Page 2 of Best Part of Me

But it’s okay. Because I’d rather have part of Maverick Mendes than nothing.

Once he takes his seat between Jones and Rosie, I gaze at the faces around the table and gratitude consumes me. Each one I hold dear to my heart. I lift my glass of wine and clear my throat, preparing to say something insightful and hopefully not cheesy.

But Chris snatches my empty hand up in his, giving it a tight squeeze. I know this gesture. It’s one of warning. After a quick glance at him, he gives me a subtle shake of his head. My stomach tightens.

Chris leans my way. He’s close enough that I catch a hint of his cologne. It smells different. Almost sweet instead of the usual woodsy scent that irritates my nose.

“There’s no need for a big speech, babe. Let’s just enjoy the night.” The patronizing kiss on my cheek is what causes my skin to flush in embarrassment.

I trace my fingertips over the back of my neck where it already feels clammy to the touch, and my eyes dart to the half-eaten piece of bread on my plate. My attention shifts as the panic settles in my chest once again, and I glance up to check if anyone noticed this uncomfortable exchange between us.

Across from me, Rosie is her usual life of the party, monopolizing a conversation with Dad, Jones, and a few of Chris’s friends. Mom must not have noticed the tension either because she simply gifts me one of her glimmering trademark smiles before turning her focus back on Grandma Nettie and Gigi’s conversation.

But when my gaze flitters up, and I find Maverick staring at me intently, we lock eyes. He looks at me in a way that makes my skin go hot and causes my heart to flutter. Maverick Mendes sees me. He’s always seen me.

Which means he absolutely witnessed the exchange between me and Chris.Fucking fantastic. Humiliation burns in my cheeks.

Chris doesn’t always belittle me in public. Sometimes he does it in private. The fact that he does it at all is infuriating. But the worst part? I put up with it. I don’t know why. For Mom? Maybe.

Or maybe because I’m just tired. Tired of waiting for Maverick to return the same feelings I’ve had for him for ten years. Tired of men who are lazy entitled dicks.

Chris may come from money, but he works hard. So I guess I have hope. Hope he’ll change. Hope he’ll grow. And maybe after we’re married, hope he’ll finally treat me as an equal partner.

“You okay, sweetie?” Mom asks, interrupting my current state of distress. Concern streaks on her face and I want nothing more than to ease it.

I conjure up a smile and do what I’ve been doing for the last several months to protect her fragile state. I lie. “I’m fine. Just hungry. Looking forward to my big plate of chicken carbonara.”

“Too bad it’s nothing like my chicken carbonara,” Grandma Nettie pipes up. “I don’t know why you didn’t want me and Gigi to cook for your engagement dinner. We’re Italian women. We could’ve made authentic dishes to serve your guests.”

“This is an authentic Italian restaurant, Grandma. Besides, I wanted you and Gigi to relax tonight and just enjoy yourselves.” But my response does nothing to satisfy Grandma Nettie.

“Just face it, Nettie,” Gigi says, shrugging. “Kids these days would rather pay an arm and a leg for a meal rather than cooking for themselves.”

Rolling my eyes, I glance away and ignore the impending argument. I’ve gotten good at becoming non-confrontational. It does nothing for my personality, Chris says. At least it works in my favor of keeping the peace in the Martin family.

“I for one, appreciate your cooking, Gigi,” Maverick chimes in, causing my eyes to flick up at him from where he sits across the table and kiddie-corner from me. “I still use your recipe every time I make chicken fettuccine alfredo.”

“And this is why Maverick is my favorite grandchild,” Gigi says with a wide smile.

“What the hell, Gigi? As your actual grandchild, I resent that,” Rosie protests.

But Gigi just hunches her shoulders and smirks. The old bird is becoming saucier with age. And I love her as much as I do my own grandmother.

“Ass-kisser,” I mutter to Maverick.

“Pretentious princess,” he shoots back, using one of his childhood nicknames for me.

I gasp, shooting a palm to my chest, and mock offense but can’t resist the smile building on my lips. My skin tingles. I’ve missed this. This banter. This friendship.

Leaning further across the table, I narrow my eyes. “Orphan Annie.”

He glares playfully back at me. “Miss Goody-two-shoes.”

I shriek. “As if. I’m so far from a goody-two-shoes, you have no idea.”

He leans in further. So close the heat from his body radiates against my skin. “Sunshine, you’re the epitome of a good girl.”

The nickname, along with the use ofgood girlcauses my stomach to flip. The comeback I had ready to hurl back at him gets lodged in my throat. We hold eye contact too long. The way he’s looking at me could be mistaken for desire. Except not by me. Because Maverick has never looked at me like that. For a wild moment, I imagine myself spilling my secret to him—that I’ve had a crush on him since I was thirteen. And the two of us ditch this fancy party, hand in hand, and live happily-ever-after like one of my favorite 90’s romcoms.

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