Fake wife, real feelings.
What could possibly go wrong?
maverick
. . .
My skull’s splitting open like a busted watermelon.
I groan into my pillow, face buried deep enough to smother myself, which, honestly? It might be the best thing going for me right now, instead of living through this hangover. My mouth tastes like shit and melonballs, my eyes feel like they’ve been rolled in sand, and my head’s pounding so hard, I swear it’s going to fall off.
Cupcake, my doberman, chooses this moment to jump onto the bed, her tongue slapping across my cheek like a damn sponge.
“Jesus, girl,” I croak, shoving her off half-heartedly. “Give me a second, will you?”
She pants harder, tail wagging, and barks at me.
Get a puppy, they said.
Dragging myself out of bed feels like a fucking chore. Every joint pops, my back cracks, and my shoulders ache as I shuffle into the kitchen like a hobbit.
My house is quiet, still shrouded in early morning fog. I built it right here in Ruby Ridge after my first pro-season bonus. I could’ve bought a place in Nashville or maybesomewhere flashy in Los Angeles, but I couldn’t bear the idea of leaving this town behind, so I stayed and made it mine.
It’s a blend of sleek wood and dark iron accents, with large windows that allow just enough light to soften the edges. The open floor plan extends from the kitchen to the living room, where my brown leather couch looks like it’s never been sat on, mostly because I usually crash wherever I fall.
I turn on the espresso machine, the satisfying click echoing through the quiet kitchen. Aroma of freshly ground beans rises, dark, rich, and nearly convincing enough to make me believe this morning might be survivable.
I run a hand through my messy hair, still groggy as shit, and grab my phone from the counter. The screen lights up with countless texts, phone calls, and notifications that makes me wish I could crawl back into bed and pretend I’m someone else.
Thirty-seven missed calls from Maggie, and one god-awful, blurry paparazzi shot of me getting kissed on the neck by some girl whose name I couldn’t tell you, even if you offered me a million-dollar signing bonus.
Fucking awesome.
I groan, choosing to ignore Maggie, scrolling until I find Carter’s number, choosing to text him before I can talk myself out of it.
Maverick
Bro, let’s get breakfast, or I’ll throw myself off the nearest porch swing.
Carter
It’s 7 a.m.
Maverick
Wow, look at you, counting.
Carter
I’m not getting up for your dumbass unless Catalina makes me.
Maverick
Bring her, she likes me.
Carter
No.
