My chest aches, a lump catching in my throat. “You do. Every night.”
He squeezes my hand, his backwards cap tilting as he shakes his head, like he can’t believe I just handed him this piece of myself. Then he leans over and presses his lips to my temple, lingering there. “Then you’re never sleeping without me again. Not if I can help it.”
The city engulfs us as we exit the interstate, glass skyscrapers shining in the late afternoon sun. Nashville buzzes with its usual hustle, music pouring out of every bar, neon signs flashing above busy sidewalks, the aroma of barbecue and beer filling the air.
Maverick’s hand stays on mine as we move through the streets. He’s in his element — tall, broad, with his Mustangs shirt stretched over his shoulders, backwards hat shadowing his grin as he nods politely to those who recognize him. But his focus never wavers from me. His thumb gently strokes my knuckles, steadying us both.
I tug on his hand. “Are you going to tell me what this surprise is, or are we just going to keep walking until my combat boots kill me?”
He smirks, dimples flashing. “Patience, dollface. We’re almost there.”
We turn down a quieter street, away from the loud noise of Broadway. My brows knit as he slows in front of a tall brick building sandwiched between two shops. Its windows are dark, and the door is locked with a heavypadlock. A faded “For Lease” sign hangs limply in the corner.
My confusion sharpens. “Maverick…”
He digs into his pocket, pulling out a key. My stomach flips.
“You didn’t.”
He shuts the door behind us, slips the key into his pocket, and leans against it as he stares at me. His eyes are gentle, steady, almost nervous.
“Remember that night?” he says softly, walking toward me. “When I dropped the bomb about my fake marriage scheme, and you agreed?
My pulse stutters. I remember. God, do I remember. The way I crossed my arms, chin lifted, spitting terms like it was a business deal. And how I’d added, almost as an afterthought,“Fine. But I get something out of this, too. My own studio.”
My throat tightens as he stops in front of me, pulling his cap off and raking a hand through his messy blond hair. “You said you wanted your own shop. A space that’s yours. No strings. No one telling you how to run it. Just Amelia Hamilton, owner of her own damn dream.”
He gestures around us. “Well. Here it is.”
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
“Mav…” I whisper, shaking my head, tears already burning behind my eyes. “The contract, it’s gone. You didn’t?—”
“I did.” His voice is firm, no room for argument. “Because it was never about the contract. Or Maggie. Or any of that fake shit.” He steps closer, cupping my face in his warm hands. “I got this for you because you deserve it. Because I believe in you. And because when I picture ourlife together? This is part of it. You, in your studio. Doing what you love.”
The tears break free, sliding down my cheeks.
He brushes them away with his thumb, his voice rough. “I wanted to keep my promise, dollface. Even if you don’t believe me yet, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it. You’re mine. And your dreams are mine too.”
The sob escapes me before I can stop it. My knees weaken, and I stumble against his chest, burying my face in his shirt as he holds me tight.
Because this—this man, this moment, this building—is everything I never thought I’d have again.
And he gave it to me anyway.
I’m still pressed against him, tears soaking into his shirt, when he tilts my chin up with the crook of his finger. His blue eyes are focused on mine, shimmering with something that takes my breath away.
“I left it empty on purpose,” he says softly, sweeping his hand across the wide room. “These walls? They’re yours. Draw on them. Paint them. Cover them in sketches if you want. I want your fingerprints on every inch of this place before it opens.”
My lip trembles.
“And when it comes time to fill it,” he continues, “whatever you want to buy—chairs, machines, paint, lights, hell, even a neon sign that says ‘Hot Girl Ink’—” a small grin tugs at his mouth, “—you take my card and you don’t think twice. You hear me? You want it, it’s yours.”
My heart feels like it’s cracking wide open, too big for my chest.
And then he reaches into his pocket.
My breath stalls as he pulls out the ring, my ring. Theemerald cut emerald I gave back to him that night I spewed those nasty words. He holds it between us.
