by Lila Monroe
“They’ve got the best fries in town,” I offer. And I’m blocking his way to the door. Get it together, Mags! “I— Well, good luck with the deal.”
I scoot to the left to try to give them room to pass, but Drew has the exact same idea at the exact same moment. And then corrects to the right at the exact same time. The heat in my cheeks flushes deeper. Drew just chuckles.
“Lovely dancing with you.” He touches my shoulder, a solid warmth that sparks right through my shirt. My heart flutters.
“Sorry.”
“Not at all. We should do that again sometime, if you’re up for it?” He winks, and I think I hear Lulu smothering a giggle. At least I’m not falling down drunk or covered in cake this time? I should probably get out of here before either of those things happens.
“Sure,” I say abruptly. “We’ve got to get going. Have a great lunch!”
Oh, God, now I don’t sound like a teeny-bopper, I sound like my mom. It is definitely time to get out of here. I’m pushing thirty, not fifteen. But some part of my brain just melts when he’s smiling at me like that … and it doesn’t help that I already know exactly what it feels like to wake up in his bed, if not with him in it beside me.
Lulu grabs my elbow as I hurry down the street. “What was that about?” she demands.
“What? Nothing.”
“No, no. You’re flustered. I hardly ever see you like this. Maggie’s got a crush! And good taste, too.”
I do not need this from my little sister right now. “I’m just embarrassed,” I say. “We went out for drinks, and I … got a lot drunker than I really should have. It wasn’t pretty.”
“Right,” Lulu says. “And I’m sure you made things so much better by running away in terror.”
“Lulu!”
She yanks me to a halt when we reach the corner. “Maggie,” she says, mimicking the no-nonsense tone I was attempting, “he was so into you. Seriously.”
He—what? I raise my eyebrow at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you kidding me? It was obvious. He lit up like a glow stick the moment he saw you. He probably would have asked you out if you’d stuck around for five more seconds. He was dropping hints like crazy, that’s for sure.”
Lulu can be a little … how should I put it? Man-crazy. But she is usually pretty good at telling which men are taking the bait. Now that I’ve let myself stop and think about it, Drew was totally friendly. And charming. And mentioning the idea of us getting together in some way repeatedly.
And hot. Always hot. Let’s not forget that part.
Maybe I’ve been looking at this all wrong. Yeah, I got shitfaced drunk in front of him, after getting cock-cake-faced before that. But he tucked me into bed and made me breakfast the next morning. That’s not the kind of thing a guy generally does for some chick he’s eager to see out the door, is it?
I can’t believe I’m asking my little sister for advice, but … despite being seven years younger than me, she’s racked up at least twice as many notches on her bedpost. “So what do I do about it?”
“Well, for one, you do something about it,” she says. “No sitting around trying to plan it out perfectly before you make the slightest move. A guy like that isn’t going to be available forever. Have you at least got his phone number?”
“No.” I pause. “But I do know where he lives …”
A recipe for “I’m sorry I got blackout drunk and stole your bed” cupcakes: Super-sweet white chocolate base, as pale as those silky sheets. Three splashes of vodka, because hey, those shots did taste good going down. Caramel icing with a dusting of salt—not actually from apologetic tears.
No nipples or dicks on these ones. Apology cupcakes are serious business. Even if maybe I’m hoping to get some real naked action out of this delivery.
No one answers when I buzz Drew’s apartment, but it is Thursday afternoon. He mentioned he had a new act he’d been busy with, so I try the studio downstairs. Drew’s voice crackles through the intercom. “Yeah?”
“Hi,” I say, holding tight to my nerve. “It’s Maggie. I brought cupcakes.”
His tone shifts with a warmth I can hear even through the speaker. “Well, you’d better come down then.”
I hold the box carefully as I head down the stairs to the basement. I spent an hour on that icing—I’m not messing it up before the object of my apology gets a look. Drew opens the door for me when I reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Hey,” he says, with that easy smile that just on its own gets my heart thumping twice as fast. “I’ve got an artist in, but we can break for snacks. Especially your snacks.”
The studio is all black-paneled walls and track lighting. Past an immense console with so many buttons and switches I’d get a headache looking at it, there’s a lounge area with a couple of leather couches and an ebony coffee table. Drew motions toward the window over the console, and I set the box of cupcakes on the coffee table.
“I figured you deserved a proper thank you for taking care of me the other night,” I say. “I swear I’m not usually hitting the liquor that hard … outside of my baking, anyway. It was just a bad time.”
“It’s okay,” Drew says. “I get it. And believe me, I’m not anyone to preach to anyone else about strict moderation.” His smile turns mischievous, with a dimple in his cheek I have the sudden urge to lick—
“What’s up, bro?”
A kid steps out of the studio, shaggy-haired and long-limbed, slouching to make up for his height in baggy jeans and a faded Super Mario tee. Drew claps a hand to the kid’s shoulder.
“This is Cameron Rivers, soon to be the biggest new pop-punk artist on the scene. Cameron, Maggie Hayes, the best baker of cakes on the planet.”
“That might be overstating things just slightly,” I say, but I can’t help smiling at the compliment.
Cameron looks me up and down with an inscrutable teenage expression, but he must like what he sees, because he plants himself on the couch right next to me when we all sit down. He leans back all casual, his arm on the back of the cushion. “So you’re a Philly girl, then?”
“You could say that.”
Drew lifts one of the cupcakes straight to his mouth for a bite. He closes his eyes as he chews, and it’s like something out of a Häagen-Dazs commercial.
Damn, the man is sexy.
“I guess I’d better try one, then.” Cameron grabs one. “Wow. That’s what I’m talking about. So what other skills does a girl like you have?”
Wait—is he flirting with me? I smother a giggle. The kid’s got to be at least ten years younger than I am. But obviously not short on confidence.
“Mostly just the baking,” I say, managing not to laugh.
“Aw, come on.” He gives me another, even more obvious once-over. “I wouldn’t sell you short.”
From the glint in Drew’s eye, I suspect he’s suppressing amusement too. “Hey, Cameron,” he says. “Why don’t you grab that album art we were looking at earlier so you can show Maggie?”
The boy is off the couch like a bolt. I shake my head as he disappears down the hall. “My cakes bring all the boys in the yard? Oh my God. How old is he, even?”
Drew chuckles. “Eighteen, going on twenty-five. At least, he thinks so. But hey, you can’t blame him for appreciating quality when he sees it.”
If Drew is appreciating me like that, that’s all I care about. Hard to believe that when I first started crushing on him, he was the same age as Cameron there. That fresh-faced teen idol has sure grown up fine.
“So is working with these guys a chance to relive your glory days?” I ask. “It must bring back a lot of memories.”
“Oh, yeah. Except, you know, this kid’s actually got talent,” he says, self-deprecating. “You know, I was actually planning on getting a hold of you. It’s my godson’s birthday this weekend. And I figure if we get you making the cake, it’ll go down in history. Can you do alcohol-free?”
“Not a problem,” I say. �
�Happy to whip something up, on the house.”
“Oh, no. I’ve already benefitted from your generosity.” He tips his half-eaten cupcake to me. “You’ll be fully compensated. And maybe we can grab a little grown-up time afterward?”
Something about the way his voice dips in that last sentence leaves me tingling with the thought of all the non-monetary ways I wouldn’t mind being compensated by Drew Delaney. I might even have said that out loud, if Cameron hadn’t bounded back into the lounge just then.
“I’ll pick you up on Saturday at three,” he says, with just enough promise in his voice that I can’t wait for the week to be over.
“Sounds good,” I say, and make a break for the door before Cameron can put his adolescent moves on me again. “See you then!”
6
Maggie
Decisions, decisions: What can I wear that’s slutty enough to say, “We could totally get it on if you’re game,” to Drew Delaney, but not so slutty it’ll look like I’m pimping myself to the seven-year-olds at this birthday party?
I rifle through the clothes hung in my closet for what feels like the billionth time. That strapless number—too much skin up top. This mini skirt—too much skin down below. This flowery dress will make me look like I’m seven. Gah! Why can’t I just bring him his very own cupcake with WANNA BANG? spelled out with candy letters?
Hmmm. That’s not a bad idea. But with my luck these days, I’d probably accidentally include it in the boxes for the kids, and then the only banging would be the door behind me on my way out.
I sigh and flip through the hangers some more. As if on cue, Mom appears in my bedroom doorway.
“Have you decided what you’re going to wear?” she says in an overeager voice, as if I’m sixteen and about to head off on my very first date.
And as if I’m sixteen and about to head off on my first date, I have the urge to flop on my bed and moan, “I don’t have anything!”
Instead, I clear the angst from my throat and say, “It’d just a birthday party, Mom. A kid’s birthday party.”
She leans against the doorframe. “But Drew will be there. He asked you to come.”
“To bring cake.”
“Because you’d already caught his eye. Even though you didn’t bother to tell your mother you’d run into him.”
My hand settles on a navy blue dress I somehow overlooked before. That color always looks great on me. I pull out the dress and hold it against me. “Mom. I’m twenty-nine. I’m not going to give you a play-by-play on every person I talk to any given day.”
“That’s a good one,” Mom says with an approving nod to the dress. And it is. The fall of the wrap dress will show I have cleavage while keeping it discreetly contained, and the cut will emphasize my waist while being kind to my thighs. And it’ll almost hit my knees. Perfect!
“From what I’ve read online, he hasn’t been serious with anyone in a while,” Mom says as I pull it on. “Taking it slow after his divorce. But it’s been three years. He’s got to be feeling ready to settle down again soon.”
“Or maybe he’s happy to keep it casual for the rest of his life,” I retort, tugging the dress on. “When you’re Drew Delaney, you can get away with that.”
“I don’t know.” Mom moves to help tie the waist. “People get tired of living that way. They start to see what’s important. Look at Clooney,” she adds, as if I’m a stunning human rights lawyer with a wardrobe of amazing designer dresses and a standing invitation to the U.N. “Drew’s always had a good head on his shoulders, even during his wild period. I watched him grow up too, you know.”
Maybe she’s right. After all, even once the band took off, Drew still made time to stop by his parents’ house and hang with McKenna—and me. And when he saw me on the front porch in that terrible prom dress, he cared enough to take pity on my misery and get me out of there. If twentysomething-year-old Drew wasn’t a total manslut, then maybe there’s a chance thirty-something Drew isn’t either.
Still, I don’t like the way Mom is looking at me, like she’s already picked out our baby names and the house down the street. My time back home is strictly temporary—no putting down roots.
“Mom,” I say firmly. “He’s a very …” Sexy, drool-worthy, smoking hot, eminently fuckable. “… charming man, but this isn’t the start of some grand romance. I don’t even know if he’s going to stick around in town. I don’t know if I am.”
“Well,” Mom says, in a tone that suggests she doesn’t believe me at all, “there’s nothing wrong with at least having a little fun. Especially with a boy like that. One look at you like this and he’ll want to stay.”
I look down at the dress and smile. I don’t care about what Drew’s doing a month or more from now—as long as he likes what he sees today.
Drew pulls up outside the house in a Jaguar sedan—relatively low key, but, you know, still a Jaguar. I don’t let myself think about the fact that it probably cost more money than I’ve ever made in my life. I’ve got boxes of cupcakes and supplies to haul. I brought everything onto the porch so we could skip the part where he’d knock on the door and Mom would insist on fawning over him for the better part of an hour.
He approaches as I head down the walk, sliding down his sunglasses as he takes me in. “Well, hello there,” he says with enough appreciation that my skin tingles from head to toe. “Apparently it’s my birthday too.” His gaze moves to the stack of supplies. “What’s all this? How many cakes did you make?”
“I did better than a birthday cake,” I tell him. “We’re bringing a whole cupcake decorating bar. I did it for a friend’s niece a few years back. Kids love it.”
“Amazing!” he laughs. “Evan loves getting messy, this is great.”
He grabs one of the boxes from me and helps me load everything into the trunk. His arm brushes mine a couple times, and I consider leaning in a little more intentionally. Then I consider that Mom might be—no, almost definitely is—watching us from the front window.
Drew opens the passenger door for me, all gentleman-like, which probably makes Mom swoon. What makes me swoon is the mischievous grin he flashes me as I climb inside.
I don’t suppose there’s any chance we could skip this party and get straight to some non-kid-appropriate activities?
“So, Godfather,” I say, when we’re on the road. “Who trusted you with their kid’s spiritual welfare?”
Drew laughs. “One of my buddies from high school. I think they were more interested in locking down some A-grade birthday gifts. But Evan’s a great kid. Energetic,” he adds, with a warning note. “But he’s a cool dude.”
We stop outside a house on a cute suburban cul-de-sac, and a scrap of a kid who’s all elbows, knees, and freckles comes racing out the balloon-bedecked door. “Uncle Drew!” he shouts, and leaps into Drew’s arms. Drew chuckles and spins the kid around in the air, both of them beaming, and okay, my heart is getting kind of mushy right now. I wouldn’t have pegged Drew for a family guy, but it looks good on him.
But then, what doesn’t?
We unload my supplies and head on through to the back yard. The party is still inside, judging from the yells and thunder of footsteps echoing from the house. “This is a lifesaver,” Evan’s mom says, as I set everything out on some kid-sized tables on the grass. “Last year, they managed to smear chocolate frosting all over the carpet. At least, I tell myself it was frosting.”
I laugh. “Don’t worry—all the food colorings are water-based,” I tell her. “You can just turn a hose on them and clean them off.”
“The magic words.” She grins.
I set out trays of plain cupcakes, tubes of frosting, and bowls of sprinkles and candy—everything from marshmallows to fun-sized snickers bars. I’m just about done when the kids start pouring out of the house.
“We get to play with the food?” one girl asks, her eyes wide with delight.
“Go crazy, kid.” I hand her a tube of pink frosting. I hover, offering tips and pointing
out the possibilities. The wide eyes and gasps of delight make the prep time totally worth it.
Drew swoops in to construct his own creation, making the kids laugh at his jujube version of the Eiffel Tower. He shoots me a sly smile. “Kind of reminds me of your particularly famous cake.”
“A miniature version.”
He scoots around the table to whisper in my ear. “I promise there’s nothing teeny tiny about the real thing.”
Is he flirting?
I raise an eyebrow at him. “I don’t know if I can believe that just on hearsay. Plus, you know, it’s not just size but what you can do with it …”
“Are you saying you’d like a demonstration?”
“I could be persuaded.”
His voice drops even lower. “And what sort of persuasion would light your fire, exactly?”
My fire is not only lit but blazing away, but I don’t get a chance to make any recommendations, because right then one of the kids waves at me. “Miss Baker Lady! There’s no more jelly beans.”
“Oh,” Drew says. “I saw those. Right over …” He bends down beside me to grab the box—and surreptitiously trails a finger down my bare calf. Every nerve in my body jolts into heightened awareness, like a switch that’s been flipped.
Oh yeah, he’s definitely flirting.
And maybe it’s not quite as subtle as I thought. Five minutes later, as Evan is building his third cupcake, he looks up and says, “So, Uncle Drew, is she your girlfriend?”
Drew glances over at me. “I don’t know. I haven’t asked her.”
“Well, are you going to?”
“I have been considering it. Do you think I should?”
Half of the kids are watching the exchange now. And Evan’s mom, with a wry smile. I’m pretty sure my cheeks are red. Would it be acceptable to hide under the table?
Evan sizes me up as only a seven-year-old can. “Yeah. For sure. She’s pretty.”
“She is,” Drew agrees. “Very pretty.”
Okay, now my cheeks are going to burn right off.
