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“I have not.” I frown at her as she brings her cup of coffee to the table and sits with me. She arrived on my doorstep this morning with fresh cinnamon rolls.
Because Maggie and I often work evenings at the pub, breakfasts are our best time to catch up.
“You’re not usually moody,” she continues. “So something must be up. What’s going on? Does it have anything to do with the hot boxer that came into the pub and made googly eyes at you?”
“First of all, he’s not a boxer. He’s a former MMA fighter. Second of all, he didn’t make googly eyes at me.”
Except, he totally did.
“You weren’t watching from where I was,” she says. “Trust me. His eyes were googly.”
I won’t even mention that his mouth was warm and soft on mine. Maggie would take that information and run with it in directions I’m not even willing to entertain.
“Are we going to the cemetery today?”
My sister scowls. “Why in the hell would we do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because this is the second anniversary of your husband’s death. I mean, shouldn’t we take flowers or something?”
“Are you drunk?” She scoffs and takes a bite of her breakfast. “Hell, no. He was a lying, cheating piece of shit. The only reason I’d go to his grave is to spit on it.”
“But you’re not bitter or anything.” I laugh as she glares at me. “Okay, I get it. I just didn’t know how you’d handle it.”
“With coffee and sugar. And with you.” She shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve moved on from all of that, thank God.”
“With Cameron?” I feel my lips twitch, but then her eyes fill with tears, and I suddenly feel like a complete jerk. “Whoa, what happened with Cameron?”
“Nothing.” She wipes a tear. “It’s so dumb. And you keep changing the subject, which is really annoying. Tell me about the hot fighter.”
“I don’t know much about him,” I insist. “He’s from Seattle, has a kid, drives the most expensive car I’ve ever seen in person in my life, and kisses like the devil.”
“Wait. Back it up. You kissed him?”
“I wasn’t going to tell you that part, but you cried, and I needed to give you something to cheer you up.”
“You kissed him.”
“Actually, he kissed me. It was nice.”
“How nice?”
I frown.
“Was it nice enough to do it again?”
“He’s a client—”
“Oh, please.” Maggie rolls her eyes. “Don’t pull that on me. We all know you’re professional and blah blah blah. But are you going to do the hot guy?”
“You’re so romantic.”
She just watches me, waiting for an answer.
“He hasn’t asked me to do him.”
Still, Maggie watches without her face changing.
“He’s so…”—I wave my hand in the air—“cocky. I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You have three brothers, all of whom are cocky.”
“Not like this.”
My phone pings at my elbow, and I look down to see a text from Hunter.
Hunter: I found some other houses I’d like to see this weekend. I’m sending links.
Me: Sounds good.
“Is he flirting with you?”
“No, he’s just telling me that he found some other houses to look at.”
But my phone pings with another message.
Hunter: Let’s have lunch before we start on Thursday.
I grin but reply with: I can’t.
I set the phone aside and stare at my sister, who’s just watching me with smug green eyes.
“What?”
“You’d totally do him.”
My phone pings once more, and when I open the message, it’s a selfie of Hunter, pouting. Then another text comes through.
Hunter: Please?
I laugh and reply.
Me: Pouting doesn’t work on me. But I guess I can shift my calendar. You’re buying.
“Okay, let’s be honest here,” Maggie says. “You like him. You should see the dumb look on your face right now.”
“You’re so sweet, Mary Margaret.”
“I think it’s nice,” she insists. “But be careful with this one because he’s super famous and probably has a legion of girls he’s left behind.”
“He has a kid.”
She nods. “Yeah, I Googled him. Read the Wiki. She’s only fifteen. I mean, do you want to be a stepmom?”
“He’s literally only a client right now,” I remind us both. “No one has said a word about sex or being a damn stepmom. I might sell him a house, that’s it. End of discussion.”
“Except you kissed him.”
“Do I have to marry every man who kisses me? Because if so, I’d have to marry Clifford Buckley from the eighth grade.”
“And that would be unfortunate because poor Cliff doesn’t look so hot these days.”
“So, he has a fifteen-year-old daughter,” I murmur and sip my coffee. “I wonder what the story is there.”
Maggie looks like she’s about to spew a bunch of information, but I hold up my hand, stopping her.
“No. It’s none of my business. And if it ever becomes my business, I want to hear it from him. Okay?”
“Okay.” She props her chin on her hand. “When’s he coming back?”
