“It’s all right, man,” Wade tells him. “We all have days like that.”
I clap once more, ready to get inside with my guests. “Okay, bye, guys.”
“Wait,” Wade says. “You’re really ditching us for the referee?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I thought you hated her.”
“You thought wrong.” With that, I step back inside and shut the door.
“He’s not wrong,” Maggie says. “You did hate me.”
I hadn’t realized she could hear us. I peer around her. Wyatt’s already on my couch, remote in hand, Wade’s bowl of pretzels in his lap. “Heiswrong,” I tell her. “At least, he is now.”
She crosses her arms and nods. “Thanks for letting us stop by.” My gaze falls for a second to the curve of her hips. While her ref uniform shows off her kick-butt legs, it does nothing for her hips. Maggie is one beautiful woman.
I clear my throat. And my head. “I was surprised to get your text.”
Her pretty brown eyes drift down. “I was surprised I sent it.”
“Hey, Wyatt,” I say, stepping into the kitchen; it’s small but connected to the living room, so the space feels open with room to breathe.
Wyatt turns his head to look at me. He’s turned the game back on, but he gives me his full attention. “Hi, Lucca. Thanks for the snack.”
“You’re welcome. But even better—look what I bought.” I reach into my pantry and pull a small yellow box from the bottom shelf. I hold it up for him.
“Banana?” he says, looking at the package of pudding in my hands.
“Yep. Do you think you can make it for me?”
“You know I can,” he says, a grin swelling his cheeks. “Do you have any whipped cream?”
I nod.
“Banana cream pie and a soccer game with Lucca? Aunt Maggie, you were right, this is gonna be a fun weekend.”
“I meant the movie tomorrow. But I suppose this works, too.” Maggie stares at the banana pudding in my hand. “You bought whipped cream and banana pudding? How did you know we’d come over?”
“I didn’t,” I say, setting the box on the countertop. “I liked Wyatt’s pie. He told me how to make it.”
She smirks. “You really like it.”
“Of course he does. Banana cream is the best.” Wyatt scoots to the edge of the couch, then hops down, strutting into the kitchen with his hand out. “Aunt Maggie reads the instructions while I do the mixing. Watch and learn, Lucca.”
“By all means,” I say, pulling from the cupboard a mixing bowl and the pie tin I bought just for Wyatt’s recipe. I set them on the counter and snag a wooden spoon from the drawer.
“Can I stand on this?” Wyatt says, pointing to one of my kitchen chairs.
“Bud—no. We aren’t standing on Lucca’s furniture.” Maggie’s throat bobs with a swallow. She’s nervous. Do I make her nervous? That would make no sense. I’ve quite willingly told her I adore her. And I do. It’s as if I have no choice at this point. Vovó, herself, has parted the clouds and shown me a new reality, one with Maggie in it.
“It’s fine,” I say, picking up the chair and bringing it to the counter. “I don’t mind. Really. The man has to be able to see his work.”
“Exactly,” Wyatt says, stepping up onto the wooden chair. “I’ll need a whisk, too. It can’t be a spoon. It has to be a whisk.” He leans my way and cups a hand to his mouth. “Except, I don’t know why.”
“I have a whisk,” I say, snatching one from the drawer.
“And milk.”
