Chapter 18
Eighteen
I cover my mouth, watching as Lucca sets both hands on a blindfolded Wyatt’s shoulders, pointing him in the exact right direction of that soccer ball pinata.
I drop my hand from my mouth. “A pinata may have been a bad idea,” I say to myself.
“Ya think?” Sarcasm drips from Lindy’s lips like honey.
I peer over only to see Mom, Dad, Brent, and Lindy all glued to the scene.
It shouldn’t be this scary. Except that our Wyatt has the coordination of a bull in a shop of glass bobbles.
He swings the bat, and while Lucca is behind him and has pointed him in the right direction, the man still has to jump, arching his back to keep the bat from connecting with his middle. He peers over at me, as if I put Wyatt up to almost hitting him.
Everyone’s had a turn but Wyatt—they’re all waiting for the birthday boy to smash that pinata the rest of the way open.
It’s cracked. It’s close. We just need one more little hit.
But Wyatt’s blind aim may injure a professional soccer player rather than bust open the candy treasure for him and his friends.
I’m not going to lie and say I wouldn’t love to see that happen. Except—I can’t let that happen. I could lose my job all over a six-year-old’s birthday party.
“Maggie,” Lindy moans, though she does nothing to stop the scene before us.
When Lucca jumps out of the way again, I step up.
“Whoa,” I call. Sneaking in, I snag the blindfold from Wyatt’s eyes. That wasn’t my best idea anyway, blindfolding an already awkward six-year-old.
“Is my turn over?” Wyatt asks, blinking in the sunshine.
“No.” I stuff the handkerchief into my back pocket. “You’re the birthday boy. You have to break that thing open. But you get to see while you’re doing it.”
“Oh,” he says. “Okay.” He holds that bat like he isn’t a train wreck on two feet and swings. The bat swipes beneath the dangling papier-maché ball and spins clear around, along with Wyatt’s body. This time, both Lucca and I stumble back and out of the way of the bat.
“Lethal,” Lucca says.
“Buddy, keep your eyes open and look right at that soccer ball. Give it one short whack, okay?”
Wyatt grins. “Okay,” he says, obliviously happy as can be.
“Or,” Lucca says, wrapping one arm around Wyatt’s middle and picking him up.
Wyatt giggles.
With his free hand, Lucca holds the bat just above Wyatt’s grasp. “Together?” he says.
“Let’s do it.” Wyatt swings his legs. A little to the right, and Lucca Cruz would not be reproducing.
One smack with Lucca at the helm and the teetering soccer ball breaks open. Candy and hacky sacks that resemble little soccer balls fall to the ground. Lucca sets Wyatt on his feet, and we watch as his friends grapple for the treats, filling up the bags I gave them.
Wyatt stands back with Lucca and me. “We just needed the strength of two soccer players, Aunt Maggie.”
“Yep.” I sigh. “That’s what we needed. Go get some before it’s gone, and then we’ll have your banana cake.” Somehow Mom talked him out of eating pie today.
Wyatt scurries off, and before I can retreat, Lucca is talking to me. When did the man get so chatty? Until a few weeks ago, I got nothing but scowls and gripes from him.
“Where’s”—he pauses—“your sister?”
“Lindy,” I say, like he should know her name, when really—why should he?
Because of one little introduction? I don’t want him knowing my sister’s name.
I already have a Brent problem; I don’t need a flirty Lucca problem, too, when it comes to my sister.
“And I don’t know. Probably grabbing something inside—with her boyfriend. ” At least Brent’s good for one thing.
“I’m just confused,” he says. “You aren’t the mom, but you sort of act like you are.”
I’m so tired of people pointing out that I’m not Wyatt’s mom.
I’m very aware of the fact. “I don’t act like his mom,” I say with a scoff, yet I know that I do at times.
I don’t know how not to when it comes to Wyatt.
I’ve been protective and motherly since the day that boy was born. I’m protective of Wyatt and Lindy.
I quit soccer, and both Lindy and I moved home after she got pregnant.
She stopped drinking—with help from me and our parents—but she went into heavy, brutal withdrawal, all while experiencing pregnancy symptoms. It was terrifying for her and the baby.
After Wyatt was born, her body was worn out.
She’d experienced so much havoc. She went into a wretched postpartum.
Keeping her from drinking was a twenty-four-hour-a-day challenge.
I became in charge of mothering Wyatt. I fed him.
I changed him. I got up in the night with him.
And I helped Mom care for Lindy. It was the most difficult and exhausting time in my life.
And after Lindy was better, I couldn’t quite turn off my motherly instincts for Wyatt or my sister. I’ve tried. I’m still trying. And Lindy is more than patient with me. But in a lot of ways, we’re like coparents. And more often than not, my sister is happy to let me take the lead.
I don’t say any of that—because Lucca Cruz doesn’t need any more windows into my life than he’s already gotten.
I peer over at him to find him watching me. “You do,” he says, referring to my mothering of Wyatt.
“Well, if I do, I have my reasons.”
“Cake time!” Mom says, and Lindy comes walking out of the house with the 3D soccer ball cake I watched a million YouTube videos and spent seven hours to get right. I’m grateful for the interruption, for a reason to look away from Lucca’s prying eyes.
“Your tricks are finished. You don’t have to stay,” I tell Lucca. I clear my throat, mustering some manners. “Thank you for coming—for Wyatt.”
But Lucca only smirks. “You think I’d miss cake? Cake is the best part, McCrae.”
I swallow, a lump forming in my throat. I just had to ask him to come, and now I’m not sure he’s ever going to leave.
I move three steps to the side, finding a better view of Wyatt with his cake and removing myself from Lucca. Only—Lucca follows after me.
So, I do what any sane adult woman would do: I pretend he isn’t there.
“Wyatt,” I say, pulling out my phone. “Smile!” He stands behind the table Mom has set his cake on and grins for my camera. He’s got one tooth missing up front, making this the perfect picture.
“Maggie, I want one with you, Wyatt, and the cake,” Mom says.
“Yes,” Lindy says. “Aunt Maggie made the best cake ever.”
Feeling the eyes of Lucca on my back, I try to do what I’d do if this were just my family. I round the table, crouch next to my favorite guy, and smile for Mom’s and Lindy’s cameras.
“Happy birthday, buddy,” I say, kissing the top of Wyatt’s head. I step back in line, next to my dad, making sure I am two bodies away from Lucca.
And then—
“You made the cake?” Lucca says from my opposite side.
I jump a little, my hand flattening to my heart. “Are you following me?”
“I am,” he says without reservation. “The cake?”
“So what? I made it.”
“Maggie always makes Wyatt’s cakes,” Dad so helpfully offers from my other side.
“It’s a hobby. So yes, I do. I love my nephew, and I bake. Is that a crime?”
Lucca chuckles. “I’m not sure why you’re so defensive. It’s just cake.”
Dad laughs, too.
“I’m not defensive. I don’t know why you have so many questions.” I give one curt glare to Lucca before turning back to Wyatt.
“Because maybe,” he says, and I peer back at him. He lifts one shoulder. “We should be friends.”
I snort out a very unlady-like scoff. “Why would you ever say that?”
“Just a thought.”
“Get ready to sing,” Mom says from where she stands next to Wyatt. She lights each candle one by one, the kids, my sister, and Brent all focused on the birthday boy.
“Yeah,” I whisper to Lucca. “Well, no level of friendship would get me to cover up your fouls and well-deserved cards. So, you should probably think again.” I step away from the group and walk into the house.
I need a breather. I need a break from annoyingly charming Lucca.
The man is enjoying messing with my head.
I don’t care how adorable he looked helping Wyatt whack open that pinata, he isn’t fooling me with friendship.
All he’s doing is making me miss the birthday song.
I’ve been sitting in the only safe place in this house—Mom and Dad’s master bathroom toilet—for more than twenty minutes when there’s a tap on the door.
“Maggie Pie,” Mom says. “It’s time for gifts. Are you coming? You missed the cake.”
“Is he still out there?” I groan.
“If you’re referring to the eye candy who makes you nervous, yes. He’s here. He’s having fun. You missed him doing the chicken dance with Wyatt and the other kids. It was quite entertaining.”
I swing open the door to Mom’s bathroom. “Gee, I’m so glad he’s won you all over.”
“He’s just being nice to Wyatt. I thought you’d appreciate that.”
“I do,” I say through gritted teeth. I want everyone to be nice to Wyatt. I practically begged Lucca to come here today—all for Wyatt. Why can’t I have him be nice to Wyatt and have my family all loathe him?
It’s called loyalty.
Mom tilts her head and peers at me. “It’s okay for a relationship to change,” she says. “So, you didn’t like Lucca at one time. Who cares?”
“Mother,” I squeak. “I still don’t like Lucca. He isn’t Mr. Nice Guy. He’s charming—”
“That’s awful,” Mom says, shaking her head, her tone full of sarcasm.
But I press on. “He’s too good-looking for his own good—”
She nods, hand still on the bathroom door. “A sin for sure.”
“And he knows it! He is a ladies’ man. He thinks he’s a saint and a gift to all women and to the sport of soccer and—”
“And he’s currently outside dancing the hokey pokey with your nephew.” She holds out a hand to me. “Play nice. For Wyatt? We both know you’re excited to give him your present.”
I bite my inner cheek. I am excited. I had a Wyatt-sized apron made just for him. It has soccer balls and pies printed all over it, and his name stitched on the front.
When we get back outside, Dad and Lindy have all the boys—including Lucca—seated on the grass. Wyatt’s opening his first gift. His face lights up when he sees me. He waves and holds up the wrapped present.
I stand back with Mom, Lindy, and Brent, ready to watch.
“You okay?” Lindy says. “You disappeared.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her with a grin. She’ll believe me as long as she doesn’t hear my heart pounding in my chest.
“Go ahead, Wyatt,” Lindy says.
I’m excited watching my little guy tear into the gifts from his five friends.
He thanks each one, and I feel a stab of pride at the nice kid he is.
Man, I love that boy. Just when I’m about to give Wyatt my gift, one of the boys says, “Where’s your gift, Mr. Cruz? We all brought a gift. Didn’t you?”
I expect Lucca to say something totally self-absorbed. Something like, “I am the gift.” That sounds like Lucca—right?
Instead, he looks sheepish. His face falls a little. “Um.” He swallows.
I should save him. I should jump in and save this man from embarrassment, from feeling like he should have brought Wyatt a gift. He didn’t need to. He came.
I’m mustering the energy, when Lucca stands.
“Of course. I brought Wyatt something.” Then, that six-foot-two professional athlete, who happens to be ripped in all the right places, pulls the jersey from his body right over his head. He stands there, shirt in hand, half-naked in my backyard, at my nephew’s party.
“Holy blessed day,” Mom says next to me.
“Oh my,” Lindy says, not caring that Brent is right next to her, looking anxious.
Abs and pectorals and tanned skin are on display for everyone in attendance. Even my father might be drooling. Brent and I are the only ones offended by the action.
“Here you go, Wyatt,” Lucca says, giving him the very shirt off his rippled, muscular back.
My nephew’s eyes turn to marbles as he takes the jersey and attempts to slip it over his head. The boy isn’t exactly graceful as he tries to fit his head through an arm hole. Lucca stretches out one strapping arm and helps Wyatt find the light of day once more.
Wyatt’s beaming. He slides his hands through the arm holes and stands, looking as if he’s wearing a #3 Red Tails dress. Then he wraps both his arms around Lucca’s middle, giving him the tightest hug.
The one meant for me.