Page 11 of Love at Teamsgiving
“It’s the best man,” Erica repeats.
Cup aloft, I look from left to right as if I’m missing something. “Right. Got it. We’ll taste the cake, order the flowers, do whatever you need to do.”
She clears her throat. “Shane’sbest man, Mike—” From behind us in the café comes a clatter of falling dishware. I turn to see about the commotion.
Someone calls, “It’s okay! Nothing was hurt except my pride.”
Facing Erica, again, I pause on what she said. I don’t know Shane nearly as well as I do his bride-to-be, but I’m pretty sure his brother is named Steve and there’s no close friend named Mike.
Erica tenses and adds, “Mikey.”
It takes me a moment to place the name—not because it’s unfamiliar but because I’m desperate to cover the tattoo of those letters in my mind. Turns out there’s a very good reason she was hesitant.
I don’t choke on my latte. No, the warm liquid goes down cold as I realize who she means. The enemy of all enemies—notthat I have many stacked up. However, my grip on the paper cup tells a different story.
“Seriously?” I ask.
“As serious as pumpkin pie.” She’s trying to lighten the mood because she knows I had a slice for breakfast, but no. This can’t be happening.
Miguel was a moron, a menace, a mega, mighty, massive mistake. Why can’t my brain can’t get past the letter M? I press my fist to my forehead and close my eyes because I know why ... I’m not over him.
When I open my eyes, Erica is frozen, gazing out the window, pale like she’s seen a ghost or made a grave error. I follow her line of sight. At that very moment, I spothimthrough the window of the Honey & Lavender Bakery and Coffee Shop.
“Juniper, please don’t be mad?—”
I don’t hear the rest of what she says because my pulse roars in my ears.
Miguel, also known as Mikey, is tall and well-built, resembling a gladiator, with a physique reminiscent of one of the famous, larger-than-life statues in Italy. He has a commanding presence and is cockier than a rooster—that’s what Mama says. However, unlike polished marble, he’s swarthy with dark hair and eyes. He wears jeans and a hoodie under a leather jacket, along with a hat, likely to remain somewhat incognito. As if.
The guy loves attention and brakes for it.
Yet, there is no denying Miguel Guiseppe Cruz is frustratingly, infuriatingly handsome as heads turn. My fists tighten as if by instinct. As if we’re at his early hockey games all over again, before that winter walk home that changed everything.
He could’ve been mine. He was until he ruined it all.
Don’t get whiplash, ladies.He won’t think twice about breaking your heart.
Even dudes appraise him as if in the presence of greatness. If they’re looking for loyalty, they won’t find it in him—he’s played for several different teams so far in his NHL career, if that says anything.
Our gazes meet and I hope he sees the lava-like heat in mine, burning him to a crisp.
“Please be on your best behavior,” Erica says, a plea in her voice.
“I’m not making any promises,” I mutter, getting to my feet and fortifying the battlements.
Shane walks in like a normal person, while Miguel saunters as if he knows everyone is watching him.
Also, like a normal human being, Shane is of average height, weight, and looks. He’s attractive in a standard way, unlike Miguel, who thinks he’s the best in show.
Yeah, he’s a dog, alright. No, he never cheated on me, but given what I’ve seen of him on social media in the company of various women, he’s taken his fourteen months of bachelorhood very seriously.
Of course, I look ... notice ... social media stalk him. Whatever. Not often. Occasionally. On Saturday nights, when nothing is going on and I’m home alone. I just want to make sure he’s as miserable as possible and not having the time of his life in exotic places during his off-season.
His gaze lands on me. If he’s surprised by this meeting, he doesn’t show it. His heavy-lidded gaze doesn’t widen. However, the smirk on his lips only deepens.
He stops a pace away from me, facing me, making us nearly toe to toe.
Tipping my head back, I look up and up some more.
