Chapter 35 #3
March gives my hand a tug. “Stick with me here, Penny.”
“Fine.”
“Right. Back to the sexy librarian.” He grins as I grimace. “I was attracted, Penny.”
“What?” I don’t know whether to laugh or gape. “No.”
“Yep.”
“Oh, lord, just no.”
He frowns. “You don’t have to look disgusted.”
“This is the look of utter shock.”
March laughs. “More like horror, which isn’t doing my ego any favors.”
“Your ego doesn’t need favors.”
“True.” He waves a hand. “Regardless. I would have made a play.”
At this, I do gape, trying to picture the scenario and failing.
March was never meant to be anything other than a good friend to me.
If he’d tried to hit on me way back when, it would have ended in disaster.
Mainly because I would have accepted his offer out of sheer shock, a tinge of curiosity, and a good dose of flattered ego.
And I would have been miserable because he was the wrong Luck.
“If you were any other girl,” he amends.
Wait, what?
“Any other girl?” I ask, baffled.
“If you were any other girl but August’s.”
That sets me back against the cushions. I grab a throw pillow and hold it against my overfull tummy. “I’m . . . Did we experience an alternate childhood universe? I was never August’s girl.”
March’s expression is one of quiet reproach. “Pen, you were always August’s girl. You just never realized it.”
“You’re talking crazy.”
“No, I’m not.” He says this as though it’s entirely reasonable. “You were his.”
My head spins, so I focus on the least important issue. “That makes it sound like he owned me or something.”
“That’s not what being ‘his girl’ means, and you know it.” March leans forward, resting his forearm on the couch between us. “You’re his girl because whenever you walk into a room, he knows it. Whenever you are around, he becomes more present.”
“Maybe now . . .”
“Always.”
“I . . . I don’t—hell, I don’t know . . . What?”
“Flustered you good, haven’t I?”
“Yes! How can you say that? August acted like I was a . . . a disease he needed to avoid contracting.”
“He acted that way because you flustered him good. Which, again, is why you were always his girl.” March lifts a nonchalant shoulder. “He might not have known it. But I did. I knew it would hurt August if I made a play for you. And I’d never hurt my brother.”
“Well.” It comes out more of a helpless huff than a statement.
“Well, indeed.” He points a long finger at me. “So you can squawk about ‘August never did this or that’ but the fact remains he’s always been into you, Pen. He’s just been utter crap at showing it properly.”
Slowly, I shake my head but then stop and give him a sharp look. “Why are you saying this now?”
“Because you’re worrying over there, thinking he’ll do you dirty like Jan did his girl. Or she did him . . . they’re pretty square in that department, I guess.”
“March. Focus.”
“Right.” He straightens and meets my eyes. “August is never going to let you down. You and him? That was always going to be. You two are inevitable. Like Thanos.”
A laugh bubbles up and I lean into him. “You’re ridiculous.” I muss his hair. “But I love you anyway.”
He chuckles. “I know. I’m very lovable.”
And that’s how August finds us, grinning at each other, me having just told March that I loved him.
He stands just inside the doorway, an inscrutable expression on his face.
The urge to squirm, like I’ve done something wrong, rises.
But I squash it down. He must know that I love all of his family like my own. I won’t apologize for that.
But you haven’t said those words to him.
He hasn’t said them either.
We stare at each other for a beat, but it feels longer. Then he turns his attention to March.
“March,” he says blandly. “Get your own girl.”
March rolls away then hops to his feet. “I don’t want one.”
“Then get your own guy.”
“Don’t want one of them either.” He grins broadly. “I’m a solo act.”
August breaks a faint smile. “One day, little bro.”
“Stop trying to curse me.” March saunters across the room, heading for the door. He stops abreast of August. “All good?”
August pauses, then nods. “Jan?”
“Went to bed. Seemed okay.”
They both exchange a long look, then August gives the back of March’s neck a quick squeeze before shoving him out the door.
I say “shove” when really it’s more of a mutual scuffle with the both of them snickering and batting at heads as they often do; no one is involuntarily moving either Luck brother without considerable force.
As soon as March leaves, August turns back to me. His expression shifts from a brotherly smirk to soft tenderness that I feel deep in my chest. Warmth blooms over my skin. Any doubts or worries I have dissolve in the wake of the honey sweetness of his smile.
His tone is quiet and easy. “You ready for bed?”
Here, in this moment, is what I need to focus on: the perfect contentment and rightness I feel when I’m with him. Maybe we were inevitable.
“Yes. But I’m so full, I don’t think I can move.” I lift my arms in supplication. “You may have to carry me.”
I was mostly joking. I can walk. But August is at my side in two long-legged steps. He scoops me up with shocking ease and cuddles me close. Warm lips touch mine. A promise. A claim. Maybe both. But it’s soft and lovely, and I relax into him with a happy sigh.
August nuzzles my mouth with his. “I’ll carry you anywhere, Penelope.”
“Take me to bed, August.”
And so he does. Unfortunately, that’s all he does; I’m still too full for anything other than cuddling under the covers.
“Don’t let me eat this much ever again,” I tell August as he slides into bed next to me. “I mean it. Just slap that rib out of my hand and yell ‘Be gone, Satan!’”
He snickers. “Yeah, I can see that going over real well.”
“Why would I be upset? I’m asking you to do this saintly service.”
“Uh-huh.” He settles on his side, tucking an arm under his pillow. “Have you forgotten I grew up with two sisters? You’ll either forget this convo or don’t really mean it.”
“Right now, I mean it.” With a groan, I frown up at the ceiling. “No one should eat that much meat.”
His grin flashes in the moonlight. “You sure were cute snarfing down those ribs, though.”
“The soda March brought me helped.”
“Good.”
He says it quietly, and I look over at him. He appears relaxed but a little withdrawn. Again, I find myself wondering over what March told me. I don’t want to ask, and yet . . .
“Pickle, when you came into the den, March—”
“I know what you’re going to say,” he cuts in. “And you don’t have to worry.”
I don’t think he has a clue what I was going to say. But I find my courage failing. He sees me frowning and winces.
“All right. I confess. I’ve had a few . . . instances in which I’ve been jealous of you and March.”
He says it formally, as though dragged from the depths of him, but he doesn’t blink or look away from me. Shock prickles my skin. I think about the scene he walked in on.
“You know you don’t have to be, right?”
His expression goes soft. “I do. You’re mine and I’m yours. I don’t doubt that at all.”
I rest my head in the crook of his arm.
“It wasn’t logical,” he admits. “And I hated feeling that about March. He’s my best friend and brother. So I let it go. When I saw you two just now, I was happy. I realized how close you two are. I like knowing he’ll be there for you when I can’t.”
Smiling, I take his hand and set it over my belly. It’s a comforting weight, and he flashes me a quick grin at the action, but doesn’t move away.
“But why were you in the first place?” I ask him. “Is it that stupid crush rumor?”
“You mean the fact—not rumor—that you had a crush on him in high school, yes, that’s part of it. But more so that your mom and my family seem to be shocked we’re together and assumed you’d fall for him.”
“Ugh. First of all. That ‘crush’ lasted a few days at most. And it’s only because he danced with me that one cookout we had, when no one else would, and I thought it was—”
“Do not say sweet. That’s my word.”
Oh, now he wants to claim sweet? I fight a grin.
“—kind of him,” I offer instead. “Second, March has never, ever made me weak at the knees.”
“And I do.” It’s cute the way his eyes light up and his mouth dimples with a grin.
“Pickle, you only have to be you—all pretty-like—and I’m flustered.”
He stares at me for a moment as though he’s thinking things through, almost absently rubbing my belly. “I feel like I’ve been waiting forever to hear you say that.”
Has he? God, was March telling me the truth? He must have been. They’re so close; March would know. I don’t doubt him, and yet, I still struggle to believe it. All these years? It can’t be true. My heart leaps about in my chest like a startled rabbit at the idea.
“I’m surprised you’re letting me hold you this way.” At his quiet comment, I snap out of my musing and gently touch the hair hanging over his brow.
“What?”
His gaze roams over my face. “You’re letting me rub this cute little belly you have going. Most girls hate having a guy touch them there.”
My nose wrinkles in the darkness. “August, if you’re trying to make sweet word-love to me, this ain’t it.”
He chuckles from deep within his chest and the sound reverberates through me. “You’re right. I’ll shut up now.” Gently, he smooths a small circle on my stomach. “Forget I said anything.”
“Too late,” I say darkly. “Now I’m thinking about all the beds you’ve been in besides mine.” Not really, I’m very good at shutting that part out. He’s with me now. That’s all that matters. Still . . . I frown some more.
“Penelope?”
At his soft query, I turn my head.
When I meet his gaze it’s serious and clear. “You’re the only one.”
“Pfft . . .”
“I’m serious.” He nudges me with the arm tucked under my pillow. “There haven’t been any other girls in my bed. We’re more alike than you think. It’s hard for me to trust too.”
At that, I roll onto my side to face him. “That’s why I let you rub my food baby, Pickle. Because I feel comfortable with you. I trust you.”
August’s long fingers curl over the crest of my hip. In the dark, he’s mainly shadows, except for his eyes. They shine in the moonlight slanting across our pillow, and I see the emotion in them.
“I trust you too,” he says.
It sounds like something else. Something more.
We fall silent and eventually sleep. But deep in the dark of night, when the house is still, I wake and think about how August told me nothing of Jan’s confession.
And how, when we’d been drifting off, he hadn’t snuggled me close as he always does, but had turned over and fallen straight to sleep in a huddle beneath the covers.