Page 15 of Fumbling for Affection

“Is this some kind of mind game to psych me out to make sure you win?” He dumped his bags on the table and grabbed her elbow, propelling her to the other end. If there’d been a line, she’d crossed it, but she didn’t care if she’d upset him. He’d been upsetting her for years. Maybe now he’d leave and take his stupid, competitive ego with him. Go back to whatever pine and citrus-scented rock he’d crawled out from under. And leave me in peace.

She pulled her elbow out of his grip and rubbed it, needing to erase his fingerprints on her body and the tingly sensation that ran up her arm straight into her chest, making it hard to breathe.

“One, Oregon can barely make a bowl of cereal, so you have nothing to worry about with them in the competition. And two, I came here to see if I could smooth things between us. I didn’t enter the competition to upset you.”

“How about a three? Like a guarantee that I don’t need to worry about whatever you’re making.”

“I’m making my abuela’s tamales. It’s savory, not sweet. You have nothing to worry about.” He drew a cross over his heart and gave her a small smile. Lucas looked sincere, and he sounded sincere. She wanted to believe him, but she couldn’t. His track record said otherwise. And nothing to worry about didn’t equal a guarantee.

“I can’t tell if this is a trick, to throw me off track, or if you’re aiding the enemy by telling me what you’re making.” His smile fell.

“You’re not my enemy, Maggie. You never have been. And I don’t want to be yours. I want you to win.”

“Why?”

“Because it seems really important to you, and if it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

“Why?”

Lucas shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “That’s a conversation for another day, but today I want to know how I can help.”

“I really don’t think—”

“She’s nervous,” Grandad said, handing Lucas his bags before flipping the table over and collapsing its legs. “Hates being in front of people.” He carted the table away and Maggie shot daggers at his back.

“Really?” Lucas sounded pleased to know another of her weaknesses. “You always seemed so poised during those high school debate competitions, and every patron in line watches your every move when you make drinks.” How does he know about high school debate? Maggie thought back, certain that he hadn’t been on his school’s team, but his younger sister may have. She cringed, thinking he may have been a lurker hanging in the shadows in the back row of the auditorium. The ones who would slow-clap and occasionally heckle.

“I’m good at faking.” Maggie shrugged.

“I can cure you of that,” he said, his body leaning closer to hers. Or maybe she’d gravitated to him. How could she not when he smelled so good, and his eyes were dark pools she could drown in? And his size alone kept her in his orbit.

“Friction,” Nanna sang, as she walked past them to grab the Thistlestone banner from the aisle. Maggie felt the heat crawl up her chest and face, and Lucas chuckled at her distress.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Buchanan. The best way to get over something is to practice it. You need to practice baking in front of people.”

“I do.” Lucas raised his eyebrows, a disbelieving look on his face. “I practice in front of George.” It was the truth. She did. Grandad snorted as he walked past, but thankfully he didn’t clarify that George was her cat. “And I narrate each step of the process.” Her chin jutted out, daring him to contradict her.

Lucas frowned and his heavy eyebrows pulled together, prompting her to add, “Each night.” His scowl deepened.

Most people didn’t take an instant dislike to George. It grew over time. He was demanding. A space and heat hog. And a scientist with his never-ending experiments with gravity, especially if glass or liquids were involved. But he owned her, and she was stuck with him.

“Maybe George isn’t enough.” He leaned closer, and she felt his breath on her cheek. “Maybe you should stop faking it with him and get the satisfaction of doing it the right way.” He looked into her eyes, holding her captive. Her heart raced as she stood frozen in place. “You need to practice in front of an audience.” He leaned back, breaking the spell, and smirked at her, knowing exactly how he’d affected her in their intimate bubble.

His know-it-all words and too-full-of-himself grin reminded Maggie this was a game to him. Another competition to win. But it was a game she couldn’t afford to lose.

She smacked the side of her head. “Why didn’t I think of that? You’re a genius, Lucas! I’ll just call 1-800-rent-an-audience and get right on that.”

“Cute, but I have a better idea.” He sounded sure of himself, which only fueled her irritation.

“Of course, you do.”

“I’ll wrangle a bunch of the guys to act as your audience. Food and the promise of a pretty face to look at and we’ll have to turn them away at the door.”

Maggie’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. He’d called her pretty. Again. Pretty and interesting, words she heard about Penny or Harper, not her. Practicing in front of people was a good idea—a great one actually—but could she trust him? Maybe he hoped she’d be a nervous wreck, botch everything, and carry the failure with her into the competition, ensuring him the win. It wasn’t worth the risk. She’d stick with George.

“It’s an interesting idea, but I don’t think—”

“The kitchen at the ranch is plenty big. You could do your setup at the island and if we move the big table, you’d have plenty of room.” Grandad said, smiling at them.

---