Megan Meade's Guide to the McGowan Boys (2 page)

Kicker5525:
where he learned to speak Spanish???

TooDamn-Funky:
yeah! u go for 2 weeks & talk nothing but Spanish & u come back fluent.

Kicker5525:
. . . ????

TooDamn-Funky:
well this is like a guy immersion program!!!

Kicker5525:
so . . . what. Im going 2 b fluent in GUY?

TooDamn-Funky:
xactlee! u will c what they talk about when alone. U will c how they r with each other. U will c how they THINK!!! AND WHEN IT'S DONE YOU'LL BE ABLE TO WRITE A GUY GUIDE BOOK!!

Kicker5525:
u r deranged.

TooDamn-Funky:
IM SERIOUS! U culd break the guy code!

Kicker5525:
Huh. Guy 101.

TooDamn-Funky:
now ur getting it! and u WILL send me all ur notes so I can publish them on the web.

Kicker5525:
i like it. im in.

TooDamn-Funky:
knew u wood b!

Kicker5525:
Wish me luck!!! I sooooooo need it.

TooDamn-Funky:
good luck! swak!

Kicker5525:
swak back!

As Regina McGowan pulled her silver Volvo SUV into the driveway in front of the huge, farmhouse-style home, all Megan could see was boys. Boys everywhere. All seven of them plus their dad, running and laughing and shoving each other around on the front lawn, engaged in what appeared to be a full-contact, tackle version of ultimate Frisbee. They were playing shirts and skins. Shirts and mighty-fine-lookin' skins.

Megan's pulse pounded in her ears. Forget evil, laughing little monsters. These guys had been touched by the Abercrombie gods. They were a blur of toned, suntanned perfection. For a few seconds, Megan had trouble focusing on any one of them, but then one of the skins scored a goal and jumped up, arms thrust in the air, whooping in triumph as he clutched the Frisbee in one hand. His six-pack abs were dotted with sweat and a couple of stray pieces of torn grass. His smile sent shivers right through Megan's core. He had shaggy blond hair, a square chin, and the most perfect shoulder muscles Megan had ever seen. One of his brothers slapped him on the back and pointed toward the Volvo. He turned around and looked right at Megan.

The rest of the world ceased to exist.

“Well, here we are,” Regina said, killing the engine. “Megan?”

He smiled slowly—a perfect, open, happy smile.

“Megan?”

Something touched Megan's arm.

“Oh! Uh . . . yeah?” Megan whipped her eyes away from Mr. Perfection and blushed.

Regina's brown eyes twinkled with amusement and sympathy. “You can live in the car if you want to, but they'll find a way to get to you anyway.”

“Oh . . . uh . . .”
God, did she just catch me drooling all over one of her kids? Gross!

“Don't worry. They promised me they would be on their best behavior,” Regina said, unbuckling her seat belt. She swung her long dark hair over her shoulder as she got out of the car and leaned down to look at Megan. “My advice? Just be yourself. I'm sure you'll be fine.”

Megan managed to smile and Regina slammed the car door.
Be myself. Yeah. Right. Because that's gotten me so far in the past.

Megan's fingers shook as she reached for the door handle. She bit each of her lips in turn, wishing that she hadn't packed her one lip gloss in her suitcase, and tightened her ponytail as she stepped out of the car. Her light blue baby tee rode up a little bit whenever she moved and she was hyper-conscious of the fact that as she and Regina approached the group of boys, a few pairs of eyes went directly to her strip of tummy skin. Megan pulled down the hem of her T-shirt and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Megan! It's so good to see you!” John said, coming forward to greet her. He shook Megan's hand and stepped back to take a look at her. John was a tall man with blond hair that was longish on top but kept in place by some kind of crust-inducing product. He was wearing a Boston Red Sox T-shirt over sweat shorts and newish Nike sneakers. His skin was slightly weathered and wrinkled, but in a handsome movie star way rather than an aging dad kind of way.

“Yeah . . . you too,” she replied.

“Well, you certainly have changed,” Mr. McGowan said. “The last time we saw you, you had that teddy bear permanently attached to your side, didn't you? What was his name again? Mr. Boo? Mr. Boony?”

Megan turned purple as the boys snickered. This was not happening. This
could
not be happening. Her
teddy bear
?

“John,” Regina said in a warning tone.

“I don't really . . . remember,” Megan lied. Everyone was staring at her.

“Oh yes, you do! You wouldn't put that thing down for the world!” John's voice boomed. “Mr. Binky? Mr.—”

“Mr. Boogie,” she said.

The laughter was deafening.

“Yes! Mr. Boogie! I remember because you kept making him kiss me,” John said gleefully. “You still have that thing?”

“Um . . . no,” Megan lied. Mr. Boogie was tucked snugly at the bottom of her suitcase.

“Okay, I think that's enough of the trip down memory lane,” Regina said, stepping up next to John and giving him a nudge.

“What? I'm just making her feel welcome,” John said.

“Or exactly the opposite,” Regina replied under her breath.

Megan stared at the ground, trying to ignore the nine pairs of eyes that were focused directly on her. The only time anyone ever really paid attention to Megan—other than her parents and Tracy—was when she was on the soccer field. And she was always blissfully ignorant of that audience because when she played, the rest of the world faded away. Now she felt more conspicuous than a full body rash.

“I think I'll just go get my stuff,” she said, turning on her heel. With her back to the guys, Megan scrunched up her face, mortified. “Mr. Boogie? How does he remember Mr. Boogie?” She opened the rear door to the SUV and yanked out her backpack and her motorcycle helmet.

She slammed the door and whirled around, only to find herself face-to-chest with the Abercrombie god himself. Stunned, Megan tripped backward and slammed right into the side of the car.

Ow.

“Oops. Sorry,” he said.

“It's problem,” Megan said.
Oh God. “No problem” or “It's okay!” How hard is it to speak two words?

“Sorry about my dad. We tried to trade him in, but there were no takers,” he said with a slow smile. He had incredibly warm brown eyes.

Megan, of course, snorted a laugh. It was all she could do to keep from slapping her hand over her mouth and running away. This was already worse than any Ben Palmer encounter she had ever endured.

“Anyway, I thought I'd come help you with your bags.”

“Uh . . . thanks,” Megan said, sliding away from him and walking around to the trunk of the SUV.

“Nice bike,” he said, glancing at the roof rack, where her silver-and-black Maverick was latched. Back at the airport Megan and Regina had ditched the dented cardboard box the airline had packed it in.

“Uh . . . thanks,” she said again.

She slung her backpack over both shoulders, the helmet that was tied to it bouncing against her hip, and popped open the door.

“This is it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Megan replied.

“Wow. I thought girls were notorious for overpacking.”

“I'm not much of a girl,” Megan replied.

What? What did you just say?

He looked her up and down and smiled. “Could've fooled me.”

If the human form could melt spontaneously, Megan would have turned to a puddle of liquid skin right then and there. This six-foot-four, gorgeous hunk of half-naked hottie was flirting with her! Inarticulate, tomboyish, freckle-nosed Megan Meade!

He hoisted the mesh bag of soccer balls out of the trunk and flung it over his shoulder. With his other hand he grabbed the large suitcase, leaving only her laptop bag and the smaller suitcase, filled with Megan's underwear, bras, and pj's, for her. Even though he had no idea what was in it, Megan was glad that she didn't have to watch him carry her lingerie up to the house.

“I'm Evan, by the way,” he said as she reached up to slam the door.

Megan almost choked. “No.”

Evan laughed. “Uh . . . yeah.”

“
You're
Evan?”

Pudgy, stringy-haired, snot-bubble-blowing Evan had morphed into this WB-worthy god of Olympic proportions?

“Yeah, I am,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Didn't you hit me over the head with a baseball bat once?”

“It was a wiffleball bat,” she said. “And I think you hung me from a tree first.”

“Huh. I always thought it was a baseball bat,” Evan said.

“I'm freakishly strong,” she said.

Right. Stop talking now. Stop . . . talking . . .
now!

But Evan was, in fact, still smiling. They started up the lawn toward the rest of the family.

“So, you're a soccer player, huh?” Evan said as they approached. “Good thing. You're gonna need to be quick to survive this crowd.”

Megan looked at the other boys, who were now gathered in a huddle. The youngest one pushed between their legs to get into the middle of the circle, then pushed out again through another space and went in search of his next entry point.

“Yo! What's ‘kicker' mean?” one of the boys asked, raising his head from the crowd. He had bleached blond hair cut in a Caesar style and a large diamond earring in his left ear.

Megan looked down at her motorcycle helmet as if she had never seen it before. Written across the back of the black helmet was the word
Kicker
in quotes.

“Oh, that's my nickname,” Megan said.

“Lame nickname,” Caesar Boy said.

“She plays soccer, idiot,” Evan said as he placed her bag of soccer balls on the ground.

“Evan! Language!” Regina scolded.

“Okay, but tell him to quit being such a jerk,” Evan replied.

Megan managed a smile.

“I can parent on my own, thank you,” Regina shot back with a smirk. Then she walked over to Caesar Boy and gave him a light whack across the back of his head. He let out a dramatic “Ow!” and rubbed his skull vigorously, scowling.

“So, are you boys going to introduce yourselves, or are you all just going to stand there like a bunch of orangutans?” their father asked.

Grumbling, the boys broke up the circle a bit and one of them stepped forward. He was only slightly shorter than Evan, with a similar athletic build, wavy, tousled, dirty blond hair, and gray-blue eyes. He wore a black T-shirt that had one word on the front in white, old-fashioned typewriter lettering:
art
.

“Hey, I'm Finn,” he said. His voice was on the soft side. He lifted his hand quickly in greeting. “I think you're gonna be in my class. Junior, right?”

“Yeah,” Megan said.

“Cool,” Finn replied with a smile. “Um, you met Evan,” he said, then turned to the rest of the clan.

“This is Sean.” He pointed to a shorter, stockier guy with dark brown hair and a bit of stubble. Sean wore jeans, even though it was ninety degrees out, and he had the Orange County Choppers logo tattooed on the outside of
his right bicep. Megan and her dad had restored two vintage Harleys last year and she had just gotten her motorcycle permit. Sean might be a kindred spirit under that blank expression.

“That's Doug,” Finn said, pointing out Caesar Boy, who clearly thought he was the second coming of Eminem. He wore a gold cross around his neck and had big, defined arms but an incongruously pudgy stomach. Megan smiled at him, but he looked away from her and sucked his teeth.

“This is Miller,” Finn said. Miller had a blond crew cut and was sporting a New York Yankees T-shirt with a caricature of A-Rod on the front. He stared at the ground and only nodded slightly when Finn said his name.

“That's Ian,” Finn said, pointing at a chubby kid who looked much like Megan remembered Evan looking seven years ago.

“Hi, Ian,” Megan said.

“Hi,
Kicker
,” Ian replied, cackling a laugh and holding his stomach.

Wow. He is
exactly
like Evan was seven years ago,
Megan thought.

Out of nowhere the littlest one came running over, making a random revving noise. He ran headfirst into Evan's knees and laughed.

“And this runt is Caleb,” Evan said, lifting the little boy like he was hoisting a bag of potatoes. Caleb sat comfortably in the crook of Evan's arm with his head against Evan's chest and one arm around his back. He touched the tip of his finger to his mouth, smiled shyly, and said, “Hi, Megan.”

Megan took a deep breath. “Hi, Caleb.”

Three for seven
, she thought.
Could be worse.