Page 63 of Even Beneath the Stars

This time we both laugh.

"You want a straw, Xavey?" Finn pops his whole body between us, and I choose not to examine why I'm disappointed at the sudden separation.

"I'm good, thanks."

"You sure? I have a really cool straw that's like glasses you can wear."

"I'm sure, dude." I ruffle his hair with one hand as I lean across the counter and toss the Pop-Tart wrapper into the garbage drawerwith the other.

"You want one, Maggie?" Finn asks lifting onto his tiptoes to peer over her arm at the platter of meatballs.

She takes a step back and gives him her full attention. "You're asking if I want a straw that I can wear like eyeglasses while simultaneously using it to suck back my chocolate milk?" She cocks her head and gives him an exaggeratedly pointed look. "Heck yes. OfcourseI want to borrow your drinking-straw glasses!"

Finn's grin bubbles over into a giggle. "Okay, Maggie. I'm gonna get them for you." He rushes back into the pantry.

I pull in closer again. "Well. Now I feel like a stick-in-the mud for turning down the tacky glasses straw."

"Good." She flicks my chest. "You should."

Pretty sure I have never in my life had a girl dismissively flick my chest before. It sure as hell has never registered on my radar as a thing that's even mildly attractive in any way. Which is why I'm confounded as to why it suddenly is right now.

"Okay, guys," Maggie says conspiratorially, once Finn returns with the neon green glasses straw. "Here's what I'm thinking." She hooks the two arms of the glasses demurely over each ear, and Finn inhales a sharp breath as he anticipates whatever she's about to say next.

I'm pretty intrigued myself. Pretty intrigued with this girl in general, if I'm being honest, now that I'm considering the possibility that her sunny disposition and the way she is with my brother might be the real deal. That she might be different than all the other nanny clones who've inserted themselves into our lives over the years. Like she’s some kind of plot twist in a movie I thought I’d already figured out.

"I'm thinking we pile all this food on a couple trays…" she leans in. "We take the trays into the Games Room and eat in there while we have ourselves a mini tournament. One versus one with each of the games in there. Third person takes on the winner of each match. We tally the results and then…" She pauses for dramatic effect, killing it at pulling us both in. We're totally hanging on her every word. She finishes, "The losers have to compose and perform a song celebrating the winner." She straightens then claps her hands once as her eyes bounce between Finn and me. "So… Are you guys in?"

"Yesssss!!!" Finn leaps in the air, knocking my side in the process, his elbow jabbing straight into my ribs.

"Ohmygod, are you okay?" Maggie curls him into her arms and away from me, reaching out to rest a hand against my bicep.

I nod, tentatively stretching my back, not trusting myself to say any words just yet without them coming out as one long unflattering hiss.

"Sorry, Xave," Finn mimics Maggie, resting his tiny hand next to hers against my arm.

I laugh. "Guys, I'm okay." No hiss. Actual words, thank Christ. So I risk adding, "And yeah, count me in."

I've got this in the bag.

These two hyper cats are going down.

The throbbing in my ribs takes a back seat as we settle into our tournament. Finn's infectious energy fills the Games Room, his squeals echoing off the walls while the arcade lights flash around us. And Maggie's energy rivals Finn's.

"No way!" Maggie's jaw drops as I score another point in air hockey. "How are you doing that?"

I smirk. "Raw talent."

She narrows her eyes, dropping the puck. "Show me…" Her competitive streak could probably fuel a small jet engine.

I demonstrate my signature shot, a little jerky because of my damn ribs, but still impressive. But Maggie's a quick study. Within minutes, she's matching me point for point. This girl is hardcore—definitely not the amateur I expected. And evidently also has a black belt in making me eat my assumptions.

"Boom!" She throws her arms up after scoring. "That's what I'm talking about!" She follows it up with a victory dance that—not gonna lie—is way more distracting than the creatively high-octane trash talk she's been tossing my way the past half hour, then points a purple-sparkly-tipped finger at me. "Just a heads up, Mister Rockwell, I expect at least two key changes and some impressive high notes in the song you'll be composing in my honor." She lets out a little squeal, like she's already won the whole tournament. "Oh! And that thing musicians do where they tap on their guitar to make those kinda drumming noises at the same time as they're strumming."

I cross my arms, biceps popping. "Okay, first of all, I don’t do ‘high notes.’ My guitar and I have a strict no-falsetto policy." My tongue pushes into my swollen upper lip. "Second of all, key changes are overrated—kinda like your victory dance."

"My victory dance is stellar, you're just—"

"Third of all," I cut her off, taking a couple of steps closer, so we're just a foot apart now. The scent of strawberry shampoo hits me as I tower over her, but she doesn't back down an inch. If anything, her chin tilts up higher, those hazel eyes challenging me. I finish, "Seems to me you're putting the horse before the cart, LeClair."

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