by RC Boldt
There’s a teensy chance I may have wished that I had been the one to loosen that tie of his. Maybe push him up against that glass and—
Oh. Oh, my. Well, that’s no way to start off a night with Stephen with a “ph,” now, is it?
Tuning back to the conversation, I give Stephen my best smile and step an inch closer to him.
“Pardon me for interrupting, but I have to know the answer to this question.” I ignore Ry’s groan because he knows me well enough by now to know what my spiel is.
“Breakfast Club or Pretty in Pink? Go with your gut.” My words spill out hurried because, for me, this is like one of those timed tests we had to take back in grade school. You know, the ones where you have, like, five minutes to answer fifty multiplication facts. Talk about pressure, right? I’m still scarred for life from that crap.
“Um …” Stephen trails off before furrowing his brows in thought. “I’ve never actually watched either one …”
My inner horrified gasps are so loud that I actually look around to see if anyone heard them. Ry’s eyes dart to mine, his eyebrows raised as if to sarcastically say, This is the one you chose, Mags?
Giving him a brief, squinty-eyed glare, I turn my attention back to Stephen. “You really haven’t—”
“Did you catch the latest Avengers movie? What’d you think of that one?” Ry interrupts me, and the two of them commence discussing the film and laughing about Thor’s hammer. Stephen even goes so far as to swivel his barstool around to face Ry, fully engaging in the conversation.
Scintillating stuff. I mean don’t get me wrong; I lust over Thor as much as any other hot-blooded woman, but my dating prospect has just chosen my gay roommate over me.
Me: Zero; Ry: Eight.
Or is it ten? Heck, I can’t even keep track anymore. Either they end up liking Ry and “discovering their inner gay,” as he’s told me numerous times in explanation, they fall ill, or they recall something they forgot they were supposed to do and have to leave while I use the restroom, leaving Ry to relay the regretful message to me.
With a sigh, I turn my stool toward the bar, leaning my forearms on the lacquered wood, and sip my drink. I signal the bartender for another Dirty Shirley, my drink of choice. Mike knows not to make them too strong because—disclosure alert—I’m not exactly known for holding my liquor well.
Sliding a new napkin in front of me before placing my fresh drink down on it, Mike removes my empty glass in a fluid motion. Thanking him with a smile, he winks at me in return. Then his eyes flit over to where Ry and Stephen are now in a discussion about weapons and yammering on about Tony Stark.
Leaning in close and lowering his voice, Mike curves the corners of his lips upward. “Another one bites the dust, huh?”
Letting out a long, dejected sigh, I nod. “Yep.” Staring down at the ice cubes in my drink, I muse, “You’d think that the bulk of the men around here are all in the closet or something.”
Mike chokes out a laugh. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so—” When his words cut off abruptly, my eyes dart up, catching him looking over at the guys with an odd expression on his face. When I turn around, Ry offers me one of his smiles. The kind that makes me go weak-kneed and wish he were actually into women.
And when I say into women, I mean into me, specifically. But clearly, that’s not going to happen.
That becomes more evident when I catch sight of Stephen typing Ry’s number into his phone just as Ry tosses an arm around his shoulders, aiming his own cell toward them for a selfie.
Turning back to face the bar with a long sigh, a part of me wishes I had it in me to get sloppy drunk. Because the guy I’d wanted to ask for my number tonight, the guy I’d thought was into me, just chose my roommate instead.
I’ve just been clam jammed.
Again.
Chapter Twelve
Ry
“Hey, snuggle muffin. I’ve missed you.”
An arm settles around my shoulders as soon as I enter the men’s locker room at the gym. Jack and I usually meet to play racquetball on Saturday mornings.
Shoving his arm off me, I shake my head. “Dude. It’s too early for that shit.”
His face is a mask of mock-hurt. “But … but it’s never too early for love.”
Tossing my bag and keys into the locker, I slam the door shut, ignoring him. “Ready?”
“Sure. You can fill me in on last night while we head over.”
As we walk through the large, two-story gym, I fill him in on the latest guy I had to “woo” away from Maggie. He laughs when I get to the part about the dude asking for a selfie.
“No way,” he chokes out in his laughing. “He treated you like you were some celebrity?”
It’s not that funny to me anymore. It’s actually more tiring than anything because while I’m a representative of the company, I hate when I come across people who think if they become your friend, it automatically means they’ll get perks—like free or deeply discounted kayaks, skis, snowboards, free ski lift passes, or God only knows what else.
Living in this area with a bunch of large lakes and mountains, the population is pretty active and outdoorsy. I get that people get excited when they meet one of the directors for Eastern Sports, a company that has become the Mecca along the East Coast for all sports equipment and outerwear.
It doesn’t mean that I want people to use me for my connection, however.
“Yeah, he asked me if I could ‘do him a solid’ so many times, it got to be painful,” I mutter as we enter the racquetball court we reserved.
“I thought that selfie was pretty hot. You two make a cute couple.” Jack smirks. “If you weren’t already betrothed to me, of course.”
My dark glare does nothing. In fact, I swear his smile gets even wider. “We’re not betrothed, jackass.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Semantics.”
“Just serve the ball, damn it.”
Thankfully, Jack shuts up for a while. Until about halfway through the game when he says, “Maggie looked pretty hot in that dress she wore last night.”
My serve goes out of bounds. “How do you know what she wore last night?”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “She posted a photo on her Facebook page, saying something like, ‘I’m waiting on my roommate to finally finish beautifying so we can go out tonight.’”
“Ha-ha. You’re hilarious.”
“It said just as much. But she did look smokin’ ho— Hey!” My serve whizzes right past his ear.
“My bad,” I grit out the words. “Maybe you should keep your eyes off Maggie.”
He just laughs, and we continue our game. Keeping the topic of conversation away from Maggie and whether or not she was smokin’ hot in the dress she wore.
She had been. Which is why I ended up taking a selfie with Stephen last night, exchanging numbers and pseudo promising to let him know when Kastle came out with their newest, most upgraded premium graphite skis.
Maggie had gone home alone—again—and without exchanging numbers with a guy—again. This meant a job well done on my part.
As Jack and I exit the gym after we’ve both showered—separately, even though the douche bag gave me shit because it allegedly “broke his heart” that his own boyfriend didn’t want to shower with him—we head down the sidewalk in the direction of my and Maggie’s apartment. And he asks the same questions he asks me every time we’re by ourselves.
“So when are you going to make an honest man out of me, James?” and then the more serious, “When are you going to come clean with Maggie?”
Two questions. And for only one of them do I have an honest-to-goodness answer.
* * *
“Hey, you two,” Maggie calls out from the kitchen as Jack and I enter the apartment. There’s a delicious aroma of waffles in the air, causing my stomach to growl loudly. Slipping off our shoes and dropping our gym bags by the door, we walk through the apartment, heading into the kitchen. Grabbing two bottles of water for us, I slip on
to one of the high-top barstools at the counter of the small island. Jack sidles up beside Maggie as she’s pouring batter into the Belgian waffle maker.
“Maggie May. Please say you’ll marry me and make me waffles forever,” he begs, leaning over and dramatically sniffing the stack of waffles plated on the counter beside her.
Laughing, her eyes light up as she shakes her head at him. “You know I can’t do that to Ry. He loves you too much.” She glances over at me, her eyes taking in the sight of my biceps in my old, worn sleeveless shirt, and my heart races at the appreciation I catch in her gaze before she wipes her expression clean.
“Pffft,” Jack scoffs. “You know he’s just biding his time before he manages to get you to fall for him. Then he’ll leave me in the dust.”
My entire body tenses, and if looks could kill, Jack would have his throat ripped out right now.
Thank God, Maggie thinks he’s joking. She hip-checks him playfully, laughing it off. “Whatever. You two are perfect for one another, and you know it.”
“He’s actually the ugliest man I’ve ever been with,” Jack says with faux sadness. That’s because you’ve never actually “been” with a man, dipshit.
“I could say the same for you,” I mutter, before narrowing my eyes, my tone full of insinuation. “Plus, you’re kind of on the small side.”
Jack’s smile is wide and full of mischief. “I make up for it with this bangin’ body.” He gestures to himself.
“I came for waffles, not to lose my damn appetite,” a female voice remarks from behind us.
Turning, we find Sarah standing there with a pointed look, hands on her hips. “If you two plan to continue this, you’re going to have to take it somewhere else. I’m ready to get my waffle eating on.” She slides onto one of the barstools beside me. Jack immediately slides onto the one beside Sarah, placing an arm casually on the back of her chair.
“So tell me, sweet Sarah. If I were to go straight, would you date me?”
I’m going to kill my best friend. It’s confirmed.
She stares at him for a moment. “Nope.”
He rears back in surprise. “Why not?”
“Because I want a guy with a big penis.”
The drink of water I’d just taken sprays everywhere. Maggie spins arounds, gaping at her friend.
“Sarah!”
“What?” Sarah shrugs before tossing a thumb in my direction as I attempt to mop up the water. “He’s the one who said Jack’s on the small side.” Another shrug. “I was only answering honestly.”
Never one to let anything die, Jack leans in and says in a loud whisper, “What if I were to get one of those pump things—”
My eyes fly over to Maggie, and we both share a knowing smile because Jack and Sarah are always debating something off the wall and usually sexual in nature.
“Breakfast is ready!” she announces, sliding a plate stacked with waffles along with a platter of scrambled eggs and bacon onto the counter in front of us before handing over a stack of plates with silverware and a container of local maple syrup.
As we all dig in and I chew the first glorious bite of Maggie’s homemade waffle, I turn, swallowing before I say, “Marry me, Mags. Marry me, love me forever, and make me waffles.”
Maggie just laughs, like she always does when I say something like this. Because she thinks I’m joking. As I hold her eyes, a part of me tries to silently convey that I’m serious. That I love her and wish she’d love me forever. Until I get interrupted by the “comedy duo” on the other side of me.
“Quit being a twat waffle,” Jack mutters under his breath.
“Twat did he just say?” Sarah snickers at her own remark, and the two of them snort-laugh together.
Maggie and I roll our eyes with a smile at their juvenile humor. And just like that, the moment is gone. But I can’t be too upset. Especially when Maggie pipes up with, “Hey, Ry. I like you a waffle lot.”
Leaning closer, I say, “I like you, too, and that’s no yoke.”
And when she laughs at my silly joke, warmth runs through me along with a yearning to pull her close, kiss her laughing lips, and tell her how I really feel about her.
But I can’t, so I resort to tucking the moment away in my memory bank, where dozens upon dozens more of Maggie memories will join it.
Someday, I silently vow. Someday, I won’t be limited to just memories of “Maggie moments” but actually make some “Maggie and Ry moments” as memories.
Someday.
Chapter Thirteen
Maggie
“Oh, man, that’s hilarious!” Clay slaps a hand on Ry’s back, laughing, and I feel like the odd man out.
Again.
“Super hilarious,” I mutter sarcastically beneath my breath before taking a sip of my drink and propping both elbows on the bar. As if that’s not enough, I also slouch in my seat—things I was told never to do in Catholic school. Sister Margaret is likely rolling over in her grave right now because elbows, slouching, and drinking alcohol? I’m on a path headed straight for damnation.
“What was that, Mags?” Ry asks, eyes alit with amusement and clearly enjoying himself. Enjoying himself with my date. Or what should have been my date. Until Ry showed up, once again, and wooed the pants right off the guy.
Speaking of wooing the pants off men, now that I inspect Clay further—and from a different perspective—I feel like I should have noticed him wearing his pants a bit more snug than the average heterosexual male. Then again, Ry doesn’t wear tight pants. He claims they cut off his circulation down below.
Yeah, I asked. And trust me, his explanation ended up getting one of those I’m holding up my hand to stop you because you just said the words “balls” and “strangled” together in the same sentence, and I can’t bear to hear any more kind of response. Because let’s be serious for a minute. No girl wants to hear about balls being strangled.
So. Gross.
“Ry’s such a cool guy.” “Ry’s hilarious!” “Ry’s got to be an awesome roommate, huh?” Or worse, I’ve heard, “So is Ry single?” That’s all I ever hear anymore.
Wait. Did you catch that sound? It’s the sound of me banging my head against the wall. In frustration. Because everything seems to turn into Ry this and Ry that.
Ry is freaking clam jamming the hell out of me. And it sucks. I’ll never be able to find a guy—and manage to keep him—at this rate.
At least not within a five-mile radius of Ryland James.
“Man, I hate to run, but we definitely have to hang out again. You have my number now. Don’t be a stranger.”
Did you hear that? That wasn’t directed toward me but toward Ry.
Shocker.
Turning my attention toward the two men, my fake smile firmly in place, I watch as Clay shakes Ry’s hand enthusiastically. Finally noticing my attention—and possibly recalling, perhaps vaguely, that I’m still present—he offers me a polite smile.
“Nice to meet you, Margie.” My smile dims, feeling brittle, and I raise my drink in salute. “Later, Clint,” I mutter before swiveling around on my barstool.
What the hell just happened? I swear to you, Clay was the one who’d approached me when I was in the bank a few days ago. Only two tellers worked both the counter and the drive-through when half the population of Saratoga Springs decided they needed to do some banking. I’m not kidding—the line was nearly out the door.
I was trying to keep my cool even though the lady in front of me was talking on her phone—loudly—and about one of the many topics one should never discuss in public.
Yeast infections.
I had been—barely—managing to stifle my snickering when she began to detail how “unbelievably itchy” she was. That was the moment I heard a male voice from behind me utter, “Oh, Jesus.”
When I turned, both of us flashed one another a knowing smile, and a few moments later, he struck up a conversation with me. I felt like he was really into me and had continued to feel that way during t
he few phone calls we had exchanged days later.
That all—clearly—fell apart tonight. Because I sure as heck don’t have a penis.
Who knew that would end up being such a deal breaker?
* * *
“So he went home with Ry?” Sarah looks like she’s trying not to laugh as I proceed to give her a quick recap of what’s gone on since I’ve attempted to start dating again. She’s been working crazy hours, and we haven’t had a moment to catch up in person since our breakfast that one morning with the guys.
“Yes,” I expel with a sigh before taking a sip of my hazelnut latte. We decided to meet up at the Starbucks a few blocks away from my apartment. Somehow, we managed to snag a small table right by the front windows, which is rare since this place is always hopping with customers.
“And the other one called you Margie?” She’s losing the battle in restraining a smile. It’s official.
“I’m so glad you find this amusing.” My glare doesn’t do any good.
A laugh bursts free, but she at least has the decency to cover her mouth with her hand. “I can’t help it, Maggie. It’s just”—she snickers again—“too funny.” Managing to regain composure, she studies me for a moment. “You’re pretty frustrated, huh?”
“You think?” I toss up a hand in exasperation, gesturing to encompass the bustling coffee shop. “I could meet a guy here, have a great conversation, actually click with him, and think maybe he has potential to be more if I get to know him. But if he meets Ry”—making a face, I shake my head—“it’s all over. I swear—they end up liking him way more than me.”
“Or they have to leave suddenly,” Sarah adds, resting her chin on her palm, eyeing me curiously. “Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?”
I throw my hands up. “I don’t know what to think anymore! I’m getting frustrated. I’m on the verge of trying to sneak out of the apartment without Ry knowing just so he doesn’t end up snagging my date for the evening.” Wrapping my hands around my coffee cup, I stare blindly into it, lost in thought. “Maybe I should talk to Jack about it.”