What would it mean to let Maggie into my heart? Is there room for her amidst all the baggage from the past?
I toss and turn all night. At dawn, despite the hearty stew, my growling stomach keeps me awake. When I was a lad in Dublin, so many nights, I went to bed hungry. Starving. For food, warmth, and love. Is my hunger just a reflex of being back in Ireland? A vestige of the kid I was the last time I was in the country? Certainly, I was plenty warm in the luxury townhome. As for love...?
Maggie’s image with her summer blonde hair, hazel eyes, and lovely curves springs to mind. My lips heated when I broughtthem to her forehead with a gentle kiss last night. I want to kiss her again, but I have a problem.
A big one.
I think I’m in love with my best friend. Her smile is the kind that can light up a room, a city, and the world, but most importantly, she’s illuminated the darkest parts of my heart.
But the problem is the best friend part.
Also, I don’t think Maggie realizes how amazing she is. She’s Mag-mazing. I want to show her what she means to me. A plan forms in my mind. Thankfully, the pantry is fully stocked.
I search for the best carrot cake recipe on the internet. Even though it’s early morning, I mix and stir the ingredients, trying to be quiet so I don’t wake Maggie up.
At last, the cake comes out of the oven, filling the air with the scent of butter, cinnamon, and spices. Next, I put together the cream cheese icing. Nothing about carrot cake makes sense. I’d put carrots in the stew, after all. Then again, nothing about Maggie and me makes sense either. Yet somehow, I feel like maybe we’re meant to be together.
When she appears, still wearing the Bruisers sweatshirt, it’s like the sun rises all over again. “Morning. It smells like...” Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open like she might just drool. Still fuzzy from sleep, she looks adorably disheveled.
“It smells like carrot cake,” I announce, gesturing to it on the table. I just managed to get it frosted and topped with a sprinkling of toasted walnuts before she appeared.
“What’s the occasion?” she asks. “It’s not the official carrot cake day. That’s in February.”
I chuckle inwardly. Of course, she’d know that. “I figured we could have it for breakfast.”
“We can’t eat cake for breakfast.”
“My house. My rules.” I wink. “Plus, it’s the Official Maggie Day.”
“What?” A crease forms between her eyes like she’s confused.
“Yep. It’s on the Irish Register of official days.”
“Really?”
I smirk. “Is now.”
The concern on her face blooms into a smile.
It’s funny how seeing her smile recharges me like sunshine after days of rain. “Since it’s the official Maggie day, I give you the day off.”
“I don’t think Cateline would allow that.”
My thoughts jump to Wolf mentioning that Cateline, the headmistress and his coach, is hot but bossy. Then again, he probably likes that about her.
Maggie continues, “I have a month-long contract with you. We’re barely two weeks in. Afterward, I’ll get some time off and we can celebrate Maggie Day or something,” she says the last part like it’s silly, but I’m taking this seriously. Very seriously.
“My house. My rules,” I repeat, arms crossed and unyielding.
She eyes the cake. “How about an hour? I can take an hour off.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “We can start there, but we’ll see about any further negotiations.”
“By the way, I gave you a stellar report yesterday and not because I was feeling guilty about lying. At least you didn’t fire me for not telling you everything from the voicemail. You were the picture of kindness and compassion—especially with your aunt.”
“I figured it wouldn’t go over well if I walked in and squirted her with water guns.”
Maggie laughs.
