“I know,” she says with an audible exhale. “And Courtney doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
She peers across the lawn, and my gaze trails after hers. Brent stands against the fence line, a can of soda in hand. Lindy looks at him a little too longingly when the gate beside him opens and Lucca Cruz himself steps through. His Red Tails jersey stretches over his chest and shoulders, his black hair is combed back, his beard trimmed, and a smile adorns his face. He’s looking every bit the ladies’ man I know him to be.
“Ooo, your friend is here!” She starts toward the fence and gate, toward both men.
“Not my friend,” I say, following after her. She knows that. I’ve been complaining about the man and referring to him as Saint Lucca or Pretty Boy Cruz for three years. If anyone knows he isn’t my friend, it’s Lindy.
We approach just in time to hear Brent say, “I’m so sorry. I know you don’t speak Spanish. You’re from Brazil.” Brentshakes his head. “I know that. Promise. It’s Portuguese. Portuguese,” he repeats.
Lucca nods, but whatever Brent said to him before has clearly not impressed him.
I stop, standing a few feet from the overzealous Red Tail.
“Maggie,” he says, almost as if we are old friends. When he’s very much aware that we arenot.
“Hello, Lucca,” I deadpan. The words come out as if I’m tired. As if I wasn’t watching my clock, praying he’d come for Wyatt’s sake.
“Mags,” Lindy whisper-scolds. She bumps me with her hip before taking three steps to stand next to Brent. I’m so distracted by the hand she just slipped into his that she’s forced to speak again. “Are you going to introduce us?”
“Oh.” I cram my hands into the pockets of my wide-leg jeans. Clearing my throat, I rock on my heels. “Lucca, this is my sister, Lindy—Wyatt’s mother.” I grind my teeth. “Lindy, Lucca Cruz.” He does not need further explanation. Anything else I were to say would only go to his head. Besides, she already knows who he is.
“Lindy,” Lucca says, reaching out a hand. Too bad the action doesn’t require her to relinquish holding onto the man beside her.
Brent’s eyes dart to me, and Lindy’s head bobs his way. I am silently scolded.
“Right, and this is Brent.” So, it’s possible his name sounded like a flat chord.
“Wyatt’s dad?” Lucca says, hand out to Brent, brows raised.
“No!” I squawk and slap Lucca’s hand back to his side. Poor Brent—I think he really wanted that handshake. He’s looking a little starstruck.
Lindy’s eyes go wide for the briefest of seconds. “Uh, no. Not Wyatt’s dad. Brent is my boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” I choke on the word. “Since when?”
Before Lindy can answer, my father has made his way over to us. The grin on Dad’s face is brighter than a sunny California day. How did I miss his adoration for Lucca? His and Wyatt’s? Where did I go wrong?
“Lucca Cruz,” he says, thrusting his hand into Lucca’s. He shakes the man’s hand, double-fisted in his own, over and over again. “Maggie Pie may not be a fan, but Wyatt and I sure are.”
“Dad,” I say, more insulted that he’s calling himself a Lucca fan than anything. I had hoped Mom was exaggerating.
Lucca only laughs. “That’s putting it nicely,” he says. Then, looking at me, he adds, “Maggie Pie.”
I grind my teeth and glare.
“I’m happy to meet you, sir,” Lucca says, ignoring my death scowl. I swear, his accent thickens. He’s putting on a show for his fans.
“LUCCA!” says the little voice I know so well. Wyatt. “He’s here!” he bellows to his friends, who are still eating pizza. Wyatt races over, half a slice of pepperoni in hand. “You’re here! You came!” he sings, hopping on one foot in a semi-circle. It might be the most athletic thing I’ve seen my little guy do.
“You bet I came. How could I resist Maggie Pie’s sweet invitation?”
Nerves tick in my veins, and my limbs grow warm with discomfort. “Don’t call me that,” I mutter between gritted teeth.
But Wyatt smiles. And Lucca pretends not to hear me.
“Do you have tricks for us?” Wyatt says. “I told my friends you’d do tricks.”
Like a magician? Or some kind of comedy act? Lucca the joke. I can get behind that.
