My thumbs fly across the screen as I open the group chat with Catalina and Layla.
Amelia
Maverick and I just had mind-blowing sex again, and I’m freaking out.
Catalina
Oh no, you banged your husband.
Layla
At least you two are getting laid.
I bite my lip, glancing at the balcony where his tall figure is silhouetted against the morning light, pacing as he talks. My heart does that annoying little flip.
I’m still twiddling my thumbs on his bed, my phone buzzing every few seconds with unread texts from Catalina and Layla, when the sliding door clicks open. Maverick steps back inside, and one look at him makes my stomach sink.
His usual easy grin has disappeared. His hair’s a mess, but not in that cocky, I-just-rolled-out-of-bed way; it looks like he’s been running his hands through it too many times. His shoulders hang low as if they’re weighed down by the entire NFL, and his eyes... God, his eyes look tired.
Defeated.
“What’s wrong?” The words are out before I can stop them.
He exhales through his nose, avoiding my gaze. “Nothing.”
A moment passes.
His jaw tightens. “I need to make a public apology to your ex.”
That draws my attention up fast. “What?”
His fists tighten at his sides, knuckles turning white. “I didn’t like how he was speaking to you,” he says softly, almost as if he’s ashamed of it. “And now I have to apologize to him. Publicly. For defending you.”
I sit up straighter, heat prickling at the back of my neck. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I don’t know how much more of this public image shit I can take,” he mutters, looking away toward the window. “I’m starting to forget who I even am outside of it.”
I toss my phone onto the bed without a second thought, and the screen goes black as it hits the comforter. Standing on my tippy toes, I reach out, cupping his face in my hands, guiding his gaze back to mine. His skin is warm beneath my palms, rough from faint stubble, and when his eyes finally meet mine, they’re glassy and teetering on the edge of something raw.
“Maverick…” I don’t know if it’s meant to be comfort or a plea. Maybe both.
He swallows, shaking his head, changing the conversation. “Let’s play hooky today. You down?”
The question hangs in the air between us, a quiet rebellion wrapped in a boyish smile he’s fighting to find.
I hesitate. “Where to?”
A glimmer of mischief finally sparks in those blue eyes. “I know the perfect place.”
We pullup to the cliffs overlooking Moss Cove, and my chest feels so tight I can’t hide how much this place means to me.
The tide is low, and the sand is dotted with families and couples, but the cove itself—my cove—waits just beyond the curve of the shore.
We walk barefoot, shoes in hand, with the cold Pacific foam licking at our toes. Maverick stops every few steps to pick up a seashell and holds it out to me.
“Look at this one,” he says, palm open to reveal a spiral shell, soft blush pink with white ridges. “Matches your lips.”
I roll my eyes but take it anyway, tucking it into my pocket. “You’re too much.”
