Page 43 of Love at Teamsgiving
“Is that so bad?” Miguel asks.
His reply is almost as good as a hug. But it’s as if I’m preprogrammed to try to repel him, and I say, “You’re bad for me. And I’m bad for you. We both know this.”
“Do we? Or is that a story you told yourself because you’re disappointed that we didn’t stand up to Momzilla and Queen Kong and do things our way when we had the chance?”
And those words are like a slap in the face.
His dark eyes bore into mine. “Instead of creating boundaries with your mother, you pushed me away.”
I shuffle back, casting a glare. “Way to psychoanalyze me, Dr. Cruz.”
“I’d send you the therapy bill, but I know you’d just throw it in the trash.”
The truth sends a shudder through me, but I storm off, calling over my shoulder. “Thanks for the help, but your services are no longer required.”
I stewand simmer all the way to the rental. The house is dark. I could really use another meatball right now. A whole plate of them because there’s no way I’m wearing my wedding dress again. If Miguel can be married to hockey, I can be marriedto meatballs and my salon and it’s going to be the best one in Cobbiton. The only one, but still.
I hardly sleep that night. The inner simmering goes to a full boil until the water evaporates, and the pot begins to burn.
I was under the false impression that this big move would not only benefit Mama, but I’d finally get to do things my way, outside the confines of New York and beyond the trappings of the past.
Then Miguel has to be here along with Momzilla and Queen Kong. I wonder what life is like in Alaska, Antigua, or Austria. Maybe I could open a salon in one of those places.
Who does he think he is, telling me that I don’t have boundaries with my mother and pushed him away because it was easier than dealing with her?
A little betraying brat inside reminds me that it’s because that’s my own interpretation of events. He didn’t say any of it. I inferred it because ... it’s the truth.
Whatever. He doesn’t get to reveal that to me. It’s not his job. I didn’t solicit his advice. Made no request for his opinion.
The brat snaps her fingers again, pointing out that it’s somehow easier to say no to Miguel than to my mother. I toss in the bed, not wanting to face that truth either.
It’s official. I’m on a Miguel-cott. It’s like a boycott. No, a mancott. The thought of his touch sends warmth rushing across my skin, making my belly flutter before reaching my chest.
Maybe I should find an accountability partner, but that would mean confessing that I still have feelings for Miguel, and boy, do they burn hot.
Try as I might, my body refuses to forget or ignore that Miguel is very much a man with his athletic build, dark features, and thick hair.
Oh, his hair. My exhale shakes. It’s the stuff of a stylist’s dream. It’s thick and silky. Women pay a lot of money to have hair that approximates his.
Women also probably pay a lot of money to see that flow from the front-row arena seats when he removes his helmet and it flows from side to side.
I should sneak into his house in the middle of the night and cut it. Or convince Purr-t Reynolds to form an alliance and do my dirty work.
No, I should stop thinking about Miguel.
Now.
And now.
And now and now and now.
If only I had the same level of discipline in filing away thoughts of him as I’ve had about building my career.
Forget meatballs, I need a slice of pumpkin pie. I find my phone and look up a recipe, then make a list of ingredients to get tomorrow.
I fall veryshort of pumpkin pie perfection on my first attempt. It looks more like something you’d find filling a sewer cover on Broadway on New Year’s Day morning.
I put a redo on hold because I spend the next few days formalizing my business with the town and state. It’s a lot of paperwork and adulting, but it demands my attention and provides a focus that isn’t six feet three inches, built of brawn and Italian marble, with a dimple in his chin and a smirk on his lips that just won’t quit.
