“Ohhh.” Rosalie peers at me, then Fran, like a blind woman who can newly see. “That’s because you were Callum’s girl, and there was no chance at commitment with you.”
Fran nods, her smile much too large. “The classic ‘afraid to commit’ matter.”
“I’m not afraid to commit. I don’twantto commit.”
“It’s not very original,” Rosalie says, with a one-shoulder shrug. She’s looking at Fran.
“No,” Fran says. “But it’s very accurate.”
“It’s not,” I say, looking from one to the other. But they seem to have forgotten I’m here. “I don’t have issues.”
“Hey,” Rosalie says. “He’s always remembered Maggie’s name. First and last. Maybe it’s a sign.”
“It has to be,” Fran says. “Maybe this time, his feelings run deeper.”
I scoff. “I feel for Maggie the same that I feel for either of you.”
And suddenly they do look at me. Both of them. No words. Just stares that say they do not believe me. But why is the idea so insane? I have female friends. Sure, most or possibly all of those friends have significant others. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be friends with a woman who is single. Maggie said so herself, the day we worked together on that tiny, child soccer pitch.
Well, I don’t need to be gawked at. I step out of the Fran and Rosalie sandwich I’m currently in and walk toward Callum and Kaylee—crap, or was it Mailey? Why do Americans have so many names that sound the same?
I take one more step when Callum opens the door right next to him.
Maggie steps in, her long, ashen-brown hair down around her shoulders, a smile swelling her cheeks, her eyes bright as she greets Callum. My heart pumps in my chest, physical joy running through my veins at the sight of her. And then some tall, blond idiot walks in behind her, one hand on her back. And the joy coasting through my veins turns to ice. I am feral. All at once, I’d very much like to take someone out. Preferably someone tall, blond, and with his hand on Maggie’s back.
Huh.
Fran might be right about me.
I might be having more-than-friendly feelings right now. Isaffectionate violence a thing? I look at Maggie—affection. I look at him—violence. I feel them both.
I am turning into a caveman. And I am much too good-looking to be a caveman.
I charge over, as if I have no control. I am Caveman Lucca who needs to claim what’s his. The only problem: nothing in front of me is actually mine. I’ve just discovered that I’m a complete idiot who’s half smitten with the only girl I can’t have. And I didn’t even realize it until this very second.
Moving through the crowded room, I stand right in front of Maggie. “Hi,” I say, peering down into the sweetest face I’ve ever seen. My gaze roves over her honey-brown eyes and onto the small heart-shaped freckles below her eye.
Has her face always been this beautiful? It’s as if I have no choice but to fall for this woman. There was never any hope. I thought we could be friends. Just friends. I thought I’d be okay with that. I was wrong, and it’s hitting me like a brick to the temple.
“Hey, Lucca,” she says, smiling up at me. That smile says so many things. She may not know that she’s falling for me, too. But she is. It’s possible that, like me, she already has, and she just doesn’t know it yet.
I take the salad bowl from her hands and shove it into the gut of the spineless blond with his hand on my girl’s back. With both his hands around the bowl, I lightly wrap one arm around Maggie and lead her in the opposite direction of the food table.
“You made it,” I say as if we are the only two people in this room.
“Yeah.” She peers back at the man who is following us, as if he were tethered to Maggie’s spine. Someone get me some scissors. We need to cut this cord. “Uh, Mark, this is my friend, Lucca.”
I smile at her and pretend the man she speaks to doesn’texist. “Her very good friend.” I’m not sure I’ve ever felt jealous before—there was never a reason to. But the emotion rages through me now, like fire in a field of dead grass.
Maggie’s brows lift in question. “Right. And Lucca, this is my friend, Mark.”
“You work together?” I say, studying the inchworm in front of me. I don’t recognize him.
“Ah, no,” the man says. He even sounds like an inchworm—small and spineless. This guy might be worse than Mouse Man. He’s a mouse in disguise.
“We went to school together. We’ve been friends for years.” Maggie takes one small step and turns to face both me and the inchworm. In the process, she removes my hand from her back.
“Go Ravens,” he says, like the moron he is. He pumps one fist in the air. Seriously, how does a woman as magnificent as Maggie get stuck with guys like this?
