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 aboutmy 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.
20
MAGGIE
Later, with my head still in swoony, blissy clouds, Etta Jo texts, asking me how things are going in Concordia.
Etta Jo: I miss you and your random cake deliveries.
Maggie: I miss you too! This is top secret, but remember when I mentioned who my client is?
Etta Jo: Sweetie, don’t hate me, but that week was a whirlwind of moving into the studio and a huge order. I can’t quite remember who you said. But let me guess. A hot celebrity who asked you to be in his next feature film? A tech billionaire who throws hundred-dollar bills at you for fun? Wait, wait, one of Giselle’s football players who is a total stud?
Maggie: Very funny, but you’re close. It’s Declan, but no one can know that we know each other. Giselle didn’t mention that her cousin is terrifying. I don’t want to lose my job.
Etta Jo: My lips are sealed. Oh, I heard about the #BruiserButt scandal. Those sure were some full moons! Wink, wink.
Maggie: Things are going fine.
Etta Jo: Good to hear.
Then the text bubble blinks a few times to indicate she’s writing more, as I scramble to come up with why I randomly said things are going fine.
Etta Jo: Funny, I didn’t ask how things are going. Do you mean fine as in Declan Printz is a total stud?
My stomach lurches because she’s a little too close to the truth.
Maggie: We’re just friends!
Etta Jo: Just keep telling yourself that. Giselle is still dating Garrison from the Miami Riptide. She mentioned she was glad he didn’t have to go to reform school like the guys from the Bruisers. Then she went on to tell me that Wolf, the guy Cateline is coaching, is driving her nuts.
My thumbs hover over the keypad on my phone because I’m not sure how to respond. I can’t tell her my feelings just got very confusing. Can I?
Etta Jo: It’s awfully quiet all of a sudden. Are you swooning over there?
She’s caught a scent and is not letting it go.
Maggie: No! He wears the tackiest outfits—designer stuff. He also sometimes spits when we’re outside. Gross. Oh, and I noticed he doesn’t always wear socks. Also, he’s not very good at spelling. Not to mention his table manners are lacking. Total beast. Not dating material after all.
Etta Jo: Half of the females in this country would disagree, but it sounds to me like you’re trying to talk yourself out of something...just sayin.’
I listed off everything I could think of to counter the fact that Etta Jo isn’t far from the mark. But there are clouds aroundme and in my head. A softness replaces the density of my bones. My blood has transformed into something that resembles marshmallow fluff.
Is this what attraction to Declan feels like? Or is it a combination of jet lag, adjusting to major life changes, and the dry wasteland of my dating life?
