Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(49)

“Got any beer, Maggie?” Jonah asks. “Maybe a snack?”

I yank a sweatshirt over the tank top I’m wearing. “Sure, hang on. Don’t move him, Stevie, he’s old,” I say as my brother’s friend, who must weigh close to three hundred pounds, tries to wedge himself in next to Colonel. “Sit on the floor.”

“Me or him?” Stevie asks.

“You, dummy. Want a beer?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He bats his eyes at me and lies on my floor, taking up approximately half of it.

I speed back into the kitchen and open the freezer again, letting the frosty air cool my face. Calm down, Maggie, I urge myself. Nothing to worry about. Malone’s here, it’s no big deal. Just think of him as another one of Jonah’s annoying friends.

“Need some help?”

Malone leans in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. His coat is off, and he’s wearing a faded blue work shirt. The color matches that of his eyes, and he’s so attractive, tall and angular and so damn male that I feel slightly dizzy.

“Sorry, what did you say?” I ask, pretending to look in the freezer for something.

“Need any help?”

In the other room, Stevie and Jonah give a yell and high-five each other. “No, I’m fine,” I tell my other guest. “So, Malone, what a surprise. Are you a big Sox fan? I mean, you probably are, I guess we all are, right, living here in Red Sox Nation and all th—”

“Not really,” Malone says, stepping closer to the fridge, where I continue to stare. “Your brother asked if I wanted to come over and watch the game here, and I said yes.”

“Really. Uh-huh. And, um…why is that?” I ask, leaning a little deeper into the freezer.

“I wanted to see you.”

“Oh.” I risk a glance at his face, and the little smile he’s wearing causes a tug of desire to pull at my insides. “I do have a phone, you know,” I whisper. Without thinking, I take an ice cube from the bin and press it against my forehead.

“I don’t like talking on the phone,” Malone says softly, and his voice scrapes a soft place in me.

“Really? What a surprise,” I manage. He reaches out and smoothes the little hairs at the back of my neck, and my knees practically buckle.

“Maggie! How ’bout that beer, hon?” Stevie calls from the living room.

“So is it okay?” Malone asks.

“Is what okay?” I ask, tossing the ice cube in the sink.

“Is it okay if I stay?”

I look him full in the face. It’s a face I’m really starting to like, I realize. “Sure,” I say, smiling. He grins back, and my heart squeezes hard, because his front tooth has the tiniest chip in it, and that imperfect smile makes him suddenly the most delicious, appealing man I’ve ever seen, and without even being fully aware of what I’m doing, I’ve wrapped my arms around his neck and am kissing him greedily, relishing the scrape of his five-o’clock shadow, clutching his hair, practically wrapping my legs around him.

Malone’s hands slide under my shirt, and his hands are so hot after the cold air from the freezer, his mouth hard and soft at the same time—

“Maggot! The beer!” my brother yells. “Come on, you’re missing a great game.”

With a shaky laugh, I untangle myself from Malone. His eyes are smoky. “Listen,” I say, swallowing, glancing toward the living room, “I’d rather that Jonah…um…well, not know about this…you know, this thing of ours. Okay?”

Malone opens the fridge and takes out a couple beers. His face is back in its usual lines. “Sure.”

For the next hour, Stevie and Jonah ignore me, except to ask for snacks, which I bring to them obligingly, glad for the excuse to distract myself from the lust that writhes around in the pit of my stomach. Malone deigns to drink a beer, but he doesn’t eat anything. Stevie takes up most of my floor space, and Jonah has the club chair that I got three years ago at a going-out-of-business sale in Bangor. Malone and Colonel sit on the couch, the dog’s head in Malone’s lap. Malone’s hand rests on the dog’s shoulder, and Colonel sighs contentedly once in a while.

I fold my laundry discreetly, putting my shirts and jeans on top of anything I don’t want the guys to see. I sneak a look at Malone every once in a while, and each time I do, he seems to know. Blushing becomes my permanent facial state. I pretend to watch the game, though the Sox could have all been murdered and left disemboweled on the field for all the attention I truly pay.

It’s Stevie, good old Stevie whom I’ve known since he was in kindergarten, who livens things up.

“Hey, Maggie,” he says idly, eyes fixed on the TV, “I heard you told Father Tim you were in love with him the other night. At the spaghetti supper.”

I choke on the beer I’m nursing, the fizzy burn surging up my nose. Stevie and Jonah roar with laughter. Malone, I note through tearing eyes, does not.

“Yeah, so what’s going on, Mags? You dating Father Tim?” Stevie continues.

“No!” I rasp. “No! Of course not! Jeez! I’m not—God!” Malone isn’t moving, just staring/glaring at me, his eyes like chips of ice.

“That’s not what I heard!” Stevie singsongs. “Have you kissed him yet, Mags? Father Tim and Maggie, up in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…”