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Tucking my chin back, I say, “Not at all. I think it’s cool. That’s not what I meant?—”
“Well, you can take your famous life and go back to Miami for all I care.” At that, she marches toward the Treasure Chest.
“Their doughnuts aren’t very good,” I call.
Before she goes inside, a guy wearing sunglasses, baggy shorts, and a souvenir-style T-shirt stops her. It’s not Brando. It’s not one of my brothers. My hackles lift. I stalk over there in case it’s unwanted attention.
But she probably gets a lot of attention from all kinds of guys. I bet she’s dating someone back in Alabama right now. Someone who misses her, takes her on dates, and leaves her special treats like chocolate hearts and flowers.
Who am I kidding? She’s not a chocolates and flowers kind of woman. Or is she? Unfortunately, I don’t know. But it is a fact that Harley is hot.
No, no. She’s not hot. She’s Harley. I’ve been trying to convince myself of this for a couple of days now. The big stop sign is that Harley is my best friend’s cousin. We may as well be siblings. She’s off-limits. Forbidden. I repeat this in my mind like lines I’m supposed to memorize.
She’s not hot. She’s Harley.
But Harley is hot.
I scrub my hand down my face just before I reach Harley and the guy whose gaze on her confirms my case.
She and I agreed to a two-person game. However, she can still talk to other men. Or maybe she just turned the gameboard upside down because of the way the fans were acting. Perhaps it’s already over.
She won.
“Ryan? Ryan McGregor?” The guy, seemingly having forgotten about the total babe in front of him, extends his hand for a fist bump. “Remember me? Jeremy Mueller. We were in science together.”
I give him a fist bump but don’t remember who he is. “Oh, right. Nice to see you.”
“Can we get a selfie? Man, I’m a huge fan. Can’t believe you’re back here of all places. How’s Miami treating you?”
While he peppers me with questions, I step closer to Harley who all but fades into the stucco wall of the store with the way this guy just forgets about her.
Taking a risk that feels a lot bigger than Lally boarding a pirate ship, because there’s no telling how Harley will react, I slide my arm across her back.
“Oh, are you guys—?” Jeremy asks. “I didn’t mean anything. I just thought she was single because—” He glances at her hand.
She slides it behind her back. “I should go.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Wait. Are you guys, ya know, a thing? Because Harley, I’ll take your number if you’re?—”
“No,” I say.
“No?” they both repeat.
No, he can’t have her number or no we’re not together? The Romance Game was strictly for the cameras, for the fans. This is a dude from high school who I hardly remember. Where does the game begin and end? I search Harley’s face, hoping not to see thesame icy irritation I did moments ago when the female fans fawned over me.
“She’s looking for doughnuts,” I say as if that’s an answer to either of their questions.
We go into the store, and after browsing around for less than two minutes, Harley’s stormy body language tells me she’s still upset.
“Come on, I know where we can find doughnuts.”
“It’s not essential. We had pancakes earlier. My dad took—I mean he suggested doughnuts might be nice.”
“Two islands over. Dough Boy. Best doughnuts south of Miami.”
“You know this, how?” Eyes raking over me, she pauses on my abdominal area which is pure muscle. “I guess I’m not above bribery.”
