Page 8 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

I snicker. Seems Maggie excels at busting E’s balls, and I now have another reason to like her too much.

E lifts his chin. “I illustrate best-selling graphic novels, as you well know.”

“Glorified scribbles. And you can both move along.” She gives my brothers a hard look. So challenging, even Desmond has the wherewithal to lean back. “Take your gossip-sniffing noses elsewhere.”

Shockingly, they do as they’re told, slinking away and leaving me alone with the World’s Most Confusing Woman.

To me, she says, “Your family’s a pain in the ass.”

I smile, because yeah. They’re awful, and I love them. “Back to my eleven-year-late apology. Our last night together—”

She holds up her hand. “I wasn’t joking before. I need to leave the past in the past. I’m happy and in a good relationship. So can we just drop it?”

“You’re happy with Harry?”

“Harrison.”

“The name’s not the issue.” I glance in his direction. He’s facing away from us, sipping his coffee and eating a muffin while playing what looks like Candy Crush on his phone. “Have you ever shaken hands with the guy?”

Maggie glares at me. “We’ve progressed past shaking hands. But back to us.”

“So you admit there is an us.” My gaze slips down her body, remembering that freckle-covered skin, all her smooth curves bared to me, before she’d run into the pond screeching.

She touches her neck, then fists her hand and drops it to her side. “There is no us, and I’d appreciate it if you’d quit the bedroom eyes around me. You don’t need to apologize for anything, and I don’t want to discuss those days.”

Between Maggie’s lip-biting, her dejection when she thought I didn’t think about her during WITSEC, and this vehemence now, I’m inclined to think there is an us. I could push, ask why she’s hell-bent on denying our intense connection. But really, what’s the point? I’m tired of living a stalled life. Chasing Maggie has always been a one-way ticket to nowhere.

“No problemo,” I say, going for unaffected. “Consider our history forgotten.”

I lean casually into my chair, like I’m immune to Maggie’s whims, but my weight tips the chair back. I have one of those oh-shit moments where my chair teeters and my balance wavers. I slam forward and grip the table. “See? I’m super cool with our arrangement.”

She snorts but quickly schools her expression, like she’s not allowed to laugh near me. I’d bet she doesn’t laugh around Ivy League, either. Unless she’s laughing at his expense.

She swivels away and joins her boyfriend. The eighties-permed stare champ is still intent on me, but I don’t have the energy to stare back. I slump forward and rub my eyes.

Kicking my Maggie attraction won’t be easy. I don’t know much about the woman she’s become, but she still gets under my skin like no one else. Except there hasn’t really been anyone else, has there? No one of substance, at least.

Maybe that’s the issue.

Too overwhelmed with the changes in my life, I haven’t dated the past year. During WITSEC, I had to use my alias, Logan. I wasn’t allowed to talk about my past, leaving years zero to nineteen off-limits. But I no longer need to hide my history. I can actually use my real name. Without a vault of secrets, I might hit it off with someone new. A woman who doesn’t confuse me and ignore me on a whim.

I push my chair back and walk behind the coffee counter, heading for the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen and hopefully to Delilah.

“You can’t be here,” a skinny barista says, stepping in my way. “Employees only.”

“I work for Delilah,” I tell the kid. “I help her make fun of E.” I scoot around his puckered face and find Delilah in the back, putting together sandwiches.

She glances at me and abruptly strikes a nonchalant pose, leaning on the stainless-steel counter. “So, you and Maggie, huh? She told me all about high school.”

I call bullshit. Maggie hasn’t said a word to anyone about us. Delilah’s working on behalf of E, drilling for dirt. “Pathetic effort,” I say. “And what’s with the permed woman who doesn’t know how to blink?”

Delilah smirks, resuming her sandwich artistry. “That’s Sandra. She was a secretary at a security firm, but she’s retired now and works as the town busybody. She eavesdrops in the café all the time and volunteers at local businesses, helping out when staff are sick or on holidays. Mainly to gather gossip. She also loves driving E batty.”

If she riles my brother, maybe I judged her too harshly. “I should introduce myself.”

“She’d love that, and I heard your father’s book might have early copies ready soon.” Worry lines bracket her mouth. “You holding up okay?”

“Guy just can’t let us get on with our lives,” I say bitterly.