Love Like a Curse

by Mira Lyn Kelly

  Maggie coughed, choking on the thought of the last wedding she hit without Ford. The stilted small talk and smarmy expectation gleaming in her date’s eyes. God help her, she never wanted to go there again.

  But seriously . . . “Ava, the guys are not getting married.”

  “Not today, but you know the girl Sam’s been seeing—Bethanne? She told me she thought they were getting serious.”

  Not likely. “Bethanne’s delusional.”

  “Yeah, I agree. But one of these days . . . one of these girls . . .” Two breaths passed before she went on. “Look, Maggie, I’m not talking about anything drastic. Just taking a chance once in a while. Giving someone else a chance for a change. Who knows, maybe finding out what it feels like to have a guy look at me the way those two look at each other. I mean, they seem happy,” Ava offered, sounding less enthused than resigned. “In love.”

  “Blindly so,” Maggie agreed. And that was the crux of it. Maggie already knew what it was to have a guy look at her like he’d do anything to stay with her forever. And yeah, it was a heady thing. But there were risks inherent to that kind of ardor. Once people experienced it, there wasn’t a lot they wouldn’t do to protect it. Like lie. To their partner. To themselves.

  Arms crossed at her chest, Maggie gave the picnic guy a thorough once-over.

  Sure, he seemed sort of harmless with the whole goofy smile and I’m-so-putting-myself-out-there eyes. But he could be anyone. He could be an embezzler or top chef at the Meth Emporium. Oh yeah, he probably planned to reform. Turn over a new leaf. Be the man his girl deserved. But would he ever tell her what he was into? Not if it meant there was a chance he’d lose—

  Stop.

  Ugh. She didn’t want to be that person. The glass-half-empty girl who wouldn’t let anyone else believe it was half-full.

  She wouldn’t be that person.

  Angling closer on the bench, she leaned in shoulder to shoulder with Ava. “I think it’s great you’re opening yourself up to the possibilities and I’ll support you one-hundred percent. But I’m just wondering—and I don’t want this to sound like I think it’s going to be a problem or anything, but—you don’t actually like anyone. Ever. At least not in a more-than-friends way.”

  “Right.”

  “So, umm, how are you planning to get around that?”

  Ava outlined the rough plan she’d come up with: a single, mandatory date each month, where she gave the guys who met her criteria a chance—regardless of whether they floated her boat or not. And if she missed a month, she suffered a consequence. Some penalty stiff enough to ensure she didn’t blow it off.

  “Nice. You’ve got to make it something that’ll really hurt, though, so you can’t slack. And tie up all the little loopholes you’ll be trying to wiggle through, too.” Hey, this was kind of fun. “Make rules about what constitutes a legitimate date and not going out with the same guy over and over when you know it isn’t going anywhere. Tough love and all.” Maggie snickered, maybe enjoying the idea of Ava not making her monthly quota a skosh too much.

  Ava finished her cookie and then wiped her hands together, brushing off the crumbs. “Agreed. So you think this is a solid plan?”

  Blehh, but whatever. If Ava wanted to get her date on, who was Maggie to stop her? So working up some captain-of-the-cheer-squad enthusiasm, she beamed. “Totally. It’s a fantastic idea!”

  Honestly, there was no excuse for not seeing what came next. But reading the writing on the wall had never been Maggie’s strong suit. Especially as it applied to the people closest to her.

  “I’m glad you think so.” Ava grinned back, the glint of steel in her eyes unmistakable. “Because we’re making a pact and you’re doing this with me.”

  Oh hell.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Two

  October

  “Seriously, Maggie, we could just say we did it and no one would be the wiser.”

  Maggie stared up into her date’s pleading face, silently cursing Ava and her stupid pact, too.

  Five months in, she was still scrounging up eleventh-hour bailouts. She’d tried to be proactive. Flirt. Drop hints. And flat-out do the asking herself—but with a pool of potentials limited to guys who came with “references,” less than two degrees of separation, and proof of current employment, who weren’t sketchy, were allergen approved, knew how to laugh, and were honest—the pickins were slim.

  Which was how she’d ended up going out with Ford Meyers. Again.

  Gah.

  “It’s the honor system, Ford. Honor. And you’re talking about lying to your sister.”

  “Uh-huh.” Ford rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, squinting into the brisk October night. “Yeah, thing is, I’ve been lying to Ava for most of my life. So I’m good with it, actually. And believe me, she wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  “From you, maybe!” Maggie laughed, well acquainted already with her friends’ fractious sibling dynamic. “But not from me. We have an agreement. A pact—”

  “I know about the pact. Obviously,” he snapped, underscoring a discomfort over the coming lip-lock potentially surpassing even her own.

  “Look, I’m no happier about it than you are. But we’ve come this far, and if this date is going to count, it’s got to close on a kiss.” She took a deep breath and laced her fingers with his, swallowing past the revulsion pushing at her throat. “A real one.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Then, closing his eyes, he warned, “And so we’re clear, this is the last time I bail you out. If the ‘raised stakes’ of a second date equate to open mouth, with tongue . . . I don’t even want to contemplate what’s involved for a third.”

  Maggie gave the stiff fingers intertwined with hers a light squeeze.

  “Ouch, hey!”

  “You knew what you signed on for, so enough bitching. Just . . . I don’t know, take it like a man. You guys are supposed to be like dogs, trying to get on anything.” Then, because she really did know what a hugely monumental favor Ford was doing for her, she gently added, “Besides, it probably won’t be half as bad as we’re imagining.”

  How could it?

  “Fine. Let’s get this over with. You want to lean against the wall or something?”

  Maggie glanced over her shoulder at the gray stone entry and thought about the cats that sometimes prowled the neighborhood. “I’m good.”

  “Okay, then.” Taking a step back, he cracked his neck on both sides, rolled his shoulders, and started bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  “Yep.” Maggie nodded, her own adrenaline beginning to ramp. “Let’s do this.”

  Shaking out her fingers, she tried to force an open mind. Ford was a good-looking guy. Tall and lean, with dark, straight hair like his sister’s, only kept in a neatly conservative cut. He was undeniably easy on the eyes . . .

  But he was Ford.

  A friend as close as family. Which meant kissing Ava’s brother was going to feel a lot like kissing her own. Gross.

  Don’t think about it.

  “Wait.” Ford’s brows pulled down. “Do I have to touch you or can I lean in?”

  She should have taken the consequence of missing her quota and popped for Ava’s two-day spa treatment. How important was it really to have tires with actual tread before winter?

  Or money for the gallery, though with her boss’s recent state of fluster and bluster, that wasn’t a conversation she expected to take place anytime soon. At least not until after Hedda’s next retreat. Still, they’d come this far and Ford was standing there with his hands stalled halfway between them, waiting to find out if he had to put them on her.

  “Whatever you normally do.”

  Then they were mere inches apart. His left hand resting awkwardly on her hip in a way that left her unsure whether it was to hold her in place or push her away. His right hand slid beneath the fall of her hair and a shudder chock-full of creepy undertones ran through her.

  She was open to the possibilities.


  Like the rules of this godforsaken pact dictated she had to be.

  And there it was, contact.

  The cold press of their reluctant kiss, the parting of stiff, unwelcoming lips, and the slimy, wet stab of Ford’s tongue into her mouth, twice. Because he was that kind of a good friend. She’d barely had a chance to ponder if it was over when she wrenched back, gaping in horror.

  “Did you gag? In my mouth, Ford?”

  The guilt in his eyes said it all and, wow, her only consolation was knowing this had to be rock bottom. The night couldn’t get any worse.

  Except the low rumble of laughter, mocking and undeniably at her expense, quickly relieved her of that misconception.

  Witnesses were definitely worse. And judging by the telltale grate happening with her last nerve, she knew exactly who it was standing at the end of the walk.

  Apartment Three.

  * * * * *

  By Tyler Wells’s standards it didn’t get better than this. The landlord, Ford, had kissed Maggie . . . and it was bad. As in, barf-in-the-mouth bad. Which meant Ty had just busted his favorite little blond harpy in what had to be a top fiver for most humiliating moments. Ever.

  And to think he’d almost stayed in tonight.

  “Peeping, huh?” Her fist balled on one-shot hip, Maggie scowled at him. “New hobby or favorite pastime?”

  Ignoring the taunt—mostly because it would torque her off even more than she already was—he swung the iron gate closed behind him and started up the stairs to the covered entry.

  “I tried to wait you out. Seriously I did. But the whole French retch combo—” He sent Ford a pitying look—which handily enough, doubled as another sweet dig at the cookie-baking crackpot—and shrugged. “It was too much.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Ford rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

  “Sure.” Except Ty was pretty much willing to bet his left nut it was exactly what it looked like. The stuff of nightmares. An unholy meshing of mouths, spawned by desperation, and never to be revisited.

  Definitely more action than he was getting, and incentive enough to keep it that way.

  Fishing around his pocket for his keys, he nodded. “Whatever it is—”

  Maggie snapped, “It’s none of your business,” as Ford assured, “It’s over.”

  Tyler unlocked the door, doing his best to ignore the stilted exchange of quiet thank yous and muttered promises of never again taking place behind him. Then, standing aside, he waited as they filed in. Ford made a beeline down the first-floor hall, ducking into his apartment, and Maggie went for the stairs as Ty checked the lock on the security door to give himself a few extra seconds before following.

  Not long enough, though. Because suddenly he was stuck with an eyeful of Maggie’s retreating form. And, hell, if that wasn’t the last thing he needed.

  It was bad enough, the way he got off on their sparring. It started the first day he tracked her down, intent on apologizing for being such an ass when she’d shown up at his door, wanting to assure her it wouldn’t happen again. Only before he managed to get out the first word, Maggie let that caustic tongue loose in an assault the likes of which he’d never heard before.

  She’d been vicious. Concise. Lobbing one low blow after another and, all the while doing it with that girl-next-door smile on her lips and demon glint in her green eyes.

  After that, he’d been hooked. And who could blame him, really?

  But while a heartfelt exchange of barbs was one thing, watching the gentle sway of her hips and spill of silky waves falling to the midpoint of her back was something else altogether. It was uncool. And totally unacceptable, considering the only thing he was after from Apartment Two was the vintage sour and spite she served him straight up every time their paths crossed.

  At the landing, Maggie cast what she’d no doubt intended as a bored look over her shoulder. But something in her eyes said she was waiting . . . anticipating the next volley of trash talk, same as him.

  Instead of giving it up for her at the first glare, he strolled past, eyes on the beige-and-rust-flecked carpet running the hall and stairs. Only when the thin scrape of her key sliding home reached his ears did he look back.

  “Gotta say, I had you pegged for a spinster all the way, but Ford’s a real catch. Nice going.”

  Barely a beat passed and she was returning fire.

  “Aww, thanks. And what’s this I hear about you and Rosie Palms?” she asked with a pointed nod at his hand, the saccharine sweetness all but dripping from her fangs. “Picking out rings, already?”

  Nice one. A classic that appealed to the undying adolescent within him. And all her narrow-eyed, arms-crossed action said she was ready with more. Could probably go head-to-head all night if he gave her the opportunity.

  Tempting. But being the stand-up guy he was, wholly committed to the advancement of Maggie’s annoyance, there was only one thing he could do . . .

  “Yeah, well, we’ve been exclusive for a while now,” he said, holding up “Rosie,” his right hand, and giving in to a grin as he started up the stairs. “Time to make an honest girl of her.”

  . . . Steal her thunder and leave her hanging.

  Boom.

  Maggie tried to cover with a cough, but her laughter—too quick—slipped free from beneath it, ricocheting up the stairwell after him and following at his heels like a taunt. It was exactly the reaction he’d been going for—knowing the last thing she’d want was to give him the satisfaction—only now having earned it, that soft, full-bodied mirth layered with too many hints about a woman he didn’t want to know any more than he already did suddenly felt less like a victory than a loss.

  It was a reversal of expectation that had become the standard in his life. One Ty ought to be used to by now but that somehow managed to continue blindsiding him.

  Girl-next-door . . . easy smile . . . great laugh . . . sharp tongue . . . soft curves . . . sweet to about everyone but him.

  Yeah, he knew too much about Maggie Lawson as it was. Like the fact that she was exactly the kind of chocolate-chip-baking fantasy he’d always gone for. The kind of woman he’d figured he’d marry someday . . . and might have, if not for—

  Shit. Enough of that.

  Inside, the stillness and order of his apartment worked to smother the last echoes of Maggie’s reluctant laughter, tamping down those unwelcome details he didn’t have room for in a space already too full with everything he couldn’t have.

  * * * * *

  The keys hadn’t even finished their first revolution around the wide-mouthed catchall beside her front door before Maggie was hit with a condemning, “I feel dirty.”

  Ava. Shaking her head from her perch on the couch, where she’d no doubt been watching the closed-circuit security feed from the front stoop.

  She should have known. Because this night just got better and better.

  It wasn’t enough to have been within a hairsbreadth of tasting the physical manifestation of Ford’s disgust. Or that her least favorite sour-patch stud, Apartment Three, had gone and pissed all over her hard grudge by making her laugh. Flashing his bit of humanity and humor around like . . . like . . . like he was human or something. Which he wasn’t.

  The jerk.

  Nope. What she needed was another witness.

  Sliding her purse off her shoulder, Maggie tucked it on the secretary’s low shelf and then turned to face her accuser. “So maybe you shouldn’t have broken into my apartment to spy, huh?”

  Though on closer consideration, she didn’t actually mind Ava seeing that train-wreck-in-action kiss. If Maggie and Ford were forced to endure it, Ava deserved to share in the post-traumatic suffering as well. The pact had been her idea.

  Ava shook her head. “I didn’t break in.”

  From the back of the apartment, Sam called out, “It wasn’t breaking. I used my key.”

  Oh, well then. Except . . . “What’s he doing in my bedroom?”


  “Checking to see if that three-pack of condoms I bought you was still in your bedside table. We thought you might have been . . . you know, hopeful or something.”

  Really, it should have felt like a violation, but compared to having Ford’s tongue in her mouth, this paltry bit of B&E barely ranked.

  Leaning back a step, she called down the hallway, “The rubbers are still there.”

  “Yeah, found ’em already,” came the enthusiastic reply. “I’ve moved on to your panty drawer. And how about a hell, yes for the racy stuff at the bottom.”

  Heaving a deep sigh, she staggered into the living room and snuggled into her favorite cushy chair. “So how bad was it? Did we at least look kind of sexy?”

  “Not even close, no.” Sam strolled down the hall, wearing a beat pair of faded jeans the same color as his eyes and a plain white long-sleeve T-shirt that told the story of a career rooted in manual labor without bragging about it. His hair was its usual tousled mess of sandy blond and his face sported a just-back-from-the-beach warmth that was a gift of his natural complexion.

  “It was bad, Maggie,” he said. Then elaborating as only he could, added, “Like blunt trauma to the eyeballs—bleach-scrub-for-the-brain bad. Seriously, I don’t get why you keep doing this. You sucked face with Ford, a guy you have zero romantic interest in, for the sake of some stupid pact. Why don’t you girls stop trying to force something that isn’t ready to come and wait for a guy who actually does it for you? I mean, if you were getting an itch scratched once in a while, I suppose it would be different. But with the rules—”

  Suddenly he broke off, a curious look fixed on his face. He turned to Ava. “Where do you get your itch scratched?”