Chapter 31
Thirty-One
She’s coming over now. Which means I need to empty my house.
“Tru, Wade.” I stand from my couch, remote in hand, and switch the TV off. “This was fun. Time to go.”
“Hey,” Tru whines, pointing to my now-darkened TV. “But it’s only halftime.”
“Ah, well, it’s been a boring game.” I pull my young friend to his feet and motion for Wade to get up, too.
“Boring? The Rovers are up two to one.” Wade points to the television.
“You can watch the rest at your place. Come on.” I clap my hands. “Let’s go. Time to move.”
“But—” Tru starts, however, I’m not about to let him finish.
“I need to… adult.”
“Adult?” twenty-year-old Wade says.
“Yes, adult. You’ll understand what I mean one day.
” And then I walk to the front door of my apartment and open it wide.
If I’m lucky, I’ll have a minute to clean up after the pair.
And I’ll want to let Fur Ball out of the bedroom.
She’s a quiet little thing. The guys still don’t know she exists.
She didn’t even whine when I put her in the kennel.
She just curled up and went to sleep. But Maggie will want to see her.
If I’m being honest, I’ve been waiting to make this introduction.
Wade speaks, interrupting my thoughts. “But you invited us over—”
“Finally,” Tru adds.
“And now your invitation has run out. Thanks for coming. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Hold up,” Tru says. “You have a girl coming over. Don’t you?”
“Yes.” I shove both hands into my pants pockets. “I do.”
Wade snickers. “You could have said so.”
“But I didn’t. Now let’s move on.”
Wade huffs and shakes his head. “We’re going. We’re going.”
“Geez,” Tru mutters. “That’s the last time I watch a game at Cruz’s place.”
I hold the door as they walk through, and that’s when Maggie and Wyatt walk up. I didn’t realize her nephew was coming—but I don’t mind. “Hi,” I say, my heart fluttering at the sight of her. Guess I won’t get a chance to clean up. That’s okay, Wyatt can finish off Tru’s and Wade’s snacks.
“Wait,” Wade says, looking back at me. “Maggie, the ref, is the girl coming over?” He bobs his head from me to Maggie.
Tru grunts. “I thought you said she wasn’t a woman, but an official?”
“I’m pretty sure she’s both.” Wyatt walks over, standing between the pair.
Maggie coughs out a small laugh, standing next to my open front door. “I’m not here as a woman or a ref. Just a friend.”
“You’re Tru Kelley.” Wyatt stares up at Tru. “Number nine. Forward.”
Tru’s scowl slips and he smiles down at the kid. “That’s right.”
“You missed that goal last week when the goalie was way out of the box. My aunt Maggie never would have missed that.”
And with that, Tru’s grin falters.
“Okay,” Maggie says, blowing out a puff of pent-up air. “Let’s get you inside, buddy.” With both of her hands on Wyatt’s back, she walks the little boy into my apartment.
“My laces were untied,” Tru says. “I tripped. I—” Tru’s head falls and Wade wraps one arm around his back.
“It’s all right, man,” Wade tells him. “We all have days like that.”
I clap once more, ready to get inside with my guests. “Okay, bye, guys.”
“Wait,” Wade says. “You’re really ditching us for the referee?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I thought you hated her.”
“You thought wrong.” With that, I step back inside and shut the door.
“He’s not wrong,” Maggie says. “You did hate me.”
I hadn’t realized she could hear us. I peer around her. Wyatt’s already on my couch, remote in hand, Wade’s bowl of pretzels in his lap. “He is wrong,” I tell her. “At least, he is now.”
She crosses her arms and nods. “Thanks for letting us stop by.” My gaze falls for a second to the curve of her hips. While her ref uniform shows off her kick-butt legs, it does nothing for her hips. Maggie is one beautiful woman.
I clear my throat. And my head. “I was surprised to get your text.”
Her pretty brown eyes drift down. “I was surprised I sent it.”
“Hey, Wyatt,” I say, stepping into the kitchen; it’s small but connected to the living room, so the space feels open with room to breathe.
Wyatt turns his head to look at me. He’s turned the game back on, but he gives me his full attention. “Hi, Lucca. Thanks for the snack.”
“You’re welcome. But even better—look what I bought.” I reach into my pantry and pull a small yellow box from the bottom shelf. I hold it up for him.
“Banana?” he says, looking at the package of pudding in my hands.
“Yep. Do you think you can make it for me?”
“You know I can,” he says, a grin swelling his cheeks. “Do you have any whipped cream?”
I nod.
“Banana cream pie and a soccer game with Lucca? Aunt Maggie, you were right, this is gonna be a fun weekend.”
“I meant the movie tomorrow. But I suppose this works, too.” Maggie stares at the banana pudding in my hand. “You bought whipped cream and banana pudding? How did you know we’d come over?”
“I didn’t,” I say, setting the box on the countertop. “I liked Wyatt’s pie. He told me how to make it.”
She smirks. “You really like it.”
“Of course he does. Banana cream is the best.” Wyatt scoots to the edge of the couch, then hops down, strutting into the kitchen with his hand out. “Aunt Maggie reads the instructions while I do the mixing. Watch and learn, Lucca.”
“By all means,” I say, pulling from the cupboard a mixing bowl and the pie tin I bought just for Wyatt’s recipe. I set them on the counter and snag a wooden spoon from the drawer.
“Can I stand on this?” Wyatt says, pointing to one of my kitchen chairs.
“Bud—no. We aren’t standing on Lucca’s furniture.
” Maggie’s throat bobs with a swallow. She’s nervous.
Do I make her nervous? That would make no sense.
I’ve quite willingly told her I adore her.
And I do. It’s as if I have no choice at this point.
Vovó, herself, has parted the clouds and shown me a new reality, one with Maggie in it.
“It’s fine,” I say, picking up the chair and bringing it to the counter. “I don’t mind. Really. The man has to be able to see his work.”
“Exactly,” Wyatt says, stepping up onto the wooden chair. “I’ll need a whisk, too. It can’t be a spoon. It has to be a whisk.” He leans my way and cups a hand to his mouth. “Except, I don’t know why.”
“I have a whisk,” I say, snatching one from the drawer.
“And milk.”
“Are you sure Aunt Maggie needs to read the instructions? You seem to know them by heart.”
Wyatt grins. He is a cute kid. He’s nice.
Not annoying and chaotic like some of the children I know.
Hopefully Roman’s kid will take after Wyatt.
“I don’t know how much milk. Maybe you bought a different brand of pudding than we buy.
Or maybe it’s a different size. Maybe it’s bigger.
Or maybe it’s smaller. But I hope it’s not smaller, because I’ve seen you eat, and it is a lot. ”
I tear the box open, pull out the baggie of mix, and hand the empty container over to Maggie.
She flips on its front and reads the back. “Two cups of milk. Just like our pudding at home.”
I hand Wyatt the mix, certain he’ll want to dump it in. But he sets it back on the counter. “Not so fast, Saint Lucca. What else do the directions say?” Wyatt asks.
Maggie stifles a laugh. Her tongue swipes over her bottom lip, and I am distinctly reminded of the sweet taste of Maggie Pie McCrae. So much sweeter than banana cream. I blink and breathe, knowing I involuntarily held my breath for a second.
Maggie lifts the box in her hands and reads, “Pour the cold milk into a mixing bowl.”
“Can you measure the milk?” he says to me. “I’ll pour it into the bowl. That’s a pretty important step. Aunt Maggie always has me do it.”
Maggie keeps reading while I search for a measuring cup. “Add the pudding.”
“See?” Wyatt says. “Pudding is second. Milk is first.”
“Aw. Got it.” I pour milk into a measuring cup and Wyatt dumps it into the bowl; we repeat the process. And then he looks at Maggie, waiting for her to continue the instructions.
“Whisk for about two minutes until it thickens. Let it sit for five minutes in the refrigerator.”
Wyatt nods. “See? Whisk. Banana cream pie will teach you to be a patient man, Lucca.”
“Oh, indeed.”
“Do you have a timer? We need one set for two minutes.”
Maggie and I watch as Wyatt sprinkles in the powdered mix, then, using the whisk, he stirs the concoction together. After a full two minutes—yes, he wasn’t kidding about that timer—we set the bowl in the fridge.
“After it’s all set, we mix in the whipped cream. Then we pour it into the pie tin. Ta-da!”
“Very nice,” I say. “What should we do while we wait?”
“We could watch the game,” Maggie says.
“Or we could play Go Fish. My mom taught me that one, and it’s a goody.”
“I have an even better idea.” I lift my brows, thinking of Fur Ball sleeping in my room. I peek at Maggie, but then I’m back on Wyatt. “Wait for me in the living room?”
“Okay.” Wyatt hops from the chair he’s standing on. “Is this a surprise? Because surprises usually require you to close your eyes.”
“Then you better close your eyes.” I open my bedroom door, but before I slip inside, I peer back. “You too, Maggie. Close your eyes.”
Her lips purse. “Yeah, I’m not doing that.”
I laugh. “Your loss.”
I slip into my bedroom to see that Fur Ball hasn’t moved an inch from her curled-up ball in her kennel. Are all cats like this? I might have gotten one sooner. No wonder Maggie loves them.
I gather her up, fitting her easily in the cupped palms of my two hands, and walk her out to the living room.
Maggie’s smiling and looking at her nephew when I walk through the door. I keep my eyes on her, and I register the very second she looks at me, realizing what I have.
She pulls in a quick, short gasp, her eyes warming and her grin growing. Her fingertips press to her lips, but I can see the smile behind her hand. She watches as I bring Fur Ball over to Wyatt and lay her in his lap.
His eyes blink open and he peers down. Giggles erupt from him. Gently, he combs his hand over Fur Ball’s soft coat. And more giggles spill out of my little friend. “It’s a kitten,” he says.
“Yeah. I got her a couple weeks ago.”
Fur Ball circles in Wyatt’s lap before resting back down once more.
“My cheeks hurt,” Wyatt says, and his grin is wider than any I’ve seen before.
I peer at Maggie—is she seeing this? But her smile might be the only one bigger than her nephew’s. There are tears in her eyes, and she’s nibbling on her bottom lip.
“You should pet her,” I say. “She’s so soft.”
Maggie strokes two fingers down the little kitten’s back. “I can’t believe you got a cat,” she says, but there’s no contempt in her tone.
“A friend suggested it,” I say, not yet willing to admit that her love for felines tipped the scale for me.
“What’s her name?” Wyatt says, his head bent, trying to make himself eye to eye with the cat in his lap.
I lift my brows. “Name. Um, you know, I haven’t thought of one yet.”
“You haven’t named her?” Maggie says, looking up from the kitten to me.
“What do you call her?” Wyatt asks.
“Ah. Fur Ball.” I shrug.
Wyatt picks her up to look her in the eyes. He touches his nose to hers before standing.
“Whoa. Careful, bud,” Maggie says. She holds out her hands and Wyatt sets the cat in her hold. “Where are you going?”
“Just the floor. I want to see if she’ll follow my finger like Abby’s cat.”
“She doesn’t do a whole lot other than sleep,” I tell him.
Maggie holds the kitten up to her cheek, and Fur Ball rubs her face against Maggie’s. “Here you go, little kitty.”
Wyatt lies down on his stomach and waits for Fur Ball to join him. “You have to name her? She can’t go her whole life being called Fur Ball?”
I clear my throat. My intentions with this kitten were not completely pure. While I truly like her, I adopted her, thinking about Maggie meeting her. So, a name never crossed my mind. “I think you need to name her.”
Wyatt’s head perks up. “Me?”
Maggie’s brow knits, but she’s grinning. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” I say, more sure than ever. “Wyatt, this is an important job. You are just the man for it. I need you to name this kitten.”
He looks at Fur Ball seriously, with intent. “Anything?”
“Anything you want,” I tell him.
“Oh goodness,” Maggie mutters.
Wyatt thinks for only a minute before sitting up on his backside and pulling in a long, sharp breath. He scoops Fur Ball into his lap, peering down at her. “I’ve got it.”
Maggie and I wait—by her tight jaw, she’s anxious for whatever he’s come up with.
Wyatt stares at my little cat, and as serious as if he were the priest and Fur Ball were a child on her baptism day, he says, “Nanners.”
My brow knits. “Did you say—”
“Nanners,” he repeats.
Maggie taps her chin. “As in—”
“Nanners,” Wyatt says. “As in, bananas. Because Lucca and I both love banana cream pie and we both love this cat.”
“Huh,” I hum with a nod. “That makes complete sense.”
“It does?” Maggie turns from Wyatt to look at me.
“Yep,” Wyatt says, trailing his finger in front of Nanners. Her gray eyes watch him. “You know, Lucca, Aunt Maggie named me.”
“You did?” I say, forehead creased.
Maggie presses her lips together. “I did.”
“How did you come up with Wyatt?”
She clears her throat. “My coach from my U-23 team—her name is Darbee Wyatt. She meant a lot to me. She supported me on and off the field.”
Wyatt’s still playing with Nanners—he knows this story.
I grin. “That’s nice.”
Maggie just nods.
“All right,” I say. “In honor of Nanners finally getting her name, we’d better eat pie.”
And so we do. We eat, with Nanners attempting to help herself to the whipped cream the entire time. Ten minutes with Wyatt, and my cat is behaving in ways I’ve never seen before. She’s jumping, running, crawling, and pouncing.
He’s changed her from my quiet little kitten to a beast.
And Maggie’s loving every second.