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“Yeah, I’ll come, but first, you’re painting your fucking nails. Why’d you take that shit off?”
“Because…” his voice trails off, and I grab onto his hand and pull him into the bathroom, roughly grabbing a drawer and yanking it opening. The glass bottles rattle and clink inside, and I pull out a color that will match his shirt.
“If you don’t put this on, I’ll do it. And it’ll be a shit job. Don’t make me.”
Maggie laughs on a small sob and grabs the bottle from me. “Okay.”
He swipes at his damp eyes and meets my gaze, and I brush a hand over his cheek.
“Don’t let anyone make you feel small.”
“It’s hard.”
“Then I’m glad I’ll be there. I won’t let them say shit to you,” I tell him as he uncaps the nail polish and begins to paint his nails.
“Okay,” he says softly, and I can’t help myself. I rub my thumb across his pouty mouth, causing his breath to hitch.
I reluctantly pull my hand away, my fingers on fire. I lean against the wall and watch, his lip between his teeth as he finishes up his nails. Then he blows on them, and those hazel eyes meet mine.
“We should go. My dad hates it when I’m late. He’s going to be upset.”
“Let him,” I say firmly and place my hand on the small of his back as we walk out of his apartment and down to the carport. He’s shaking slightly, and I have to ball my hands into fists to resist picking him up and carrying him back inside. I’d keep him safe. I’d never let anyone hurt him.
“I’m right here,” he says. Parked in his numbered space is a micromachine. What did I expect, though? He’s pint-sized.
“This is a roller skate,” I grumble, my eyes taking in the bright blue car. “I won’t fit in it.”
Maggie looks at me and then back at his car and giggles. “Oh my god,” he says as his laugh becomes a full-on wheeze.
“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter, but my lips twitch into a small smile. I’m damn pleased with myself for making him laugh when just seconds earlier, he was trembling.
“Okay, yeah. Sorry. That’s just…the idea of you folding yourself inside is too good.”
He presses a hand to his stomach and bends over, tears tracking down his cheeks as he laughs.
I just stand there and watch because those sounds he’s making are causing my heart flutter uncomfortably in my chest.
Maggie clears his throat after a few more moments and then straightens, swiping at his cheeks. “Okay, I’m really sorry. I’m done. Promise. That was just…God, that was good. Felt good to laugh.” He locks his car and then steps toward me. “Where’s your car? You can drive. Does that work?”
Those eyes fucking twinkle when he looks up at me, and I can’t help it. I just can’t fucking resist. I walk over and pick him up, carrying him across the lot to my truck. People stare, but I couldn’t give two shits. Let them look. And Maggie doesn’t complain, doesn’t smack me to put him down. He just buries his face into my neck and holds on.
No wonder Whit’s always looking so content when Caleb does this to him. It’s amazing.
With one hand, I unlock the door and yank it open with a loud creak.
“In you go,” I say and set him down gently before buckling him in. I hop into the driver’s seat and turn the key. The engine roars to life. I let it idle for a moment and then put the car in reverse.
“Thank you,” Maggie says softly. He looks so tiny in the large cab, and I clench onto the steering wheel with both my hands. Because if I don’t, I’m going to pull him over to me and do something crazy, like hold his hand. Considering everything we’ve done already, that shouldn’t be a big deal, but it is.It feels like a very big deal.
We make it to the restaurant in fifteen minutes because I drive a lot slower than I should. His dad and brother can fucking wait. I already don’t like them, and I haven’t even met them. They sound like bullies and overall dickheads.
But when I see them, the way their eyes widen at the mere sight of Maggie, the disapproval lining their gazes, I really fucking hate them.
Making him feel less than makes me want to commit murder.
I stand tall, squaring my shoulders, and move behind Maggie, narrowing my gaze at his dad and older brother. I can see the resemblance, even if Maggie is much shorter than both of them. They both have the same hazel eyes and the same narrow build. But his dad and brother are much more masculine in almost every way. I’m glad Maggie isn’t like them. I want him just the way he is.
“Magnus, son, glad you could meet. It’s been a while,” his dad says as he clears his throat, leans over, and slaps him roughly on the back.
