Page 18 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

She releases my hair and rolls the hem of her skirt between her fingers.

“Maggie,” I say softly, no longer joking around. “Please.”

An eternity later, she whispers, “Because I liked it too much.” Her eyes meet mine, the force of their intensity nearly blowing me through the floor. “Because falling for you scared the shit out of me, and I wasn’t supposed to be there that night. I came to tell you I couldn’t hang out. I was supposed to pick up my sister from her dance class, then you offered that dare, and it was you and I couldn’t leave, and bad shit happened because of me. Bad shit always happens when I’m not careful.”

“What do you mean, not careful? And what happened to Emma?”

The elevator jolts. My heart jolts. I need those doors open and air and space, but I need this too. Maggie’s confession. Her finally being open with me.

The elevator starts moving up. We’re staring at each other, still sitting on the floor, her partial admission confusing me even more. She’s scared of you. Delilah had written that when texting me at the Barrel House. It didn’t make sense then, and it doesn’t now.

At a loss, I reach up and cup Maggie’s cheek. A bold move toward a woman with a boyfriend. Desperation has me acting reckless. “Can we go somewhere? We need to talk this out.”

She places her hand over mine, her fingers tender and soft. “I have to work, but—”

We quit moving. The doors slide open.

Doug, who has more white hair in his thick eyebrows than on his head, stands with a cloth draped over his coveralls. “Sorry for the wait, folks. Darn machine gets finicky when I’m not around. Does it to mess with me,” he mutters.

Maggie’s hand yanks off mine. I go from staring into her stunning eyes to staring at her calves. She’s standing, slipping her feet into those sexy high heels. I push to all fours and crawl out, doing zero to increase my cool factor, but I’m light-headed from my near-death experience and that disconcerting conversation. A man leans over me, asks if I’m okay. I take several steadying breaths as he grabs my arm and helps me stand.

When I’m sure I won’t pass out, I turn to talk to Maggie. Find a time to meet and finish this life-changing talk. But Maggie’s gone.

chapter seven

“Make sure my muscles look bigger in this one.” I strike a pose, sitting on the grass in town square, one leg bent, my elbow resting on my knee. “My forearms should have that corded look.”

“I draw what I see,” Max says. “And I don’t see big muscles.”

“Oh, I definitely have big muscles.” I roll my T-shirt sleeve above my shoulder and flex. “Look at these guns.”

He gives a cute snort. “My dad has big guns. Those are just arms.”

Yeah, Desmond is more cut than me. He’s also often moody, except for this morning when I picked up my nephew so Des could have “alone time” with Sadie, otherwise known as loud-sex-with-no-kid-in-the-house time. “Your dad’s a meathead gym rat who grunts more than he talks. His arms don’t count.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Max says on a laugh. He pokes his tongue out of his mouth, stealing glances at me as he sketches.

Kid is an insanely talented artist, like his uncle E. His brash cockiness comes from his father. The tattling threat, though—that’s all me.

Growing up, I forced my brothers to play truth or dare by threatening I’d narc on them to Mom. Attuned to everyone’s rule-breaking, I knew Jake had a party in the house and someone broke Mom’s favorite blue vase that mysteriously went “missing.” I knew Callahan stole Dad’s bottle of vodka and replaced half of it with water. I knew E snuck out at night to visit Delilah, and that Des stole money from Mom’s wallet to buy Sadie concert tickets. I lorded my extortion over my brothers with glee, which actually sounds like something my criminal father would do.

Puffing air out my nose, I try to forget his still-unanswered text on my phone and relax into my role of Best Bower Uncle. “You can tattle on me,” I tell Max, “but then I’ll have no one to share milkshakes with at the Smash Shack later.”

His thick-lashed eyes shoot to me. “We’re going to the Smash Shack?”

“Depends on how handsome I look in that sketch.”

He rolls his eyes, resuming his drawing. I bop my shoulders, then my head, holding time to the acoustic tunes drifting from a lounging guy’s phone.

“Quit moving,” he says, laughing. “You’re distracting me.”

I’m about to dance harder in my seated position—anything to get a snort-cackle from Max—but my attention snags on a new couple setting up a blanket.

Maggie and Harrison the Limp-Shaker.

I freeze as Max requested, but not by choice. Seeing Maggie has this effect on me—locking me in place while my insides decide they’re in a bouncy castle.

Maggie gets comfortable with Harrison, tucking her legs under her as she pulls a book from her bag. She’s wearing light-green pants and a white tank top speckled with what look like tiny ladybugs. So damn cute. A fifties-style bandanna is tied over her head, holding back her hair. So damn sexy. Harrison sits with his phone in his hand, probably playing Candy Crush or maybe Googling Is the Hunger Games based on a true story?