Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After we’re done eating, Leah and I walk back to the salon, and she asks, “So what do you think of Grimaldi?”
“That he’s cut from the same cloth as Miguel.”
“The handsome cloth?”
I shrug. “That’s debatable, depending on who you ask.”
She smirks. “I’m going to wear his jersey tonight and see what happens. You should wear one too, just to tick him off.”
I go still on the sidewalk outside the salon. “Leah, you’re diabolical, I love it.”
She winces. “I meant Cruz’s, not Grimaldi,” she says in a duh tone.
“Oh. I won’t be wearing a jersey with number ninety-four on it.”
A low, rumbly voice comes up from behind me. “You will.”
I whip around and face Miguel on the sidewalk.
If I were a pat of butter, I’d melt right now. The wind sweeps through his hair, his eyes are dark, and the shadow he casts feels bigger today. I cannot peel my eyes away.
“I’ll just leave you two love birds to duke this out,” Leah says, scurrying off.
I say a weak goodbye because Miguel captivates me, captures me, and keeps me locked in place.
“I don’t have one of your jerseys.” Except I do. Well, not from the Knights, yet. I have one from each of the teams he’s played for. My mother got them for me. I should’ve burned them in effigy.
He shoves something soft in my hand.
“I don’t want it.” But I take it anyway.
“Wear it.”
“Miguel, you know me better than anyone—”
“So you admit it?”
I don’t dignify the answer because that’s not the point. “You’re aware that I don’t take orders.”
He lengthens his spine. “Junie, I would like you to please wear my jersey tonight.”
“And betray my home team?”
“This is your home now.”
“But fans move and remain loyal no matter what.”
“Exactly.” He holds my gaze, unwavering.
It takes me a long moment to understand what he means—our connection is stronger than that of a team, so I should remain faithful to him.
I always was and so was he. Well, romantically. But loyalty comes in many forms—to never betray someone’s trust, to keep what they tell you in confidence, to have their back.
“See you tonight,” he says.
I turn to unlock the salon so I can check to make sure the deliveries for the stylist stations are correct and there aren’t any missing parts.
Mom got right back in the saddle with the build-out.
But what I see in the middle of what should be an empty room except for the boxes containing the stations, makes me shriek and I’m not typically a screamer.
The ceiling looks like it caved in, leaving plasterboard, dust, and splintered wood everywhere.
Thankfully, there’s no sign of water damage.
But there is Miguel by my side. He rushes in as if he had a “Juniper alert” set on his phone, notifying him if I so much as make a peep in fright or frustration.
“What—?” He blinks a few times. “Looks like a raccoon drank a can of Red Bull and was let loose.”
I purse my lips together so I don’t laugh. This is not the time or place. “Actually, it looks like a cannon aimed and fired from overhead.”
“Or a bowling ball,” Miguel mutters.
“It’s an old building. You saw what it was like in here before.”
He points at something under a set of sawhorses and repeats, “Or a bowling ball.”
We move closer and he crouches, picking up a red and orange bowling ball marked with the initials M.A.L.
Miguel hefts it. “I’d say it weighs about fifteen pounds.”
“But how? Why?”
“Seems odd. I’m not trying to mansplain anything, but I worked for A-2 Carpentry Crew starting at the age of ten. Bowling balls don’t just fall through a crawlspace and break through a drop ceiling on their own.” Miguel peers up at the gaping hole overhead.
My gaze drifts to him. You know, to make sure he’s properly assessing the damage. The supervisors need supervision, too.
His hair is long and absurdly shaggy. He could stand to see a stylist. I wince.
He reaches overhead to examine a ceiling fragment, revealing a sliver of his trim waist.
I fan my face.
He’s as fit as ever. But that’s not even the best part. While women have sweater weather, men have plaid shirts with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow weather, and I am here for it. His forearms are nicely toned. His hands strong.
A sigh escapes.
In an alternate timeline of my life, he’d be my husband.
“Pop sent Charlie and Joey into the crawlspace. Made some repairs. Had there been a bowling ball up there, they’d have found it, so I think we can rule out that it accidentally fell through the ceiling.”
“Then that means it was dropped. By who? Why?”
He shakes his head slowly. “It looks like you’re going to get that lighting you wanted after all.”
How does he know about the fixtures I wanted but couldn’t be wired in because of the existing electrical system and my budget?
I hold up my hands in innocence. “I did not sabotage the project.”
“I know you didn’t have anything to do with this, Junie.” The muscles in his jaw tick.
Just as he knows me, I can read him like a book. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“When Dad and Tony were here the other night, taking measurements, they saw someone leaving out the back door.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Figured it wasn’t a big deal.”
“This sure is.”
“And we’ll take care of it.”
Several thoughts collide in my mind at once. Miguel doesn’t hate me. He’s helping me. If I were doing this completely on my own, I’d be in total panic mode. However, I don’t want to have to rely on him. Because ... why? Okay, maybe I am in panic mode because liquid fills my eyes.
Miguel’s gaze floats over me. Whereas I feel like I’m about to fall apart, his expression remains steady, his posture confident. I could sure go for a hug again. I don’t want to want him or need him.
… but I do.
Instead, he runs his thumb over my cheek, catching my tears. Some people have eye contact anxiety, but in Miguel’s gaze, I find a pool of comfort.
He runs his fingers along the scar on my cheek and then leans in, dabbing a kiss there.
“We could be like this again,” he whispers into my ear.
We could. My heart flutters.
He asks, “Who’s your who?”
I mouth, You and lean my head into his touch. Familiar, warm. Comfort.
He looks at me carefully as if measuring just how much our breakup hurt, and presses his lips softly together as if understanding that I’d never admit that kind of vulnerability.
I lean toward him as he tilts his head down. It would be so easy to rest on his shoulder. Our cheeks are practically brushing. I can feel the warmth coming off him like a toasty fire on a crisp autumn day.
He smells so good. Like home. I want to stay here, but something he said startles me.
“Wait. What is Tony doing here? Doesn’t he live in Colorado?”
“He came to help.”
“I can’t afford the entire Cruz crew.”
The rascal winks, knowing full well what that does to me with those dark lashes of his. “You get the family discount.”
But what I really can’t afford is losing my heart to this man again.
I want to tell him I don’t need it. For my voice to be strong. For my legs to be steady. They’re not, yet I tell myself to say goodbye and walk away once and for all.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
I still love him.