Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
When I first walked into this café and saw Juniper Magdalena Popovik, time stopped and then accelerated as it tried to catch up with my pulse.
No matter how hard I try to resist it, this woman does something to me. She always has. Regretfully, I’m afraid she always will.
But we’re so bad for each other that a long time ago, we’d convinced ourselves we could be good.
There’s nothing further from the truth.
And yet, seeing her now, dark eyes glimmering with secrets, makes me want to know what they are. What have I missed in the fourteen months since we called off our summer wedding?
Her full, puffy lips remind me of roses and make me want to kiss her again. Right here. Right now. But I know better, because behind that gaze is a hatred for me that she’s not afraid to share, using her thorny tongue that is always armed and ready to fire barbs my way.
I’m not traveling down this hedge maze again.
Giving my head a shake, I say, “Nope. Nah. I’m out.”
I start to turn around, to exit, when Shane, in a rather paternal tone, says, “Miguel.”
The exit is only a few paces away, but I go still as if it were Pop calling me out.
Shane says, “Dude, you can’t bail on being my best man.”
He’s right. That breaks the bro code.
Nodding apologetically, I say, “Ride or die, dude.” In a lower voice, I add, “Unless she kills me.”
As if confirming, Junie says, “The blood would be on your hands, Mr. and Mrs. Finch.”
I wince. “She’s just so prickly.”
Junie flashes a smug smile that makes me think that if “Mom and Dad” turn their backs, she’ll stick out her tongue at me.
Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I say, “I’m happy to help, but I’ll do it solo.”
Shane guffaws. “All while transferring to the new team, training, and getting underway with the season?”
I tip my head to the side. He has a point. Mere minutes ago, when I accepted Shane’s request to be his best man, I generously and gregariously said I’d help with anything. When he double-checked to make sure, I assured him that I was his best man. No way would I let Jonas steal my thunder.
I just didn’t think, in a million years, it would involve this kind of help, er, hindrance. It never occurred to me that Erica would choose Junie as her maid of honor. Their friendship was on the edge of my awareness, but they must’ve grown closer in recent years since I moved out of Manhattan.
As if just finishing sharpening her sword, Junie says, “Prickly? What about you? Your ego needs one of those Wide Load signs. You’re just so full of yourself, Miguel.”
I roll my eyes and then replace the expression with my smolder. “When you’re as good-looking and talented as me, it’s hard not to be awesome.”
She gestures wildly. “And he makes my point.”
If I cannot please the woman, I will do my best to tease her. Get under her skin. Because an annoyed Junie is better than no Junie at all.
Is it mature? No.
Effective? Yes.
“Guys, if you weren’t aware, I’m not Miguel’s biggest fan. Though I believe you knew that,” she grinds out.
I take it I’ve been the topic of more than one late-night heart-to-heart over a container of ice cream and a box of tissues.
“I have a list of women who aren’t my biggest fans. And an even longer list who’re waiting to meet me.” I know how that sounds, but when I’m around Junie, these things fly out of my mouth like she has a fishing rod and reel. I take the bait. It cannot be helped.
Turning to me, she says, “You know those personality tests where you identify yourself based on a bunch of letters that stand for character traits? Fun fact: Miguel took one and found out he’s a J-E-R-K.”
“How is that fun? You’re like a cyclone that takes the fun out of everything. I should announce to the Cobbiton townspeople to take shelter and brace for impact.”
All the tension between us stacks up like a toothpick tower, precarious and fragile.
One strong gust of wind and it’s going down.
I place my bets on her blowing first. But my secret hope—the one I only let myself think about when I’m in the cold plunge tub—is that from the wreckage, someday, someway, we’ll find our way to each other again.
Is it a foolish hope? Yes.
Have I given up? No.
But I’d never admit it.
Junie’s dark hair is long, shiny, and wavy. Over the years, she had it dyed every color from red to brown, to blonde, and various shades from the rainbow. But right now, coupled with the smoky eye makeup, the impression I get is pure thunder. There’s something undeniably beautiful about nature.
Yet she doesn’t need to let loose the winds of war or speak a word for me to know that she hates the idea of us being paired up to help plan Shane and Erica’s wedding.
So do I. But mostly because I anticipate that it’ll be a painful tease. We’ve proved that we’re incompatible at everything from baking a cake to making a life together.
As if reading my mind, she says, “Like the time you were house-sitting.”
“I didn’t know the frog had escaped its terrarium.”
“I still don’t know how you didn’t notice it in the toilet.”
“At least I didn’t flush.”
She says, “You need a haircut.”
I run my fingers through my long, dark hair. “So nice of you to notice.” But that means she’s looking at me. I shouldn’t be pleased by how that makes my pulse kick.
She wrinkles her nose. “You’re shaggy and unkempt.”
She’s right. I rub my hand over my stubble. I’ve been traveling, packing, and getting things set up in Cobbiton for my family.
Lips pursed and eyes heavy with a smolder, I say, “Then give me a haircut.”
Her gaze sharpens.
I instantly regret it because although she’s cut my hair plenty of times, I’m not sure I trust her scissor safety around me nowadays.
She snorts. “You wish.”
Rocking back on my heels, I say, “Oh, I see how it’s going to be.”
Tossing her hands in the air, Junie says, “I can’t do this.”
She starts to turn as if to leave, but Erica, in a motherly tone, says, “Juniper.”
Going still, her chest rises and falls on a long breath, and she turns back around, apparently surrendering to her friendship and whatever agreement they made when Erica asked her to be the maid of honor.
The engaged couple exchange a glance and then look at us long enough for me to zone out—if only to disassociate from what’s about to happen. It’s a parental stare, the one that builds while you squirm inside, anticipating the worst. With four brothers, I endured it often enough.
But I don’t expect what Erica says next, “Would you two just have it out already?”
Exasperated, Junie says, “We have been for twenty-five years.”
“How old are you?” Erica asks me, puzzled.
“We’re five months apart. We’ve known each other since diapers,” I answer.
“Some of us still wear diapers,” Junie mutters.
I pull a face. “Do not.”
“Children,” Erica says with gritted teeth.
“What we mean is, why don’t you two kiss and make up, already?” Shane smirks.
Junie gasps, and the garbled groan from my throat makes me feel like I’m choking on a balloon. Both noises are so alarming that the background sounds of cups clattering, customers chattering, and even the mellow coffee shop song seem to go quiet for a beat.
Junie shakes her head. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”
I arch an eyebrow. “I rather like that idea, so long as you don’t try to strangle me like a black widow when we’re done.
” Again, my comments cannot be helped. I wouldn’t speak to anyone else like this.
If my mother heard me now, even though Junie is a Popovik, she’d chase me with the broom.
But with Junie, it’s like I’m programmed to be as irritating and arrogant as possible.
Or maybe it’s just a defense mechanism.
“Also, black widows are spiders. They don’t strangle. They bite. Some species even eat their mate afterward,” Junie says, getting the last word.
I don’t want to know the extent of her arachnid knowledge. Last I checked, she was terrified of anything creepy or crawly, not that she’d ever admit it. We tried going camping once and ended up checking into a hotel at midnight.
“Is this what it’s going to be like?” Shane asks his fiancée.
“I’m afraid so.” Turning back to us, Erica says, “Kids, apologize to each other. Make nice.”
I huff but opt to be a gentleman and take the high road, even though it goes against every instinct I have when it comes to net defense on the ice. “Junie—”
Shane gives his bride-to-be a look. I’m the only person on the planet who she lets get away with that name and by the grimace I get, I’ll be the last if I don’t correct myself. But I can’t call her Juniper. She’s always been Junie to me.
Clearing my throat, I try again. “Sorry.”
She crosses her arms in front of her chest and mutters, “Sorry.”
“Sit,” Shane orders.
“Permission to speak, sir?” This sounds a lot like talking to my father, only I’d have done it in Spanish, given that our house is trilingual, with the five of us boys and our parents speaking in some hybrid variation of the three languages.
But it’s a reflex to want to escape, to avoid the lecture that’s coming. “I, uh, have to go to, um ...”
Junie shakes her head. “You’re the worst liar.”
“Then you know that my apology was genuine.”
She leans in, lips pursed. “We both know that it was a half-truth. You left off the but part. I know you were dying to say, ‘But she started it.’”
Junie knows me so well. Too well.
Reluctantly, we both sit opposite Erica and Shane. The coffee shop is full and the outer edges of Junie’s and my arms and legs brush, sending a jolt through me as if this is the first time I’ve ever had contact with a pretty girl.
Time to diffuse the bomb.
Shane asks, “Explain the ongoing animosity.”
I shrug. “You know. We were together a long time ago.”
“Thanks, Captain Sherlock. I wouldn’t have solved that mystery without your keen sleuthing skills. Can’t you let it go?”