Crazy About Love: An All About Love Novel

by Cassie Mae

  “Sorry, didn’t expect company.” I scratched the back of my head to try to hide the blush I’m sure was making my ears red. I wasn’t exactly singing on key.

  “But you sounded so good.” Lizzie plopped herself down on the edge of our unusually clean coffee table (really, that should’ve tipped me off that we’d be having guests, since Landon had sprayed the entire place with Febreze and wiped it down), and Landon laughed and gave her a look like he’d never before seen such a beautiful girl. My stomach jerked with surprise. I remember that perfectly. Because Landon had described his girlfriend as a goddess, I was expecting Aphrodite herself when I finally met Lizzie. And yeah, Lizzie is beautiful: blond hair and sweet eyes and a very young face (granted, she was eighteen at the time). But when they all walked in, I immediately thought Theresa was this goddess girlfriend. I saw these amazing wide, fiery eyes, long and unruly cherry Coke hair, and curves that just about gave me a heart attack where I stood. And she was smiling this crooked, amused smile that sent goose bumps up and down my arms. Ten thousand pounds of bro-code guilt was consuming me until I saw the look Landon was directing toward Lizzie, and suddenly I was a fumbling all-out mess because there was a possibility that this gorgeous girl was available.

  “I…um…I don’t quite know the notes yet, so it’s just…” My eyes followed Theresa as she crossed the room, sat behind the keyboard we had set up in the corner, and placed her fingers on the keys. “A work in progress,” I finished weakly.

  “The Scarlet Pimpernel, right?” she asked, and before I could nod she started playing the notes without music.

  Landon sat down next to Lizzie, held her hand, and played with her knuckles while she waited for me to sing. They were all waiting. Yet I was captivated by the girl playing the piano.

  “Tell me something no one else knows,” Rian says, pulling me out of yet another daydream.

  “I can’t.” I shake my head at the cracked sidewalk. “There’s one person who knows everything already.”

  “Everything?”

  “I think so.”

  She slumps against the crumbling brick of the building, crossing her arms and eyeing Jackson as he loosens the lug nuts. I want to punch myself in the face for being such a dud. Tonight was supposed to be about moving on, but all I’ve done is just moved around like a dog on a leash—going with her here and there and half-assing our conversation, daydreaming and moping—and I’m not going to do that anymore. She spent money on my sorry ass, and not only that, she’s not exactly a boring girl. She was so real up there on the roof.

  “I can’t whistle.”

  Her eyes flick to mine. “Really?”

  I put my lips together and blow. Nothing. Like always.

  “Aww,” she says with a laugh, leaning up from the wall. “That’s so sad.”

  “Only time it hurt me was during a play. They had to have someone whistle from backstage.”

  She stifles her laughter, and Jackson drops the tire iron, drawing our attention to him again for a split second.

  “I’d try putting your lips closer together.”

  “Any closer and I’ll be imitating a fish.”

  She rolls her eyes and puts her hand on my face. “Like this,” she says, squishing my lips together with her thumb and forefinger. Laughter barrels up from my gut, the first time I’ve felt it come from there tonight.

  “Don’t smile!” she scolds, squishing my lips with more pressure. Once I’ve controlled most of my laughter she says, “Now blow.”

  “Pbbsthhh.”

  Her eyelids shut instantly, and she slowly lifts her shoulder to wipe the spray from her face. We’re both laughing now, and it feels good and natural and I’m thinking finally and maybe and this could be the start of something when Jackson drops the tire iron again, so loud this time that it clangs and echoes and takes us out of our moment.

  “You sure you don’t need help, man?” I ask him. He shoots me a sour look over his shoulder and shakes his head.

  “I got it. Might take me a minute, but I got it.”

  His eyes move to Rian and undeniably soften. She bites her lip and grasps my wrist.

  “Feel like walking for a bit?”

  Jackson straightens up, clutching the tire iron in his hand and using his leg to balance the tire itself. “It won’t take long,” he protests, then raises his voice as if he’s shouting to someone across the street. “I think you should stay here.”

  Rian’s grip slips on my wrist. “We’ll be fine.”

  “It’s late,” he argues, flicking his gaze to me for the briefest of seconds. “You probably shouldn’t wander without me or TJ to keep the crazies off you.”

  Rian grins up at me. “I think I’ll be safe with Alec around. He did take a basketball to the face for me.”

  I chuckle, but it’s quickly chased away when Jackson says, “Yeah, I thought I heard some screaming up there.” He nods at my nose and smirks. “Must’ve hurt like a bitch.”

  “Oh, that scream was me trying to catch the kid who threw it,” Rian says before I can say anything. Not that I would. Doesn’t seem worth it to get into a fight with someone I barely know over someone else I barely know. Rian’s hand drops from my wrist into my palm and she drags me to the limo. Jackson’s eyes widen a bit as she ducks inside and fumbles around for our jackets.

  “Keep your phone on,” she tells Jackson as she hip-checks the door shut. “I’ll call if we need you.”

  “I really don’t think you should—”

  “I said I’ll call.”

  The look they share is like that of two bulls in a standoff, and though Jackson has about sixty-plus pounds and a little over half a foot on her, Rian knows how to stand her own. After a few uncomfortable beats, Jackson huffs, his breath fogging the air, and then bends down to continue fixing the flat. Rian snags my hand again once we’ve got our jackets on and tugs me down the sidewalk.

  “Is he okay here alone?” I say just loud enough to be a dick and make sure Jackson hears.

  He lets out a hollow laugh as we pass, and the second Rian’s not looking he gives me the universal “up yours” gesture.

  Once we round the corner, Rian drops my hand. She absentmindedly plays with the chain ring she has on her thumb and forefinger, and I notice her eyes moving over her shoulder a bit more than usual. I nearly tuck an arm around her shoulder in case she really is worried about walking around this late, but the second I finally do decide to make the gesture, she shakes her head and laughs at the ground, looping her arm through mine to keep warm. I can still feel her toying with that ring.

  We walk mostly in silence. Damn silence. I start humming under my breath, and she pretends to turn up the volume on me so that I sing louder. But it just mostly makes me laugh and completely miss the upcoming note.

  Rian suggests Central Park as our next stop, but I turn her around. She’s not giving up on this evening, and so neither am I. And it’s only fair that after she exposed so much of who she is underneath the fame and the eccentric appearance, I reciprocate.

  “I thought this night was ladies’ choice,” she teases as I get us a cab.

  “You’ve struck out so far.” I grin as I open the door for her. “Time to let me take the reins.”

  Her teeth nip her bottom lip. “Lots of people love Central Park.”

  “True,” I say, sliding in next to her and shutting us in the warm taxi. She’s finally stopped playing with her ring. “But I’m more of a bright-lights kind of guy.”

  13 MONTHS, 20 DAYS AGO: 6:17 P.M.

  I blow out a breath, tucking the wrapped box in my coat. I hear Landon shuffling around my kitchen, searching for beer. Things have been tight moneywise for him and Lizzie, and he wanted a six-pack in the fridge for his future father-in-law. (He’d never ask for it, so I offered.)

  “You sure you don’t want to stop by?” he calls from the depths of my refrigerator. I make sure there’s no wrapping or ribbon poking out of my pocket.

  “As fun as that sounds, I thin
k I’m going to steer clear of your parents until the wedding.” You know what’s even less fun than arguing with my parents on Christmas? Watching Landon’s mom insult everything in their apartment. I’ve bit my tongue for twenty-plus years. Not much more restraint left in me.

  “I wish I had that option,” Landon says, setting the six-pack on the counter and kicking the fridge door shut. He eyes one like he’s ready to crack it open now.

  A knock comes at the door, and Theresa pops her head in without waiting for me to answer.

  “Oh, good, you’re ready,” she says, smiling at my out-the-door apparel. She’s bundled up in a bright blue coat, white earmuffs, and a fluffy scarf. Her nose is stained red from the bite in the December air, and she’s got a giant box full of gifts tucked under her arm. I immediately reach for it so she doesn’t have to carry the thing back downstairs.

  “Lock up when you leave?” I ask Landon, and he nods, waving us out the door. I’m not sure if it’s the wedding nerves or just the fact that his parents and the future in-laws are at his place right now, but he’s seemed a bit off lately. I pause before closing the door and say, “If shit hits the fan, kidnap Lizzie and head to Grandma Carver’s to be with us.”

  That gets him to crack a grin. “Thanks.”

  “Merry Christmas, party pooper!” Theresa shouts before I shut the door and adjust the giant box, not-so-subtly looking for the one with my name on it.

  “No peeking,” Theresa scolds me, opening the door to the stairwell.

  “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “Sure you weren’t.” She jumps the last step on the set of stairs we’re on, then starts on the next set. It’s been nearly four months since the drunken kisses, and it’s taken this long to get us back to this—friends. I barely even feel anything more than friendship when I’m with her. Barely, but I still feel it; I shove it away every time my head starts getting crazy ideas.

  We take it slow when we hit the parking lot since it’s basically an ice rink out here. She slips twice, I slip once. Neither of us falls, but we laugh at each other.

  “Keys,” she says after I pop the trunk on my car. I hold them out to her, and she jumps in the passenger side while I stuff the presents in back. The exhaust smoke blows up into my face when she starts the ignition, and I hear the scary wheeze of my heater turned on high. It’s been making this weird knocking sound for a good few months, but I haven’t taken it in yet. Safety and emissions inspection isn’t until May, so I’ve been using the good ol’ procrastinator’s motto.

  “I hope Jace’s grandma’s house is warm,” Theresa says as I slip behind the wheel. She’s rubbing her mittened hands in front of the heater, which isn’t exactly hot yet. The frost on the window hasn’t melted, so I keep the car in park.

  “If Jace got the fire going,” I say, “but there’s a good chance that he hasn’t.”

  She lets out a laugh, her breath fogging in front of her. My arm twitches, like it wants to wrap around her and hold her till she’s warm, but I push back the impulse.

  Ten minutes later I’m on the highway, dragging ass so I don’t spin out. It’s not exactly storming, but there’s a light snowfall and the roads are all ice.

  “Come on, Grandpa,” Theresa says, nudging my arm. “I’m starving and I want to open presents.”

  “I’m going the speed limit.”

  “Exactly.” She throws her head back, and I laugh at her. “Step on it.”

  “And crash.”

  “Into what? There’s no one out here.”

  “The railing. A pole. Fly off the overpass.”

  “I will start calling you names until you drive like a normal person in their twenties.”

  I push on the gas a little, making the red needle in the speedometer go up one notch. “Better?”

  “Four more miles per hour and I will be satisfied.”

  I laugh and get up there, but as soon as she’s not looking I slow it back down. She gives me a teasing glare but doesn’t backseat-drive anymore.

  Jace’s grandma lives in the bottom part of a duplex. It’s a small place, and I know Jace wants to get her something else, but she’s always telling him it’s just her and he doesn’t have to worry. But I get his concern, since the people who live above her always have sketchy guests and there’s a distinct smell of marijuana every so often. Luckily today, all I smell when I pull up is whatever Grandma Carver has cooking in her oven. Both Theresa and I let out synchronized Homer Simpson drool sounds. Of course, I have to ignore the extra thumps of my heart.

  “Hold up,” she calls when I start up the walk, arms full of presents. I shift them and wait for her to get to where I’m standing. The cold has painted her already crimson cheeks a shade darker. “We’ve been doing good, right?”

  I adjust the gifts again. “What do you mean?”

  “You and me.” She offers up a smile, and a piece of her curled auburn hair falls in front of her eye. “We’re really good now, and I just wanted to…well, let you know that I really appreciate that. After the engagement party I thought…” She drifts off, dropping her gaze down to her snow-dusted black boots. Of all the moments we’ve shared since we met, I think that’s the night she regrets the most. It’s the one night she wants a do-over for. It’s also the one night I replay in my mind on a loop so that I don’t forget just how lost she is, and I don’t forget that I’m a lot stronger than I ever thought I was.

  One of the top boxes in my arms starts to wiggle loose, and she hurries to catch it. Her hand hits my face a little too hard, and we laugh the conversation away. I think it goes without saying that I think things are good between us now too.

  Jace’s grandmother opens the door mere seconds after Theresa rings the bell. She must’ve been waiting on the other side.

  “Alec, thank the Lord you’re here. There’s a fire to be started, and Jace is proving to be useless when it comes to conjuring a flame.”

  “I heard that, traitor!” Jace calls from inside, and once Theresa has unloaded the presents from my arms I’m able to take the petite, elderly woman into my arms for a hug. Her short, curled hair tickles my five o’clock shadow, and she smells strongly of pumpkin spice. It reminds me of home in Pennsylvania, which gives me feelings of nausea and nostalgia in equal measure.

  “You’re putting on some muscle here, aren’t you?” she says, patting my arm as she pulls away.

  “You’re being kind,” I answer with a grin, reaching for Theresa to help her out of her coat. The warmth on the material from her body heat sends an unexpected jolt through my stomach. It’s an uncontrollable reaction I get from time to time; I’ve just learned to deal with it. I have trained myself to believe that it is all because she is one of my closest friends, and that the response could very well happen with anyone. I’m just in her company the most often, especially lately.

  After hanging up our coats and rolling up my sleeves, I relieve Jace from his pathetic attempts at starting a fire and get embers going in less than a minute. Boy Scouts; I don’t advertise it, but it sure comes in handy.

  Theresa and Jace are poking around the tree, trying to find the one lightbulb that’s made the entire strand black out. Grandma Carver clinks something in the kitchen, reminding me of last year when Theresa passed me a full plate of turkey and let go before I had a good hold on it. The dish crashed to the floor, and Theresa and Lizzie scurried to pick up as many pieces as they could within the ten-second-rule timeline.

  “Found it!” Theresa shouts, holding up a bulb between her delicate fingers. Jace hands her a replacement light, and I watch, a bit mesmerized by the care she takes and her victorious smile when the strand glows to life, lighting her Christmas-sparked features.

  Before I become all too enamored with my best friend again, I quickly look at Jace, who is currently trying (and failing) to get the window clings to stick. I give him props for endurance, because I’d have given up after the third or fourth snowflake fell to the floor.

  Grandma Carver shuffles in, cla
pping her hands at the fire and the tree. “Ah, it’s perfect,” she says.

  “I can’t get these damn things on,” Jace says with a laugh. He pounds the Santa against the glass, only to have it unstick and fall to his feet seconds later.

  Grandma Carver waves a hand at him. “Don’t mess with those silly things. And language, dear.”

  “Like you give a sh—” He stops guiltily at his grandma’s stern look. “Uh…hoot about language.”

  “On our good Lord’s birthday I do.” She reaches around to untie her frilly apron. “So, presents or food first?”

  Jace says presents, I say food, and Theresa pushes up off her knees, that smile still spread wide on her lips, and says, “Both.” Since Grandma Carver is the deciding vote, she goes with food first. I’ve always liked her.

  I pick a spot next to Theresa, on purpose because sitting across from her is too distracting, but also because we pick off each other’s plates. Yeah, we’re all eating the same thing tonight, but we figure our two plates equal one giant one, so we can get one of everything in a single go. Our arms bump and our forks dance around each other, and Jace eats like this isn’t going on, mostly because he’s used to it by now. Grandma Carver, however, watches us with fascination.

  Theresa and Jace are too excited about ripping into the wrapping paper to let us clean up first, so we leave the empty dishes and pull our full bellies into the living room. The present I stuffed into my coat pocket is still there, and I consider retrieving it, but I think I’d rather give that one in private. Too many misconceptions are at risk in front of an audience.

  Grandma Carver sits in her modern high-backed chair, sipping on her apple cider, grinning at the gift Jace enthusiastically sets on her lap. Most of the presents under the tree are from “Santa,” with the exception of the special ones we got for each other. There are several crocheted wonders from Grandma C., including a beard that I open with a hearty laugh and put on for about half the night until Theresa steals it. I have been cursed with a very light facial hair growth, so the red yarn actually matches her more than it does me. The pictures go up on Instagram almost immediately.