nice.
I paste on a smile and dip into an exaggerated bow, directing my hands toward the bathroom. “All yours, roomie.”
Then, with his chuckle low in my ears, I run toward my bedroom, a move that I’m realizing is becoming all too common where Blake Moffitt is concerned.
“Hey.”
I squeal and throw a hand to my chest at the feminine voice that greets me as I enter my room. “You scared me!”
Marilee’s sitting on my bed, her arms wrapped around the knees pulled into her chest. She’s got on black sleep shorts and a tank top with Grinch faces all over it, despite the fact it’s summertime. “Sorry. I came to deliver that”—she points to something on my side table—“but stayed because we haven’t seen much of each other, and I don’t have to work tomorrow, so I thought we could catch up a bit.”
“Of course we can.” I plop down beside her on the bed and give her a hug, then grab a postcard off the side table. A photo of some European countryside beckons.
My heart thumps. A text and a postcard from Mama all in one day? Not that the text said much. Just that she missed me—but was having the best time in Italy.
I set the postcard down again, determined to savor the message on the back later when I’m alone. Then I flick on my second fake smile in a matter of moments, this one directed at my bestie. “I’ve missed you. How are you? How’s work? And cake making?”
Last I heard, she was taking on a few cake commissions here and there as part of her job at The Blackberry Muffin. Even though I can tell that’s where her passion lies, she’s hesitant to start her own business. I can’t exactly blame her—she’s still fighting every month to get out from under the debt Donny left her with four years ago.
Her face lights up as she tells me all about a Barbie cake she made for one of the young Painter girls’ birthdays and a fiftieth anniversary cake for our town librarian Anita Draper (who is Alberta Jenkins’s twin sister and quite her opposite in terms of kindness and tact go) and her retired doctor husband Donald.
While she talks, I pull a few bottles of nail polish from my side table drawer and toss her one that’s Christmas-y red. I unscrew the bottle of a lime green color and begin to spread the polish onto my bare toenails. I’m not really a girly girl, but even us casual women like to have cute summer toes.
The strong smell of the polish permeates the air as Marilee finishes updating me on her life—including her last few “hangouts” with Jordan and Ryder, whom she oh so clearly adores. Then she makes a face, sticking out her tongue. “I just monopolized that conversation, didn’t I? I’m sorry. How have you been? How’s the restaurant? Did you hand out the BOGO coupons yet?”
“Yep, delivered them around town yesterday. Now, we wait to see if it works.” My insides twist.
“I’m sure it will. Blake’s fliers worked well.” She picks up the unopened red nail polish. “Speaking of Blake…”
Smooth, Mare. Smooth. My eyebrows lift her way. “Go ahead. Ask what you really want to.”
“Hmm? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A droplet of red falls from her brush onto my comforter, and she sucks in a breath as she wipes the excess from the fabric with her pinky. A small red smear is left behind on the lavender. “Oh no. I’m sorry!”
“Don’t be.” I casually screw the lid back onto my polish and set the bottle aside, admiring my toes even though they’re far from perfect. “A little mess adds character. Besides, that’s the benefit of buying things secondhand for cheap.”
“I guess.” She frowns, and her glasses slip down her nose a bit as she resumes painting her nails. Then my best friend sighs, and she glances up at me again. “Fine. There is something I wanted to ask.” A pause. “How are things between you and Blake?”
I glance through the open door toward the hallway, but the bathroom door remains shut. “You mean since our Marilee-inspired truce?”
She bites her bottom lip. Nods.
“Things are…”
Suddenly, the ceiling—with its old popcorn texture, its slight cracks in the paint, the old battered ceiling fan—is the most fascinating thing in the world. Because I can’t be fully honest with Marilee. That would require giving voice to all the doubts and questions swirling in my heart and brain.
“I see.” And there’s such sadness in her voice. Her hand shakes a bit as she applies the polish.
“No, Mare. You don’t.” How can she, though? I’ve never told her how I felt about Blake. Never wanted her to think I was friends with her because I liked him. But maybe that’s done a disservice to our relationship. I inhale a steep breath, gently take the polish brush from her fingers, and move on the bed so we’re facing each other as I start to paint her toenails. I can’t look at her when I say this. “You know I was crazy about him in high school, right? I never told you as much, but Elisse likes to mock me for it, so I assume it was fairly obvious.”
“I always thought you might be. But then things changed when he left for college. You changed.”
Me? It was him that changed. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. You just seemed even more distant. And happier—but like, a fake happy.”
The brush hovers over her nails. My best friend is even more perceptive than I’ve given her credit for. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“What happened? I know about your fight after the funeral. Last week, Blake apologized for how he left, how he wasn’t here. He admitted that you were right.”
Did he now? “That’s great.” I lift my chin, wink at her. All bluster and tease. Because I don’t want to show how much that news elates me. How warmth is flooding my heart. To know not just that he thinks I was right—I don’t care about being right for being right’s sake—but also that his relationship with his sister is important enough for him to make amends. That he recognizes what his leaving did to her.
“It is great.” Marilee reaches toward my hand, snatching the polish brush back. “So you guys can be friends again. Not just tolerate each other for my sake. Right?”
I choke out a cough. “Yeah. Right.”
“You sound so convincing.” Marilee sighs and recaps the nail polish, her toes only half painted. Then she spears me with a look. “Time to come clean, Luce. What happened between the two of you in high school?”
“Nothing.” I sputter. And sigh. “And that’s the problem.”
Now it’s her turn for an eyebrow lift. “Care to explain?”
“Um, not really.” But maybe it would be good to get it off my chest. To just…I don’t know. Release it into the ether. Bottling up the emotions for so long hasn’t really done much for me, has it? I’ve tried making lemonade out of those lemons, but clearly (based on my reaction to Blake tonight) my old crush is rearing its ugly head.
I just need to spit out what happened in the past so that someone else can reassure me that he never had feelings for me. Because that would be easier, honestly. If it all was truly in my head, then nothing is Blake’s fault. Then it’s not like he chose big-city life over me. If it all was truly in my head, then I wasn’t part of the equation at all.
And that’s better.
So I tell her everything. About what I considered flirtation—all of those little moments, interactions—sophomore year while I lived in Hallmark Beach. What I thought might have been an almost kiss on my seventeenth birthday, just before junior year. The conversation I overheard between Blake and his dad later that night.
And how I felt that whole year after he left for college, when I didn’t hear a word from him.
How I wrestled with feeling abandoned. Feeling stupid. First, for falling for him. Second, for thinking he cared about me as more than his sister’s friend.
When I’m finished, I get the courage to look at Marilee again, praying her next words are reassurance that I misunderstood everything. That I was just a foolish teen girl with her head in the clouds, seeing things that weren’t there.
But that’s not what I see in her eyes.
Instead, there’s pity there. She tilts her head, and her messy bun lilts to the side. “I’m sorry, friend.” She squeezes my knee. “I kind of want to murder my brother for how he played around with your heart. For what it’s worth, I think he did care about you. But I also know how persuasive our dad could be when he had strong opinions about something.”
My stupid heart sparks hope in my chest. Sweet macaroni. Nope. Nooooo. Cannot let that little ember turn into a flame.
I shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I got over him a long time ago.”
She shoots me a skeptical look.
I wave my hand in dismissal. “And now that I know the two of you are truly good, he and I will be good. Promise.”
And because I’m not a liar, I’m going to have to make it so.
I’m going to have to do more than “make nice” with Blake.
I’m going to have to be friends with him again—and somehow, this time, not fall for my best friend’s brother.