Chapter 18 Maggie
MAGGIE
The woman with a thick Irish accent, who left the message Declan must’ve instinctively known he probably wouldn’t want to listen to, says things not meant for my ears.
I clear my throat. “She says you should call. It’s important. Right away. No matter what time of day or night.” The partial truth slips off my tongue. There is no way I can tell him that there was an accident. That someone might not make it. I pass him the phone.
When we held hands in the hall, when he kissed my knuckles, his palm was warm, sure and strong. Now his hands feel clammy. Limp. He doesn’t take his device.
“Important could mean any number of things. A housewarming party, a new addition to the family...” I bite my lip because the caller’s grave tone suggested it was bad.
“You sure?” he asks as though not quite believing it.
I thrust the phone in his direction. “Go ahead. Call.”
“Nah. It’s too late. I’ll do it in the morning.” I press his phone into his hand, sandwiching it between our palms and obstructing us from holding hands again, even though now seems like a good time to reach out to my best friend.
Even if it’s bad, he should probably know. “Promise that you’ll call?” I ask, worried that not telling him everything the caller said is the wrong decision.
The rest of my hunk of cake sits sadly on the stainless-steel table.
Declan glances at the number on the screen as though debating whether to listen to it himself.
A rush of panic sweeps through me.
He clicks delete.
Dread and relief are like two ends on a seesaw. “It’s late. We should head back,” I say.
He tucks his phone away. “Thank you.”
“Of course. That’s what friends are for.
” But the guilt comes at me like a linebacker with a vendetta.
A true friend would be there to hold his hand through it, but something has changed between us.
If I’m not mistaken, it’s gone beyond the bounds of platonic and into another orbit where men are from Mars and women are from.
..well, I’m originally from Los Angeles, but that’s not going to help me now.
“Promise me you’ll return the call,” I repeat.
He nods and then spots the rest of my cake. “You’re not going to finish that?”
“All yours.”
The hungry look he gives me makes me wonder about my appetite.
Declan gobbles it up, every last crumb. His smile tells me it’s delicious, and that everything is okay between us. And that he doesn’t know that I hadn’t conveyed the entirety of the message. We near the exit to the hallway and I want to hit rewind, but I can’t...or I won’t.
“I’ve always loved how easy it is to talk to you,” Declan says.
Maybe so, but it was hard not to tell him the whole truth about the call, the past, everything.
I feel like telling him right now. To spill my guts and heart.
But that sounds like it would be a lot to clean up if it turns messy like every other time I’ve opened up to anyone.
Instead, I tighten the stitches around my fragile parts and keep all my feelings inside.
“Oh, here,” he says, passing me my phone. “Almost forgot.”
Our hands brush when I take it, sending those bluebirds alight.
“By the way, you looked beautiful in the Cinderella costume, but I also liked the photo of you lounging by the pool.” He winks.
It takes me a moment to figure out what he means. “Wait. You looked through my camera roll?”
“You can’t blame me for being curious.”
I feel more exposed than I did when I fell into the fountain.
“You got to see mine. I got to see yours. Seems fair. Win, win, right?”
“Declan,” I growl.
“What’s on deck for tomorrow?” he asks.
Through gritted teeth, I say, “We’ll be reviewing digital etiquette.”
“Perfect. Now that we have our phones back, we can practice.”
I’m not a football expert by any stretch, but I’m pretty sure we’ve crossed the line of scrimmage.
He’s been so unexpectedly sweet since we went into the kitchen.
He left an imprint everywhere his hands had touched: palms, fingers, knuckles.
And the kisses he’d given each of them after he acknowledged the viral video sends a rush through my veins all over again.
It travels to my chest and belly. The bluebirds go bonkers.
“Anything else on the docket so I can be prepared, Coach? Any more midnight escapades around the school? Is there more cake in our future?” ...And he’s back. I don’t have a watch, but I estimate it took him less than three minutes to slide right back into being Declan the Showman.
“We’ll cover how not to make a grand entrance.”
“But that’s what I do.” He flashes a cocky smile.
“Not anymore and not according to your coach and commissioner.”
“Well, I don’t imagine they said anything about making a grand exit. I’m good at that too.” In one swift motion, he picks me up under his arm and hurries down the hall.
“Put me down,” I hiss. “I’m not a football.”
“Printz is going long. Will he make it to the endzone?” he whisper-shouts.
We round a corner, go up a couple of flights of stairs, and he still carries me as though I’m as light as a feather, er, football.
“If I tell you what kind of cake is my favorite, will you put me down?” I beg, barely able to stifle the laughter in my voice.
Declan comes to an abrupt stop, setting me on my feet. We stand toe to toe, but I have to lift my gaze to his—it’s like staring at the sun through the treetops. He smooths a few of my perpetual flyaway hairs. His lashes brush his cheeks as he gazes at me.
My pulse goes from trot to gallop.
His lips quirk.
He’s hardly out of breath from his race up the stairs, but I can’t catch mine as I bask in the heat from his muscles.
“I should know this, but what is your favorite kind of cake?” he asks.
I search his soft brown eyes. I’ve never known anyone like Declan, but fear that if I lose myself in him, I’ll lose my best friend.
I swallow a lump that feels like a naval orange. His gaze alone has the potential to destroy me. But it’s his lips at that moment that threaten to undo me. Then they move. “So, what kind of cake is your favorite?” he repeats in a low, husky voice.
“I love chocolate, but carrot cake is my favorite.”
He cracks a smile. “You were afraid I’d laugh, but strangely, that sounds delicious right now...and so do you, Mag-oochie. This was the perfect midnight snack.”
That wasn’t what I expected him to say, but more to the point, I wasn’t expecting to agree—not about the cake or about sharing whatever non-platonic interplanetary, axis-changing, supernova event this is.
I lean in, drawn by a gravitational pull or something equally irresistible.
But then a shadow crosses my thoughts—could be space trash or a foreign spy satellite.
Whatever it is reminds me of my particular situation.
Backing up, I extend my finger and tap his chest. “We’re forgetting something.
We don’t know each other. We’re not friends. None of this happened.”
Declan’s shoulders drop with each word uttered.
He may be the football player, but putting that boundary between us makes me feel heavy, like I’m wearing full game gear with pads and all.
I hurry to the Regency Suite without another word.
On the other side of the door, I catch my breath even though Declan had been the one to carry me all the way upstairs.
In an exhausted daze, I collapse onto the mattress.
My inner troll, who’d been hiding since Declan and I had texted, crawls out from underneath the bed, ready to remind me about my loneliness and how I’m better off sticking to the shadows.
I know firsthand how bright the lights of fame can be and decided a long time ago I want nothing to do with them.
So, it’ll just be the troll and me forever.
Despite my swirling thoughts and questions about what transpired since I was last lying here, the time change sends me directly to sleep and wakes me much earlier than I’d like.
As I recall last night, I groan. The truth comes to me as if from a dream. But nope, this is stark, non-platonic reality.
I’m attracted to Declan.
My best friend.
My client.
We shared a moment. More than one. And I’d kind of lied to him about the voicemail. I left a mess in Florida and find myself in another one.
As I get ready for day two at Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette, I come up with some icks to quell the feelings about my BFF.
Declan doing everything he could to break the rules of etiquette at dinner the night before, most notably, chewing with his mouth open is at the top of the list. That was a definite turn-off. But it doesn’t quite do the trick.
He’d sucked his teeth, slurped his water, and probably would’ve belched repeatedly had we sat there any longer. If I picture it happening, perhaps that’ll dampen my desire to hold his hand again, to feel his lips move from my knuckles to my mouth, to be swept away by Printz Charming.
Because Declan Printz is charming, that’s for sure. Our sweet late-night interaction takes center stage, casting the icks behind the curtain.
As I quickly scroll through my phone for any news, messages, and to find out what official day it is—official hug day—I pass a report about moon-gate. Declan is vulgar, rude, and gruff.
Icks all around.
But it’s hug day, and yesterday’s hug from Declan was divine, like being wrapped in a cotton candy cloud.
I square my shoulders, banishing further thoughts of him from my mind and march into the hall, all business.
Telling myself to forget about Printz Charming, I arrive five minutes early to the classroom indicated on my schedule. I send Etta Jo a quick text update, leaving out the details of last night. I add that it’s official hug day and send her a virtual hug.
Declan appears, exactly on time. I ignore the slant of his brown eyes, the cut of his cheekbones, and the fullness of his lips. I focus on the mussed hair, the wild beard, and that his shirt is untucked.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” I repeat, also ignoring the zip of excitement that rushes through me at the sound of his voice with the subtle Irish accent. “According to my notes, we need to cover grooming habits, dating, and I think we should continue reviewing table manners.”
“Good, I’m starving,” he says.
His gaze slides to me and all I can think about is our midnight rendezvous in the kitchen—when he’d said, “This was the perfect midnight snack.”
Suddenly, I’m hungry too.