Page 4 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

That brazen voice is definitely Maggie Edelstein, and my heart resumes its frantic racing.

I drop back down, huddling into a tighter ball, trying to fetal-position myself into invisibility. E waves to Maggie, practically having a conniption at my expense. Delilah’s even worse. Her suppressed laughter forces tears from her eyes.

I hang my head and sigh.

As a kid, I loved playing games. Tic-tac-toe, Clue, Monopoly, euchre. I got high off winning and gloating in my brothers’ faces, being a total braggart about the whole thing. Truth or dare was a particular favorite. My brothers always chose dare, and coming up with horrifyingly painful tasks kept my brain busy for weeks on end.

Unfortunately, playing truth or dare was also my downfall. I should never have opened that Pandora’s box with Maggie. Our secret time together was innocent-ish until I poked her competitive side with my provoking games. Now I’m playing a continual round of “hit the deck” whenever she’s near, and it’s time I grow up. Windfall is as small as towns get. I can’t spend the rest of my existence hiding in supply closets and behind apple displays. What happened eleven years ago needs to be faced sooner or later.

Firming my non-hipster jaw, I stand and swivel to face her.

Maggie startles and presses her hand to her chest.

This is our first face-to-face meeting since I moved back to Windfall, and I can’t help it. My eyes move over her hungrily, poring over her Milky Way of freckles, the sharp bite of her emerald eyes, the tiny scar on her chin from when she climbed a tree and nearly fell—one of my less-flirtatious Maggie dares. Her lips are painted ruby red, her white skin pale and smooth, and I expel a heavy breath. Seeing her stunning face this close is a sucker punch.

I expect her to adopt her Lennon-Bower-doesn’t-exist expression, the one she perfected in high school. But…no. Color rises to her freckled cheeks. Her mesmerizing eyes do a sweep of my adult body, from my Vans, to my jeans, to my Ironic T-shirt, and…holy shit.

She just bit her lip.

Maggie doesn’t bite her lip. Not around me. Certainly not in public.

Our eyes connect. Hers flare. I have no clue how I look, but I feel intense. Like we’ve been standing here staring at each other for ten days, when barely ten seconds have ticked by.

“It’s been a while,” I say. Not hi. Not I’m sorry if I hurt you.

She glides her fingers up and down her purse strap. “It has.”

We don’t say more. Just look our fill as I try to keep my emotions in check, but I’m still a lost cause this close to Maggie. All these years later, my stomach tumbles around her. My chest grows hot and tight. The way she’s staring at me, seeming affected and awkward, I’m sure she feels it too—this magnetic connection. A force beyond our control. In eleven years, I’ve never come close to duplicating how electric she makes me feel.

Tired of pretending I don’t care about her and our history, I step toward her, ready to tell her how great it is to see her in the flesh. Maybe ask her out. Work through our history and reconnect. High school was forever ago. Teenagers all over the world are known for making horrible choices.

A banker-looking guy calls, “Mags!” halting my progress. He walks over and wraps his arm around Maggie. “Sorry I’m late, babe.”

Instantly, Maggie’s features neutralize. Her attention darts to this guy, who must be her boyfriend, and she kisses his cheek. She doesn’t acknowledge me again or introduce us. Her Lennon-Bower-doesn’t-exist expression locks into place, and she leads her boyfriend away.

The tumbling in my stomach turns into a sharp stabbing. Uncomfortable heat suffuses my face. As wary as I was about facing Maggie, having her dismiss me so obviously makes me edgier. I tear my gaze away from her and her boyfriend, grab my shopping cart, and stalk toward the beer.

chapter two

As mentioned, I love games. Anything that earns me a good-natured laugh or annoys my brothers is a particular favorite. It’s day three after my Maggie Encounter, and I’ve recovered enough to resume my game-master throne. I’m currently hosting a staring contest with my second-oldest brother and new business partner, Desmond bad-attitude Bower, and he’s about to crack.

“Why do I have to do the paperwork?” Des growls, his top lip hitting snarl territory.

“Because one of us has to do the on-site stuff, converting the cabin into our headquarters and organizing the ropes course construction. Namely, me.” I widen my eyes, refusing to blink.

His jaw pops. “And one of us has to plan and promote the kids’ camps. I don’t have time for this.” He shoves the stack of permit papers toward me.

Most people would be intimidated sitting across from a snarling Desmond. He has tattoos on one side of his neck and on both arms. His thick-lashed dark eyes are always intense, his frown lines permanently etched, emanating a general air of Fuck Off. But I know how to access his inner softy and bend him to my will.

I push the forms back toward him, still refusing to blink. “You’re home more than I am. You can even get Max to help you since his writing is way neater than yours. Just tell him what to write.”

He passes a hand over his mouth and blinks. “Yeah.” The guy actually smiles. “Max digs writing neatly. He’ll like that.”

Seriously. Desmond is this easy to manipulate. He may have earned the Most Furious at Life merit badge during our WITSEC time, but one mention of his son—the ten-year-old kid he didn’t know existed until last spring—and the guy turns to mush.

He taps his thumb on the table. “I’ll add the permit costs to our expense spreadsheet, and I’m working on projections for the ropes course. I’ll flip that over to you soon. So far, all looks manageable financially, as long as our programs continue to grow.”

“They’ll grow. There’s buzz around town.” At least, they’d better fucking grow.