When Sherri called later – and Maggie was sure that she would, Maggie would ask Sherri to deliver the cookies on her behalf. That way Maggie could avoid the humiliation and Sherri would have a valid reason to place herself in the presence of the Callaghan men again. She’d like that. It would more than make up for any hurt feelings caused by Maggie’s bailing on her.
After meeting a few of them, Maggie had a better understanding of Sherri’s obsession with them. They had been polite and friendly, not to mention romance-novel-cover gorgeous, and, from the little bit she had observed, seemed genuinely fond of each other. Maggie tried hard to find one thing about any of them that she would improve, and frustratingly, she came up empty.
One Callaghan in particular seemed to be commanding her thoughts this morning, however. Despite the certain knowledge that he was way out of her league, she liked him. He was kind and caring, with an easy going manner, yet there was something decidedly darker beneath the surface.
Not that she felt any fear; on the contrary, she had never felt safer than she had in his presence. He had an aura about him that exuded confidence and capability without an oversized ego, and she just knew that he would always take care of what was his.
A sigh came unbidden to her lips. Talk about the perfect fodder for a romance novel.
She couldn’t help but wonder what Michael had thought of her, if he gave her any thought at all. He hadn’t seen the real Maggie; he’d seen her wild alter ego. The real Maggie didn’t single-swallow shots of bourbon, or dance the dance of the seven veils in a room full of men at a bachelor party. The real Maggie didn’t wear makeup or sexy clothes. She farmed, she cooked, she baked. Her computer skills let her work some consulting jobs from the comfort and safety of her own home, allowing her to scrape together just enough to keep the bills and taxes paid.
The more she thought about it, the more glad she was that Michael had seen Magdalena. Because if he had run across her as plain old Maggie, he would never have given her a second glance.
She sighed, shuffling along the hardwood-flooring, one hand on the wall for support. Despite the unfortunate accident and the aches and pains now surfacing with a vengeance, Maggie couldn’t find it in herself to regret the decision to help Sherri out. It had been fun. For a little while she had been allowed to be someone else – someone free and passionate, wild and sensual – so unlike the hard-working, quiet, do-the-right-thing girl she normally was. And, more importantly, she had met Michael, something that probably never would have happened under different circumstances. Even if she knew nothing could come of it, she could tuck away the memory of his dazzling smile, brilliant blue eyes, and soft, soothing voice for when she needed it.
Maggie had to blink several times as she pushed open the swinging door and stood in the doorway, not quite believing her eyes. George didn’t even notice her, his attention focused solely on the huge male positioned in front of the stove. Michael. He hadn’t run. He was still here.
Maggie swallowed hard. Geez, he looked good, even better than her concussed, bourbon-soaked mind remembered. In a heavy flannel shirt, untucked and unbuttoned, worn over the white wife-beater tank, a pair of well-worn Levi’s conforming to a perfect backside. The shadow of a beard – dark like his hair - graced his strong, masculine jaw. His blue-black hair was slightly messy, as if he’d recently run his hands through it. He wore it shorter than his brothers did, in the back at least. It was still just long enough to give him a touch of that bad boy look, especially the way he allowed it to grow a little longer in the front, hanging down teasingly to his brows when he inclined his head a certain way.
And he was barefoot.
In her kitchen.
Making breakfast.
Dear sweet Virgin Mary.
She stood there, rooted to the spot, convinced she was dreaming. Perhaps she had a concussion after all. If so, she wasn’t sure it was such a bad thing. If the next few days were filled with visions like this, well...
George finally noticed her. His tail started thumping, catching Michael’s attention. He followed the dog’s eyes to where she stood in the doorway.
His eyes raked her from head to toe before a dazzling smile lit his face, making her blush furiously. She could only imagine what she looked like. Why hadn’t she visited the bathroom first? She could have at least splashed some cold water on her face, or combed the tangled mess of hair she knew had to bear a striking resemblance to Medusa’s right about now.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice even deeper than she remembered, giving her shivers up and down her entire body. “How are you feeling?”
“I think I’m hallucinating,” she said weakly, leaning against the frame for support as her hand rubbed gently at her face. In two long strides he crossed the floor and towered next to her.