Page 14

Chapter Fourteen

Maggie

" O h my God, you guys…" I slump like an accordion against the counter at Board and Brews, where Silas and Caroline are busy icing our ‘quickly becoming famous’ cinnamon buns. "I need a month-long vacation." I drop my head into my folded arms resting on the smooth surface. "Or at the very least, a luxury weekend spa retreat."

"So, not a cakewalk during week two at Chateau Rockwell, then?" Silas drizzles an extra dollop on the final bun.

"Gaaaawwwd. You have no idea."

"Well, we're all booked for spa treatments,' Silas deadpans. "But here—" he shoves a blue bowl across the counter at me. "Icing is all yours. Knock yourself out."

I sigh dramatically, tipping it toward me. Then frown. "It's empty, you stinky turnip," I whine.

Silas picks up the spatula, swirls it around the bowl a couple of times, then pushes the sticky handle into my splayed hand. "Wasn't empty, you ungrateful wench."

I lick the icing off the spatula then toss it back in the bowl. So unsatisfying.

"Aw, Maggs." Caroline strokes my hair out of my eyes. "Are you okay?"

Well, at least one of them is sympathetic to my misery and the level of crap I've had to deal with all week.

"I am officially partied out," I declare. "And I haven't even been the one doing the partying."

"Xavier?" Caroline guesses .

"Dingdingding." I lift my head. "He is the poster child for overachieving at the wrong things. Honestly, I have no idea how Broody McBrooderson has the energy to pull himself out of bed for school every morning, Let alone for hockey practice afterwards." Because, as far as I can tell, playing hookie isn't one of Xavier Rockwell's many vices.

"The kid? Finn? How's he doing?" Silas asks. God bless him—finally checking into my misery.

I turn and lean back against the counter. "Finn has totally regressed… His tantrums are worse than ever."

"Well, there's got to be a reason."

Yeah. The phone call with Jacee.

But I can't tell Silas and Caroline that. Xavier may drive me up the wall, but even he doesn't deserve to have his family's toxin-infused laundry aired out for the world to gawk at.

So I go with,"Yeah, I mean… it's not even the way they're acting…" Then I amend, "Well, not fully. It's more the fact that they insist on locking me out. Or at least, Xavier does—and tries to get his brother to. It's like, no matter how patient I am, or how hard I try to respect his relationship with his brother, he still insists on casting me as the enemy. Like, adamantly insists. As if it's his life's mission… and I don't get why. "

"Maybe you gave him a reason and just didn't realize it," Silas offers. And I can't decide if his bluntness is helpful or insulting.

"I definitely never gave him a reason to resent me to this extent."

"Wow… It sounds really bad," Caroline says, her mouth pulling into a soft frown and her eyes flicking between mine like she’s trying to read all the parts I’m not saying out loud. Because Caroline Heinz is seriously the sweetest. She leans back on the other side of the counter, letting Silas place the cinnamon buns on the display dishes.

"Yeah, my life kind of sucks donkey balls right now." I sigh extra dramatically this time. More for Silas' benefit than Caroline's.

"You ever licked a donkey's balls?" is all he comes back with, though, quirking an eyebrow at me. When I don't answer, he finishes, "Maybe they're delightful. "

"More delightful than my week has been, I'm sure."

"Still," he says in mock seriousness. "Not cool of you to take it out on the innocent donkeys of the world."

"It was flat out the worst week ever."

"Again with the bold claims." Silas leans beside Caroline, taking a bite of cinnamon bun with one hand and pulling his phone out of his jeans pocket with the other. "Siri," he calls, "what are three things that are worse than a week looking after a billionaire's spoiled five-year-old and his dreamy teenage brother who's also a total douche-canoe and has a raging hate-on for me?"

Caroline's smile bubbles into a laugh, and I can't help joining in.

"You're such a crinkly cornflake," I tell him. "Why can't you just feel bad for me and leave it at that?"

"I might." He grins, lifting his phone and waving it. "We'll see what Siri says and that'll determine how bad I feel for you."

I groan through a laugh as he starts reading. "Three ways your week could be worse than a week looking after a billionaire's spoiled five-year-old and his dreamy teenage brother who's also a total douche-canoe and has a raging hate-on for you." His eyes flash to me then to Caroline, whose mouth is hanging open in disbelief.

She's way less shy and intimidated than she was before she started dating Seb, but still doesn't know what to make of Silas' blunt, cynical, and hard-edge personality. To be fair, I'm not sure anyone but Jackie really knows what to make of Silas' unique brand of personality.

"One." He lifts a finger in the air, eyes still trained on Siri's no doubt insightful responses. "Getting stranded at the very top of a rollercoaster with a chatty stranger who won’t stop oversharing. Mainly about the intricate details of her family’s annual holiday fruitcake recipe."

I try not to bust a gut, while Silas takes this all totally seriously, deliberating. Comparing the rollercoaster scenario to mine.

"Oh, come on!" I nudge him. "A stupid fruitcake recipe is nowhere near as bad as Finn going all badass and graffitiing en entire bathroom wall. Or being woken up last night by Xavier and his stupid friends racing down the hall on skateboards at midnight to Gold on the Ceiling by the Black Keys."

"Oh no!" Caroline looks genuinely stricken. "Was Seb one of them? Please tell me he wasn't one of the guys skateboarding down—" She pauses. Sighs. "He was totally one of them, wasn't he?"

"Yuuup." I lean in towards Silas to take a bite out of his cinnamon bun, then turn back to Caroline. "But to his credit, your boy landed a pretty mean Shuvit."

Caroline buries her face in her hands. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. Seb is so far down on my shit-list right now."

"Ladies. You're getting distracted here." Silas holds up his phone. "The fruitcake lady on the rollercoaster, remember?"

"The oldest fruitcake was made in eighteen-seventy-eight and is still preserved and edible," Caroline pipes in with one of the random facts she can't help spurting on occasion—especially when she's anxious. "It's kept as a family heirloom in Michigan."

Silas pivots. "Okay, possibly mildly interesting, but not relevant to what we're trying to determine here," he tells her. "Also, weird as fuck."

"Sorry."

"You're forgiven." His lips quirk into the hint of a grin. Then he turns to me. "I'll give you this one. The fruitcake lady sounds kind of awesome."

"Yes!" I fist-pump, getting into this whole thing despite myself. For being the broodiest, most bad-ass guy I know, Silas has the uncanny ability to make me smile when all I want to do is cry.

"Two," he continues, lifting two fingers this time. "Getting roped into a reality TV show competition for something you’re terrible at. Like ballroom dancing, extreme wilderness survival, or assembling IKEA furniture under pressure."

"I'm awesome at assembling IKEA furniture."

"What about ballroom dancing?"

"I feel like I could hold my own. And I worked at a summer camp with preschoolers—which is basically wilderness survival."

"Well, shit," Silas sighs. "Guess you get that one, too."

"Yesss! Final round!" Caroline exclaims eagerly, as invested now as I am .

Silas scoffs. "Well, you just proved you're totally biased, so your vote no longer counts."

"You're the only one who's voted so far," Caroline points out.

"Like I said, seems like the smartest strategy."

"Okay, what's the last one?" I'm even more eager than Caroline. I'm the one with my "worst week ever" title at stake here.

"Number three…" Silas pauses dramatically.

And just then, the bell rings above the doorway and we all wave as a college-aged couple walks in. Thankfully, they're regulars, so they go and seat themselves.

"Number three," Silas repeats, totally drawing this out. "Discovering your charge's dreamy douche-canoe older brother uses 'Baby Shark' as his alarm clock sound. It goes off at five a.m. and he hits snoozeten times. "

"Xavier would never have an alarm set for five a.m.," I interject at the same time as Silas makes a loud game-show 'you fail' buzzing noise.

" Errrnt! You officially did not have the worst week ever, Maggie LeClair."

"I totally did!" I argue. "That last one was bullshit."

"What? It was the least bullshit example. They used the actual rich douche-canoe brother in that scenario, therefore proving how your specific situation could , in fact, have been worse than it was."

"But that would never happen. Xavier—"

"Sorry," Silas shrugs, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. "Baby Shark trumps everything. It's like… an unspoken universal rule."

"That you just made up."

He ducks down to grab a can of soda from the smaller fridge under the counter. "Whatever. Rules are still rules."

"I had the worst week ever, Silas Carmichael; I don't care what your stupid Siri poll says."

"I believe you," Caroline backs me, and I love her a little more right now.

"Fine." Silas cracks the can open. "I'll concede." He takes a long swig, then lowers it. "So—what? You want me to rough up this Rockwell asshole?"

"What did Rockwell do now?" Beck Travers' familiar voice pipes in from the other side of the counter, and we turn to face him.

Thankfully, Beck stopped pursuing me a few days after he realized my disinterest in him wasn't just my version of playing hard to get. And he's been a lot more tolerable to hang out with since then. He's still equal parts shameless flirt and reckless dare-devil, and also, I've heard, usually the name that precedes trouble not just at Ocean Heights, but Sandy Haven in general.

We definitely travel in mostly different crowds. Beck mainly straddles the same circle as Silas—the wilder, more lawless, un-touchable crew—and the popular jocks. But there's something I like about him. I have a hunch there's more to him than he lets the world see.

"Travers. Whatsup?" Silas reaches out a fist and they bump knuckles.

Beck leans in and his dark hair falls over his face as he rests his elbows against the cash. "So?" His eyes bounce between Silas and me. "Why is Silas gonna pummel Rockwell?"

"He's not." I sigh." Xavier can be a decent guy… He's just a dick to me. With everyone else, he's pretty much your run-of-the-mill chizzle-jawed, confidence-oozing, swaggery billionaire."

"Fair assessment," Caro agrees.

"Well, minus the lobster-pants," I can't help adding. "Those are sorely lacking."

"Lobster pants?" Beck gives me a twisted scowl.

God, why does no-one else know about lobster pants?

"You mean like, those douchey prep-boy embroidered chinos rich frat boys wear in movies?"

And just like that, Silas redeems himself. "Yes! Thank you."

He lifts a fist and we bump knuckles, then he pulls me into a one-armed sideways hug. "You can't let these people get to you, Maggs." His tone is serious now. Sincere. "It's their issues, remember? Like your mom always says… Don't let whatever those issues are affect you personally. Totally not worth it."

"You're right."

"Always am."

I nudge my elbow into his ribs. He elbows me back, grinning.

Funny—Silas Carmichael and I speak mostly in sarcastic, cynical anecdotes and back-and-forths… Always have. Everything about our personalities is so vastly different. And yet, of any of my guy friends, he's always been the one I love the most. Definitely the one I'd pick to be my foster brother. Which, well—works out pretty damn perfectly.

The four of us spend the next couple of hours chatting in between serving customers. Then later on, Silas and I head home and have dinner with my mother, who gives me one of her gold-star pep talks. Fills me up with love and perspective and two helpings of apple crumble. And by the time we've cleared the dishes, she has us all doubled over with laughter as she updates us on her latest bodice ripper.

She leans in conspiratorially. "So, in a scandalous twist of fate, Lady Seraphina just found herself trapped in a too-tight corset, moments before the grand ball. And—

Silas cuts her off. "Is a corset like, one of those smoking Victoria's Secret lingerie things?"

Mom's eyebrows knit together. "Well, no, Silas—During the regency period, a corset was more of…" Then, she obviously re-thinks going further down that particular path with her teenage foster-son, and amends, "Sure. We'll go with that."

"Hot."

She rolls her eyes. " Anyway… As Lady Seraphina's meddling aunt tries—and fails—to free her, Viscount Percival Blackthorne suddenly—"

"Fucking Percival?"

"Language , Silas," Mom sighs.

"You can't tell me the name Percival isn't ten times more offensive than one F-bomb."

"His friends call him Percy."

"Like that’s any better." Silas scoffs.

"So, " mom continues pointedly, "Viscount Blackthorne, ever the reluctant gentleman, stumbles into the room—just in time to witness Seraphina being hoisted upside down by two maids as they attempt to loosen the laces of her corset." She claps her hands. "And it's love at first gasp!"

Silas and I roll our eyes, but within minutes, we've dissolved into a fit of laughter alongside my mother.

It’s just the refuelling I need. A positivity boost that makes me feel full again, and optimistic that I can turn this ship around with the Finn and Xavier. I mean, if Lady Seraphina managed to get some uptight viscount to fall for her upside down and indisposed, then surely I can handle a couple of uncooperative billionaire brothers with attachment issues and questionable music taste.