Harper sat down beside me, thigh to thigh, and we watched the dust dance in the beams of afternoon light, quietly taking it all in.
By the time darkness washed Dairyville into silence, I’d showered, gone through two face masks, and watched exactly forty-six minutes of a French murder drama without reading a single subtitle. The house was quiet—Mom had gone to bed early, and even the air conditioner gave up its rattle and settled into a low, satisfied hum. I sprawled on my bed in a tangle of sheets, feeling vaguely hollow and more than a little sorry for myself.
That was when my phone buzzed.
It was a text, not a call, and my pulse kicked at the familiar number: Gunner.
I stared at the screen, debating, then opened it with the reckless hope of a woman who has nothing left to lose. The message was a single line:
You make the prettiest sounds when you think you’re alone.
My cheeks flared red so fast I actually gasped. I sat up; the phone clutched in my sweating palm, staring at the words like they might sprout claws and drag me through the glass.
Another buzz almost immediately:
I could listen all night, Maverick. But I’d rather you made those sounds for me in person.
I dropped the phone on the comforter, breathing fast, hands pressed to my face. I knew he’d had to hear me last night. I’d seen that I’d accidentally dialed his number. When I’d checked further, I saw the call had lasted forty minutes. He’d stayed on the line and listened to me. He’d heard me whining his name. I knew that’s what he’d referenced this morning, and I actually thought it was funny. So what? He heard me getting myself off. Good for me.
My wolf stirred, rolled belly-up and whined for more.
I typed back, rapid-fire, thumbs shaking:
You didn’t have to perv. You could have hung up.
Three seconds later:
I could have. But I didn’t. You really wouldn’t have wanted me to.
I bit down on a yelp, then thumbed back:
Dream on, cowboy.
His reply came so fast I knew he’d already written it.
If I did, I’d still wake up hard as a fence post thinking about you.
I snorted. It was such a Gunner thing to say. The laughter, raw and a little wild, made my stomach flutter.
A pause, then:
Tell me what you’re wearing right now, Maverick.
I looked down at myself: bralette, ragged blue shorts, bare legs tangled in a quilt. My skin flushed, but the idea of telling him made something inside me spark.
Nothing you’d like, I wrote. Boring old pajamas.
I’d like you better out of them. I know you’re not shy.
A moment, then:
Prove it. Show me.
My heart galloped in my chest. Was he kidding? Was I? I debated, then—fuck it—I snapped a quick shot of my legs, knees up, one foot bare, the rest artfully out of frame.
You’re not getting more than that, I sent.
He replied with a single word:
