by Ellie Hall
He helped her settle into the spot and then his phone beeped again. He pushed the button to silence it, but it repeatedly vibrated in his pocket. It vibrated again when the server filled their glasses, brought salads, and the entire time Maggie prompted polite conversation and he replied with bravado.
When she excused herself to the ladies’ room, he glanced at the screen to see who was trying to get ahold of him. A vaguely familiar number blinked, sending an uncomfortable feeling slithering under his skin. When Maggie returned, he set his phone on the table.
Her eyes looked damp and her cheeks were slightly pink.
His phone jittered on the table along with his leg beneath it. He wondered about the call from back home. More importantly, why did she seem upset and suddenly quiet?
He took a sip of cold water as silence laced between them. He wondered if she was homesick, missing dinner with her boyfriend, or some other important event. “So before you called Florida home?” he asked.
“Home?” she repeated like he was speaking a foreign language.
Did the call earlier, a reminder of the place he grew up, cause his accent to come back? “Do you consider home here? Where you grew up? Somewhere else?”
Maggie lifted and lowered her shoulder slightly as though she didn’t want to talk about herself—quite a contrast to the women he usually spent time with.
“I’m not sure if home is Ireland, Boston, or someplace I haven’t been yet. I don’t mean where my house is. I have several of those. I mean where I feel like I can—” His phone buzzed again as though warning him not to say more. A place where he could leave the persona at the door and be himself with people, or a person, who wouldn’t judge him for his past or his mistakes.
She lifted one sharp eyebrow then jotted something down on a piece of paper in her file. “You’re quite attached to that thing, huh.” She angled her pen in the direction of his phone. “It’s impolite to put your phone on the table and even ruder to be on the thing during dinner.” Even though she was basically scolding him, he wanted to hear more of her voice.
“I can’t help that people are trying to get in touch with me.” He leaned back in his chair. He had to keep up his persona, play the part of Declan the showman, keep her at a distance, so he didn’t break the rules set forth in the playbook.
“You’re a popular guy, but the messages and calls will still be there in a little while when we’re done.” She picked up his phone and brought it to a table by the door and set it down.
“No fair,” he said, getting to his feet. “If my phone gets put in time out, yours has to go over there too.” He was mostly joking. Flirting? Nah, he didn’t need to flirt. He was Declan, Prince Charming to the Boston Bruiser’s pack of rough hooligan football players.
Her face crumbled for a split second. “But I haven’t been on my phone. I’m doing my job.” She stepped closer to him as though defying him to disagree.
“Technically speaking, I haven’t been on my phone either.” He hadn’t, but that didn’t keep it from going off every two seconds.
“But it’s been buzzing and beeping nonstop.” She pressed her lips together to form a thin line.
“Right, but I haven’t been using it.” He moved toward her purse. “It’s only fair that both of our phones go on the table.”
She made a noise of frustration, grabbed her bag, tugged out her phone, and slapped it down on the table. “Fine.”
They were staring at each other intently. His pulse picked up the pace. Then without breaking eye contact, as though they didn’t trust the other not to go grab their phone, they both stalked back to the dining table. He tucked his napkin into the collar of his shirt like a bib. He wanted more of her corrections.
Her eyes widened and she marked something in the file.
He also fiddled with the little arrangement of flowers between them, put his elbows on the table, and sucked his teeth a few times just to see what would happen.
She was impassive.
He was just having a little bit of fun because she seemed preoccupied since she’d returned from the bathroom as though having her phone out of her possession made her nervous. Or maybe that was a concern of his own, considering the number he’d seen on the caller ID. He didn’t want to be tethered to his device and sometimes felt like chucking the thing in the Charles River back in Boston, but he supposed it served its purpose with connecting him to opportunities and social media and possibly the past. Why had Mrs. O’Malley called? He’d find out later.
Their entrees arrived. “How am I doing so far?” he asked as he shoveled bites of potato into his mouth. By then, he was purely trying to get a rise out of her, anything other than the crisp quiet she seemed to have slid into after her trip to the lady’s room. He broke just about every table manner rule that he could think of.
She reviewed a list in her file. “So far, well enough,” she said, eyeing him carefully.
He didn’t mind that. Not one bit. She could look at him all day, which meant he could return the favor.
Or perhaps she was doing everything in her power not to get ruffled by his immature behavior. Maybe she was testing him. After all, she did say it was an evaluation. She’d given him a do-over, perhaps he’d be wise to heed it. Certainly, he didn’t want any of this to get back to Coach Hammer or the commissioner. He checked his watch.
“Have somewhere to be?” she asked.
He didn’t, but he also didn’t want the evening to end.
The server asked if they’d like dessert. Maggie quickly declined as though she was only tolerating the meal with him because it was her job. That was something he’d never encountered before with a woman and threw him off his game. Sure they’d exchanged the moment in the hall, but other than that she was as frosty as the snow on the tops of the Concordian mountains even in summer.
“Listen, I want to apologize again for the water earlier. That was immature of me.”
“Says the guy who clearly knows which utensils to use for the various parts of the meal, but repeatedly talks with his mouth full, slurps his drink, and has been waving his fork around while talking like he’s conducting a symphony.”
“A symphony of delicious flavors,” he said with a smirk.
Her nostrils flared.
“So you noticed.”
“Are you purposefully making this difficult?”
He leaned back in his chair and his smirk deepened. “Difficult? Well, it was becoming cumbersome to think of ways that I could annoy you.”
“Why would you want to annoy me?”
The real answer was so he didn’t let the fact that he might truly enjoy spending time with her distract him from satisfying Hammer and Starky. The lie was what came from his lips. “Because this is ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to suffer through etiquette lessons. I’m a grown man. We pranked the rookie. So what.”
“So what? There are consequences to your actions.” She looked him up and down.
He had on one of his more obnoxious outfits, courtesy of one of the many designers who sent him clothing to wear in public so their garments could be seen, and essentially advertised, by the famous athlete. His suit jacket and pants were white, his suspenders black, and the shirt was bright yellow with a red bird design. The stylist who outfitted him before he’d left Boston said it brought out the warm tones in his hair. It was ridiculous and he only wore it because, well, he wanted to know if Maggie would be impressed by the designer label and comment on his clothes. Plenty of women did, wanting nothing more than to get the latest fashions for themselves through him. Or was she the kind of girl who could care less about the latest styles and trends? He had a feeling he knew. How a person treated him, depending on whether they wanted something from him or not, said a lot about them. Maggie seemed only to want to get him to behave. After his Aunt Sheila had pulled him from the gutters of Dublin, she’d taught him manners and more, but he’d forgotten them in favor of fame.
“We’re going to have to work on these things
until you can demonstrate that you know how to behave yourself in good company.”
“Are you good company?” he asked, but he knew the answer. Yes, she was.
A sudden, but adorable growl came from her throat.
Playbook, playbook, playbook he repeated the reminder in his head. He had to walk the tight rope between flirting and falling...
“Pretty much everything you did at this meal was what not to do. We’re going to have to review until you learn the skills and you get it right. Whether it’s eating, drinking, or talking you have to pace yourself at meals so your dining companions feel welcome and at ease.”
He rocked back in his chair and his eyes slid over her.
She must’ve taken it as a disagreement. “Declan, you’re stuck with me for the next month whether you like it or not.”
“I like it.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and tossed it on the table. If he stayed there a second longer, he’d say something that would get him kicked off the team. Not that it was the worst possible thing to happen. No, he’d already experienced the worst possible thing. But he wouldn’t jeopardize the other guys no matter that the girl with the strands of sunset in her hair and sunrise sparkling in her eyes had woken something up in him he thought had all but died.
As he exited, he grabbed his phone and then glanced over his shoulder, snatching one more look at Maggie who clear out of the blue-lit a fire inside him with her glowing skin, shiny hair, and a smile that was like a gift.
He strode down the hall in the manor once owned by the royal family of Concordia, across the polished marble floor, past the lace curtains, and the gilded frames. When he was a boy, never once did he think he’d make it among the rich and elite. He grew up poor and it was always a gambit to get a dollar, a meal sometimes, and clothes that would keep him from getting the snot kicked out of him.
Somehow, he’d found his way. Still, he’d never get used to the extravagance and never tire of it either. He’d quickly become accustomed to the finer things: several luxury cars to his name, big boy toys, a mansion in Los Angeles where the team practiced in the offseason, and even a place back home he hadn’t seen since he bought it with his first paycheck. He vowed to return to Dublin someday, but not until Aunt Sheila needed him.
Back in his room, several newspapers were arrayed on the table. One with the headline Full moon over Boston caught his eye. He chuckled. Seemed the news was a little late making its way to Concordia. Then he realized the paper was from Ireland. Perhaps his manager or someone on his team had sent the paper over. He didn’t mind the press even though they routinely accused him of being a peacock, always preening and posing for the cameras. He liked the attention. Though he never intended the prank on the rookie to turn into a scandal.
Over the years, he and the team had participated in publicity stunts, bar brawls, and pranks—the Boston Bruisers had a reputation to uphold as being the meanest and toughest team in the league. Of all the things though, the mooning had to get photographed and splashed all over the news? It went viral. He wondered who’d captured the moment. One of the officials? The commissioner himself?
During dinner, Declan glimpsed calls and messages from his agent, publicist, and a few updates from the guys talking about their new “coaches.” Then there was one from the foreign number. The one he recognized but didn’t want to think about. Why had Mrs. O’Malley called?
As a boy, he’d been bullied but quickly toughened up. Fell in love and just as quickly lost it. After that, he found himself in heaps of trouble—fighting and thefts mostly. He was sent to the United States to live with Aunt Sheila. He tried to push the memories away as he’d always done. But curiosity won. He pulled out his phone and clicked it on.
The lock screen was of a puppy and not of him pumping the air after the team had won the Superbowl. The latest message was from Dad. He’d never met his father.
He realized that he had Maggie’s phone.
Chapter 5
Maggie
Dinner had been a disaster. Not because Declan was utterly frustrating. But because Maggie’s father had finally responded to the messages that she’d left letting her parents know she’d moved out of the country. He’d sent a thumbs up. That was all. No inquiry about why or where. No hey, how’s it going, kid? She knew better. Her mother and father had never been the cookies and milk kinds of parents. Still, it stung. They’d ignored her, going back as long as she could remember.
However, Declan did not ignore her. He seemed to be going out of his way to get under her skin. It was clear he knew how to conduct himself at a dinner table even if he was the kind of guy who made a splash when he entered a room—pun not intended.
Her first impression of him was of a fame monger.
Her second impression of him was of a prankster.
Her third impression was of a guy who had no regard for other people’s time and zero consideration for table manners.
But that wasn’t the whole story. She saw there was more to Declan by the honesty in his eyes when she’d returned from the bathroom.
When Declan had strode into the dining room with his annoying phone cheering for him as though everyone should applaud his existence, she’d glimpsed the message from her father. However, she didn’t have a chance to read the text. As the evening wore on, she could no longer stand not knowing what her father had to say so she went to the bathroom to check the message. She shouldn’t have bothered. He didn’t care. She shouldn’t have cared either. But her parents’ disregard hurt. For once, she’d have liked them to applaud when she entered a room or at least acknowledge her existence at all.
Maggie’s thoughts whirred as she freshened up for bed, put on a face mask—flying always did a number on her skin—and then slipped between the crisp sheets of the single bed.
Thinking of the little girl in the airport, she wondered who she would’ve grown up to be had her parents paid her attention instead of leaving her with nannies or alone, which was also common.
Maybe it was time for her to let the hope go that her parents cared and be her own cheerleader. It struck her as ironic that her latest job was as a lifestyle coach. The etiquette school was for dignitaries, high powered business people, the aristocracy, and apparently football players who needed to learn how to behave themselves. But perhaps she could coach herself to have more confidence, to feel stronger, better, and to get her life figured out. The second the thought cleared her mind and infused her with renewed energy, a loud cheering sound came from her purse across the room.
She startled and wondered if it was a sign. Then realized, no. It wasn’t a sign at all, but a mistake.
Declan must have grabbed her phone on the way out of the dining room earlier. She hadn’t noticed because the look Declan gave her when she’d returned from the lady’s room woke up something inside of her, interest. The way he’d teased and flirted and charmed drew her in. Then the look he’d given her on his way out of the dining room sent a flurry of Cinderella’s bluebirds aloft in her belly. With excitement, they swirled and dipped. But she knew it was fruitless because he was a tease, a flirt, and a charmer. He was probably like that with everyone. She wasn’t special. She knew that.
Still, she got out of bed and grabbed the phone, trying to silence it. It buzzed and vibrated in her hand. There were messages from women with names like Tess, Kate, and Candi. A few from guys whose names she recognized from the moon-gate article and one from her number. Declan must have her phone.
She plopped on the bed.
The message simply said, Heyyy. What are you doing?
Exhausted after the long day, she wrote Lying in bed with a face mask on. She wished she could unsend it. That was something she’d tell Haleigh and not the guy she was coaching. As if it hadn’t happened, she got right to the point. Am I correct in assuming we accidentally swapped phones?
He wrote back, I don’t believe in accidents.
I think you mean coincidences.
The speech bubble blinked for a
moment. Actually, I think everything happens for a reason.
In that case, explain the reason you mooned a bunch of people.
He replied with three laughing face emojis.
For laughs? she wrote.
What’s life without laughter? he asked.
With the phone in hand, she dropped back onto the bed, but her feet remained on the floor. She could hardly remember the last time she’d laughed. Maybe when she and Haleigh had watched a rom-com? Maybe when she saw a funny meme?
What’s life without laughter? she wrote back. My life. She wasn’t sure where the honesty came from or why, but it seemed easier to write the truth from behind the safety of the phone screen. She instantly regretted it. She didn’t need Declan knowing that her life was one sad and pathetic series of events after another.
The thought made her heart sink because it was true and Declan was right. What was life without laughter? Plenty of people laughed at her when she’d fallen into the fountain, but she didn’t mean laughter at the expense of other people, but real, true laughter from her belly. The bluebirds were still there, twittering around, but perhaps a round of gut-busting laughter was needed.
Declan answered, In that case, I intend to do something about that.
She didn’t need the guy she was coaching to try to make her laugh. Especially not if he thought mooning people and water guns were hilarious.
Lessons in etiquette required seriousness, focus, and not a big football-playing-clown to try to get under her skin or get her to crack a smile. Although he’d already accomplished one of those things. During dinner it was like he was doing everything in his power to defy the rules of the table—chewing with his mouth open, rocking back in his chair, chewing the ice in his drink, and so on. She groaned inwardly.
You still there? he wrote on her phone.
I’m trying to think of a way to make you rethink that. No, actually, I insist you not try to get me to laugh. It’s completely unprofessional. She wanted to say more, but his reply came fast.
