19
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.
