I’m not sure I should let him off so easily. “I don’t know. You told Luke he could do better than me. And then you said, ‘Maggie’s pretty, I guess.’ We all know what that means—you didn’t think I was attractive.”
He groans and covers his chest with his hand. “I was an idiot. You’ve always been a stunning woman.”
“You were an idiot. I had a huge crush on you for years. I gave in to Luke’s overtures because I thought you saw me like a little sister.”
When he moves back to look at me, his eyes are wide with disbelief. “I’m having a hard time believing this. You liked me?”
“Yes! All the guys pretended to be so cool. You were always yourself. Smart, cute Michael Oliver with the big blue eyes and dimples. The guy who always picked me up and dusted me off when I fell off my bike. That was before you got your big muscles and turned into a smoke show.”
The first time I saw him without his shirt in high school, I almost tripped over my own two feet. How had he gone from that scrawny kid when we moved to town to a brawny, tall, golden god? Football.
“I was one of the biggest nerds in the school, and you thought I was cute?”
I shrug. “You were the hot nerd who started to ignore me.”
“When did I ignore you? You’ve said this before, but I don’t know when that happened.”
“You always ignored me when I was with Luke. Maybe even a little before that.”
He frowns. “I guess I didn’t handle my feelings well, huh? I’m sorry I was a dick to you. Luke liked to brag about his conquests, and I was loathing the day when he’d start talking shit about you. I think I was bracing myself for the eventuality that you guys would sleep together. It was making me crazy.”
“I never slept with Luke. I was a virgin until college.”
“No shit?”
“Luke dumped me and banged that girl he swore was just a friend ten seconds after we broke up. It was a while before I trusted anyone enough to date again.”
“I’m so sorry. I hate that I had a part in all that. No wonder you despised me.”
I blow out a breath. “I don’t think I despised you.”
“Just disliked me enough to sabotage my donuts.”
“And zip-tie grocery carts to the door handles of your car.”
“I knew that was you!”
“Did you get my sandwich?”
He pauses to think. “The plastic wrap?”
“Yeah.” His senior year of high school, I snuck a slice of cellophane-wrapped cheese into his lunch with the words “Not Sorry” written in sharpie on the plastic. “Did you eat any of it?”
“Half the sandwich. Until I realized it didn’t taste quite right.”
I laugh. “It took you that long to figure it out?”
“I was a growing boy with a big appetite.” The way he says that, the way he’s looking at me with those heated eyes, makes me think he’s talking about more than food.
“I’m sorry about the whiplash thing.” I cringe when I remember how upset he was.
“At least it wasn’t during football season. You didn’t mean to rear-end me that hard, I suppose.”
“I really didn’t. I’d just gotten my license, and I thought it would be funny.” I fold my lips, embarrassed. “And I’m sorry about your bumper falling off.”
It’s really a wonder he doesn’t hate me after all of the crap I pulled on him over the years. Now that I think about it, him coming to my rescue at the grocery store a few months ago was really sweet of him. I didn’t deserve his kindness.
Which makes what I have to say that much worse.
