Page 2 of Blindsided
“You’re turning thirty in a few months! You’re not considered a young lass anymore, Cookie.”
My eyes roll at the annoying nickname he pegged me with almost as soon as we met. My surname is Cook, and since Mac loves addressing people by their last names, he charmingly came up with Cookie. What a treat for me. The chubby girl gets a food nickname. How novel!
That’s another thing about Scots. They’re overly familiar. They meet someone in a pub who has similar interests, and you’d swear they’d just met their soulmate, never mind the fact that they’ve only spoken a dozen words to each other.
Beyond the nickname, the comment Mac made about my age niggles in the pit of my belly. I’ve been fretting over my upcoming birthday for the past few weeks because I’m not exactly where I thought I’d be at the age of twenty-nine. Don’t get me wrong, I love my life. I have a great flat, my cat, Hercules, finally let me put him in a baby carrier that straps over my boobs, and I work in a clothing boutique with two of the coolest female designers in all of the land.
Seriously, Sloan and Leslie are the type of females anyone would look up to. They are mothers and wives and badarse businesswomen. And our marketing director, Allie Harris, is equally as ambitious. She and I have become extremely close over the past year. I’m actually going to be the maid of honour in her wedding in a few weeks. She’s marrying Mac’s roommate, Roan. Never mind that I still haven’t secured a date for the occasion.
My point is, I live a good life, and I’m truly lucky to work with such wonderfully successful women, but seeing them interact with their partners often reminds me I’ve ignored a significant part of my life for quite some time: matters of the heart. The stuff I positively swoon over on Netflix. And despite telling myself I don’t care about not being in a relationship with someone special, I do care.
I thought moving from Manchester to London a few years ago would be the kick in the arse I needed to try dating again. Instead, I’m still just a seamstress who’s living alone and doing a lot of Netflix andchilling—or whatever Mac calls it—with a man who wouldn’t dream of dating me in a gatrillion years.
“I’m not thirty yet,” I mumble, flopping back against the sofa and grabbing my own polar bear pillow to strangle.
Mac scoffs. “Why do you get all twitchy about your age, Cookie? Own it. I’m thirty-four, and you don’t see me moaning because I’m not young and braw anymore.”
“Well, apparently you are young and cool because you’re over there telling me I don’t know what Netflix and chill means. So, why don’t you tell me, Mr Cool?” I grab yet another sweet. I’m pouting, but bleddy hell, his comment about my age has put me in a mood. “What doeschillmean?”
I turn just in time to see Mac’s brows lift as he replies, “It means shagging.”
I nearly choke on the food in my mouth. “What do you mean?” I sputter and clear the congealed sugar out of my esophagus.
“Netflix and chill means Netflix and sex,” Mac explains.
“We don’t doThe Sex!” I exclaim and shift myself over so the sides of our thighs are no longer touching. He stated that word so easily. So matter-of-factly. My ears feel like they’re on fire with discomfort. Did it suddenly get hot in this room, or is it just me? “You and I are just mates!”
“Well, obviously,” Mac retorts, tossing his furry pillow on the floor and leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees the way he does when he’s on the sidelines at one of his matches. “I just meant that’s what people might think we’re doing if we tell them we watch Netflix together all the time.”
“We aren’t telling people!” I drop the remote in a huff and turn to face him. “I told you when you first started coming around that I wanted to be a secret friend. Not one that everyone knows about.”
“Being my secret friend is fucking balls now,” he replies, his brows furrowed in a serious scowl. “I went along with it in the beginning because you were worried about being photographed in the papers, but it’s becoming ridiculous. We’ve been pals for over a year, Cookie. I think it’s time you stop hiding. My teammates are always up my arse, asking nosy questions about what I do in my free time.”
“So make something up!” I nearly scream. “Tell them you’re drawing your next tattoo.”
Mac’s eyes narrow. “I don’t like lying, Freya. And I’m tired of avoiding the questions, which is why I think you should come with me to a party I was invited to on Friday night. Loads of my teammates and their WAGS, or wives and girlfriends I mean, will be there. I think it’ll be a nice laugh.”
“Are you deaf, Mac?” I shout louder than I intended, making us both jump. “I said I don’t want your mates to know about me. How could you think that going to a party with you is something I’d want to do?”
“I said I’m done hiding our friendship, and I meant it,” he states firmly, casually spreading his arm out on the back of the sofa as if he’s simply talking about the weather. “I’m going to tell them that we Netflix and hang whether you’re with me or not.”
“We don’thang. We Netflix and bicker at best!” I sputter and stand up, tossing my homemade raggy quilt on top of him while murmuring about how the word chill has been ruined for me forever. I pick up our Chinese takeaway containers from the sofa table and look down at him.
“What is your problem, woman?” Mac booms as he rises to his full height and stops me from scurrying away into the kitchen. His face is twisted up in confusion like he’s trying to calculate the square root of pi as he looms over me, practically vibrating with annoyance. “You have no problem hanging out with me in front of the Harrises.”
“The Harrises are different. They’re like family,” I state in a rush and then take a moment to calm my nerves, which are heightened from his statuesque stance. I really hate when he does this standing over me thing because it always gives my heart a little jolt. He’s so big. Well over six feet tall, which means the top of my head barely reaches his chin when he’s barefoot. When he’s wearing all of his football gear, he looks like a demigod standing amongst children.
I shake off the dizziness his large stature causes and shove my way past him, through my dining area, and into my tiny galley kitchen. “People like me are secret friends, Mac. Trust me on this.”
He storms in behind me, his close proximity sucking up all the oxygen in my flat. I toss the takeaway containers in the bin and then fix my eyes on the wooden countertop. I can feel him staring down at me when he says, “Explain yourself, Freya. Now.”
“Explain what?” I reply weakly, feigning ignorance that I know he won’t buy.
“What you meant by that last comment,” he says, scowling down at me like I’m a naughty child. “People like you?”
I exhale heavily and turn on my heels to face him with my hands on my hips. “Mac, you’re a big, fit Scottish footballer who’s famous. The whole city of London adores you, and you have women who would shag you with a snap of your fingers.”
His face brightens as he crosses his inked arms over his chest and shoots me a cocky smirk. “Careful now. That sounded dangerously close to a compliment, Cookie.”
