Chapter 19 Maggie
MAGGIE
For the remainder of the week, Declan and I work on deportment, greetings, digital manners, and how to carry on a conversation without flirting—his downfall, except when it comes to me, of course.
My inner troll has strong opinions on this.
We’re just friends. Sheesh. Don’t be weird about it.
Oh, I’m the one being weird. No. I promise.
We’re friends, and there aren’t bluebirds flitting around in my stomach anytime he enters a room.
I don’t think about how his eyes remind me of maple syrup and the soft touch of his lips when he’s done speaking.
That does not make me wonder what they’d feel like against mine.
My cheeks remain red because I’m not used to the sunshine here. It’s different than in Florida. Must be stronger during the summer to make up for the long, dark winters this far north.
As our lessons progress, I’m starting to wonder if Declan is capable of not flirting.
On Monday, Official Hug Day, he told Cateline she looked lovely, which earned him a glower from Wolf.
On Tuesday, when we met for breakfast, he said, “Still waiting for my hug.”
Come to think of it, he did that on Monday, too. I gave in and the hug lasted a little longer than usual, but I figure he’s just homesick. Missing his penthouse and glitzy life.
On Wednesday, he complimented the Blancbourg chef on her lumpy oatmeal. I couldn’t help but wonder if that means something else, even though he claimed his aunt made the best oatmeal—lumps and all.
Then yesterday, he greeted me by saying, “Morning, Coach.” He mumbled something about how Coach Printz has a good ring to it.
Was he referring to himself or me? As in, Maggie Printz?
This is probably something I should dismiss or take up with Etta Jo.
I pull out my phone and start to type, then delete.
She’ll just talk about swoony, blissy clouds, gloat, and make me bake her a cake.
While waiting for Declan in the hallway, something nearby makes a hiss, or is it a sizzle? Followed by several rapid bangs like rat-a-tat-tat.
Panicked, because I’m afraid we’re under attack, I spin in a circle and start down the hall, then double back when smoke fills the corridor.
Did someone let off firecrackers? Yep.
Declan emerges from the haze like an action film star walking away from an explosion. Except he looks different. His bushy beard is shaved, gone, caput, revealing his smooth cheeks, strong jaw, and a tiny dimple on his left cheek that I almost forgot about.
Then I realize he must’ve been with Shonda at the in-house salon for a makeover and guide to grooming habits.
With every step he takes closer, my body betrays me with a full, head-to-toe flush.
“This was a very bad idea,” he says, eyes locked on me.
“Are you taking responsibility for the firecrackers because Cateline is going to—” But instead of speaking fluidly and sternly like an intimidating coach who’s reprimanding her client, I stammer like I’m two seconds away from being the star in a period piece and swooning onto a settee.
“No, well, yes.” He smirks and winks and I don’t know what that dimple does, but it’s as if it’s popping just for me. “I worry that causing you to look at me like this is the bad idea.”
“Look at you like you’re going to pay for the destruction of property and breaking rules, no less, fire codes?”
Declan’s lips quirk. “Come on, say it. You know I’m hot.”
My eyes bulge. He has the bravado of a silver-screen heartthrob.
“See? You know it’s true.”
Status update: Cheeks on fire. Lips rubber. Body shaking—at least when he runs his hand through his freshly trimmed hair, because I’m imagining it sliding through my fingers. Wait. No, I’m not. I am not thinking about my best friend that way.
Have I mentioned that we’re friends? Platonic friends. Just two normal people.
“What, you don’t like my freshly shaven look? Because I’m pretty sure you do. I thought I cleaned up rather nicely.”
“Declan,” I grind out.
His response is merely a look that says he knows exactly what he did to me and it has nothing to do with the firecrackers.
“Leave it to Declan to exit the salon with a bang,” a deep male voice says from behind me.
I turn around. It’s Wolf, followed by Chase and Grey. The three massive football players stand shoulder to shoulder, filling the wide hallway behind me with Declan on the other side.
“Where there’s smoke, there’s Declan.” Chase’s lips twitch like he’s trying to hide his amusement.
Grey frowns as if he disapproves. Then again, he always looks grumpy.
“You can blame Maggie. She made me do it,” Declan says.
I point at myself as if he could be referring to anyone else. Declan steps closer and I back up against the wall so I’m not a football player sandwich. If the three guys behind me charge at their teammate for causing trouble, I’ll be trampled.
“Wait, Maggie?” Chase asks.
“I thought she was Miss Byrne.” Grey, ever formal, polite, and sullen, does not belong here.
“Maggie Byrne?” Wolf looks me up and down as if making a connection.
I give my head a subtle shake as if begging him not to recognize that Declan and I know each other, which has the potential to cause me to lose my job.
Guys, this is a secret relationship, er, friendship, and it needs to stay that way.
“The one. The only. The legendary.” Declan smiles proudly.
“This is Maggie?” Wolf says.
Are they confused? Upset? Shocked? I can’t tell. I should’ve been directing my telepathic begging at Declan not to blow our cover.
Wolf looks me up and down. In fact, my blazing cheeks suggest they all are.
This genuinely confuses me.
“Declan has talked a lot about you. But he never mentioned—” Wolf cuts himself off at a sharp glare from Declan.
“Eyes over here, Connor.” Declan’s tone is a low warning.
I see why when I risk a glance as Wolf’s eyes eat me up like I’m little more than a slice of Little Red Riding Hood’s chocolate cake.
“But you never mentioned—” Chase starts, then thinks better of it.
“She’s his best friend, boys,” Grey says in a way that suggests something I can’t quite define.
Yet those are my sentiments exactly. Or should be.
“That’s right. Maggie is off-limits. And this conversation is not to be repeated. We can’t have the headmistress find out we know each other. Conflict of interest,” Declan says authoritatively.
“Why? Because Maggie will automatically pass you? Not fair,” Wolf says.
“It’s in your best interest that I get a good review,” Declan says.
“I am not going easy on him just because we’re friends. Best friends,” I clarify, in case they have other ideas. “He faces the same Blancbourg scrutiny as the rest of you. Promise.”
“Fair enough.” Grey leans against the wall with his arms crossed. His foot vibrates like he wants this conversation to be over.
“Right. You’re friends. We get it.” Wolf grins.
“My best friend,” Declan adds, affirming my fear. No, it affirms my hope because I don’t want to mess things up. We’re just friends and that’s how it’ll stay ‘til death do we part.
“Yep. Off-limits. Maggie is just your best friend. Keep telling yourself that, cowboy,” Wolf says over his shoulder.
“She’s just your best friend. Your pretty friend,” Chase mutters as they walk away.
The wallpaper glue must’ve seeped through the floral design because I’m stuck. Adhered to the wall. I’m convinced I’ll never be able to move again.
“Hey, don’t listen to them.” Declan startles me from wondering how I’ll be able to conduct daily life functions from my new home in the hallway.
“Don’t listen to us about being pretty or—?” Wolf starts.
“All of you, vamoose,” Declan orders. “And not a word of this to anyone.”
Muttering and tittering among themselves, they obey.
If it weren’t for the lingering smoke from the firecrackers, I’d think Declan’s cheeks turned a slight shade of pink. “Should we be concerned that a fire alarm didn’t go off? A sprinkler system?” I sense something unspoken between his words.
Miraculously, I remove myself from the wall and stalk closer, amused by this turn of events. If I’m not mistaken, Declan is being protective of me. Defensive. Possessive?
“Is it because you know I’m hot?” I ask, repeating his earlier question and directing it at him.
His jaw lowers and lifts. “I’m sure there’s a fire extinguisher somewhere nearby.”
“You’ll have to ask the headmistress and talk to her about how you plan to clean up this mess.”
“What mess?”
“That your teammates are aware we know each other.”
“They won’t tell.”
“Sounded to me like you’ve told them about me before now. Me, your best friend.”
Declan’s eyes flash. “They’re a bunch of animals.”
“A bunch of attractive animals,” I say with a grin to see what’ll happen.
“They clearly thought the same of you.”
“Let me guess, you don’t like that.”
“Not. At. All,” he grinds out.
“Well, I’m not going to do anything to risk my job, or yours, so you don’t have anything to worry about from me.
But in response to your question when you came out of the salon, you know what they say about the company you keep.
” With a wink, I sweep down the hall as if my long skirts bustle around me and my hair flows back with the wind.
I’m not sure where that bold bit of flirty drama came from, but I’ll regret it later when I’m trying to sleep. For now, I’ll pretend that for once, I’m not the average girl next door. Rather, I’m the belle of the ball.
Oh, but wait. We have class this morning, so I turn around and return to Declan’s side. He remains where I left him in the hall, blinking slowly as if struck dumb, then gives his head a shake. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”
My mouth waters and my head spins slightly as if I’m lightheaded. Hungry. I suddenly want another midnight snack.
Focusing for the rest of the day requires repeated reminders to close the tabs in my brain. But when Declan speaks, a new one opens up, querying why the subtle lilt of his accent makes me lean in.
Focus, Maggie.
Then another pops open when I notice the size of his hands and the calluses. We’re only in our twenties, but I’m surprised he doesn’t wear a ring. Well, a non-Super Bowl one.
At lunch, he asks, “Do you want to know what my favorite kind of cake is? Maggie cake. Like Patty Cake.”
“Like the nursery rhyme? I think it’s Pat-a-cake.”
He laces his fingers through mine and lifts them as if we’re going to play the hand-clapping game. “Maggie Cakes. I like the sound of that.”
It’s hard to ignore how his rough hands feel against mine and the shiver it sends through me. My voice trembles more than I’d like when I say, “As in a bakery?”
“Didn’t you use to want to open one that was a combination of the spot on the corner of Commonwealth Ave and that little hole in the wall on Newbury Street? Part bakery, part coffee, lots of books and cozy nooks?”
I’m working. I should not be thinking about how my hand fits inside Declan’s like a glove. And I cannot afford to think about my dashed baking dreams. That door is closed. Locked. Far, far away.
“Declan, you’re a distraction,” I blurt.
He slides his hand down his face, revealing a subtle smile. “You know what they say about the company you keep.”
And I’m dead. I didn’t know a swoon could kill a woman, but apparently, it’s true. You’ve been warned, ladies.
Oh, and for the record, Declan’s beardless makeover didn’t help matters.