I love the mountains. I’ve got a house in Telluride. It’s the only place I’ve ever been happy.
I’m seized in a grip of desire so strong that for a moment I lose my breath.
When I can talk again, I say, “Even if someone did call me that, they wouldn’t have the balls to say it to my face.”
Maddie tilts her head back and smiles up at me. “Guess my balls must be pretty big, then, huh?”
“Massive.”
Stop staring at her mouth. Stop it.
I tear my gaze from her and focus on her front porch instead. “Can you walk or do I need to carry you?”
“Psh. Carry me. As if.”
She takes a step, loses her footing, and squawks, grabbing hard onto my arm. “Why is the ground all slippery?”
“That’s not the ground, Pink,” I say, chuckling. “Up you go.”
In one swift motion, I lean over, pick her up, and swing her into my arms.
She’s horrified for all of about two seconds, stiff and outraged, then she says, “Well, hell,” and slings her arms around my shoulders. Her smile is wide and happy as she relaxes against me. “Home, Jeeves.”
I take a moment to examine her fuzzy gaze. “You don’t really drink whiskey, do you?”
“Lord, no. That stuff tastes like pure gasoline. How can you stand it?”
“Because I’m so manly.”
“Oh, right. I forgot. Are we going to stand here in the driveway all day? Not that I’m complaining. This is surprisingly comfortable. If the football thing doesn’t pan out for you, you could start a business carrying tipsy ladies around.”
I start up the path to her front door, enjoying her weight in my arms, her smell in my nose, and the feel of her against me, soft and warm. “Like Uber, only more personalized.”
“Exactly. And if you took your shirt off, you’d make a killing in tips.”
She’s noticed my body.
Pretending to be insulted instead of pleased, I say, “I’m more than just a hot bod, lady.”
Closing her eyes, she rests her head against my shoulder. “I know. You’re smart and funny, too. If only you believed in love and didn’t have such a fixation on giant hooters, I could find you a nice girl pretty quick.”
“You’re smart and funny, too.”
Stabbed in the gut. Shot in the chest. Slugged in the face by Mike Tyson.
Never once in my life has anyone said anything nice about my brains, never mind my sense of humor. Probably because I act like I don’t have either. It’s always my talent at football people are impressed by. That or how much money I make. Or how easily trouble finds me.
But not Maddie.
Maddie who idolizes my arch enemy Tom Brady.
Maddie who calls it like she sees it and doesn’t put up with my shit.
Maddie who doesn’t give a fuck about money, because she’s too busy giving all her fucks about other people’s true loves and happily-ever-afters while ignoring her own.
Sweet, sassy, beautiful Maddie, who’s drunk at noon on a Sunday because she wouldn’t let me drink alone, even though she thinks whiskey is disgusting.
She says, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You just made a strange groany noise.”
I really wish she’d pass out now. “Maybe you’re not the only gassy one.”
She giggles. “Maybe, but if I was gassy—and I’m only saying if—my farts would smell like rose petals.”
“And you accuse me of having a big ego?”
“No, seriously. I take vitamin C with rose hips every day. I bet my innards smell like a beautiful rose garden.”
“Your innards? Woman, you’re drunk.”
“In the middle of the day, no less,” she says happily. “You’re a bad influence.”
You have no idea.
I walk up the steps of the porch and stop in front of the door. Then I look down at her, nesting comfortably in my arms with her eyes shut. “Hey. Sleepyhead.”
“Hmm?”
“Unless you want me to kick down the door, I need a key.”
She cracks open an eye and peers up at me. “I’m not falling asleep. I’m trying to stop the world from spinning so much.”
“Fascinating. Key?”
Using one hand, she digs around in the small purse slung across her body by a dainty leather strap. She comes up with a single key attached to a ceramic keychain. It’s made in the shape of a Harry Potter character.
When I stare at it too long, she says, “Don’t look at Hagrid like that. You’ll hurt his feelings. He’s very soft-hearted.”
I say thickly, “I know.”
She’s a Potterhead.
Because of course she would be. Of course she’d be a fan of the books that saved my sanity as a kid and gave me the only relief I had from the shit show of my adolescence.
Because the universe loves nothing more than to test me over and over and over to see how much I can take before I break.
Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I stand near enough to the handle so she can reach down and insert the key. The door opens, and I nudge it open wider with my knee.
Then I carry my own personal kryptonite across the threshold, my resolve to do the right thing and stay away from her crumbling with every step.
15
Maddie
So maximum humiliation has been achieved, and it only took a quick midday visit to a dive bar to do it.
Me (staring awkwardly): Mason, er, um, do you only like young women with big boobs?
Translation: Could you possibly like a dorky, uptight, flat-chested librarian who’s constantly barking about your bad manners and to whom you’ve given exactly zero hint that you might be attracted to, aside from the fact that you stared at her mouth while examining her Meth Addict Barbie pink lipstick?
Mason (choking back vomit): Yes, I only like young women with big boobs. Mute’s good, too.
Translation: You think I’d be interested in old, prim, celibate, opinionated, cat-loving, bun-wearing, pink-obsessed you? Gross.
Me: Commence dying of embarrassment, interrupted at regular intervals by rude bodily noises.
Yes, it’s been a whopper of a day already, and it’s not even tea time. Maybe next Bettina will set my house on fire, just to keep the good times rolling.
She’d be doing me a favor. I wouldn’t even try to save myself. I’d just lie here on the sofa and cry while I burned.
I’m peeved at the way he looked at my Hagrid keychain, though. You’d think it was naked and vibrating for the way he sneered at it.
“Here. Drink this.”
I flip down the corner of the blanket I pulled over my face when Mason laid me on the sofa a few moments ago. He sits on the coffee table across from me, holding a glass of water in his hand, looking huge and handsome and hot.
“It’ll help the hangover you’re brewing, Pink. You need to stay hydrated.”
I concentrate on not slurring my words. “I’m not thirsty, thank you.” Then I flip the blanket up again, wishing he’d leave so I could be alone with my crushing shame.