“Okay, but it’s a tired cliché.”
March gives my hand a tug. “Stick with me here, Penny.”
“Fine.”
“Right. Back to the sexy librarian.” He grins as I grimace. “I was attracted, Penny.”
“What?” I don’t know whether to laugh or gape. “No.”
“Yep.”
“Oh, lord, just no.”
He frowns. “You don’t have to look disgusted.”
“This is the look of utter shock.”
March laughs. “More like horror, which isn’t doing my ego any favors.”
“Your ego doesn’t need favors.”
“True.” He waves a hand. “Regardless. I would have made a play.”
At this, I do gape, trying to picture the scenario and failing. March was never meant to be anything other than a goodfriend to me. If he’d tried to hit on me way back when, it would have ended in disaster. Mainly because I would have accepted his offer out of sheer shock, a tinge of curiosity, and a good dose of flattered ego. And I would have been miserable because he was the wrong Luck.
“If you were any other girl,” he amends.
Wait, what?
“Anyothergirl?” I ask, baffled.
“If you were any other girl but August’s.”
Thatsets me back against the cushions. I grab a throw pillow and hold it against my overfull tummy. “I’m... Did we experience an alternate childhood universe? I was never August’s girl.”
March’s expression is one of quiet reproach. “Pen, you were always August’s girl. You just never realized it.”
“You’re talking crazy.”
“No, I’m not.” He says this as though it’s entirely reasonable. “You were his.”
My head spins, so I focus on the least important issue. “That makes it sound like he owned me or something.”
“That’s not what being ‘his girl’ means, and you know it.” March leans forward, resting his forearm on the couch between us. “You’re his girl because whenever you walk into a room, he knows it. Whenever you are around, he becomes more present.”
“Maybe now . . .”
“Always.”
“I . . . I don’t—hell, I don’t know . . .What?”
“Flustered you good, haven’t I?”
“Yes! How can you say that? August acted like I was a... a disease he needed to avoid contracting.”
“He acted that way because you flusteredhimgood. Which, again, is why you were always his girl.” March lifts a nonchalant shoulder. “He might not have known it. But I did. I knew it would hurt August if I made a play for you. And I’d never hurt my brother.”
“Well.” It comes out more of a helpless huff than a statement.
