Heavy footsteps creak on the upstairs floor as the sound reverberates down the wooden staircase.
I finally look up and find Maverick already staring at me.
He’s shirtless, wearing grey sweatpants that hang low, his sharp V-lines on display.
God, he’s so fit, I see a fucking eight-pack chiseled into his abs. His blonde hair’s wet and messy, as he combs his fingers through it.
He walks into the living room, throws himself onto the couch, and out of all the places to sit, he’s right next to me. So close, our shoulders are touching.
“Comfortable?” he asks, stretching his tattooed arm across the back of the couch, brushing my shoulder with a featherlight touch, giving me goosebumps.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, throwing his arm off of me. “Hard to say when I still don’t know why the fuck I’m here.”
He blinks.
“I told you,” he says casually, “I wanted to talk.”
I stare at him. “Talk about what, Hayes? The weather? Your skincare routine?
“It’s… complicated.”
“I flew across the country. You’d better uncomplicate it real fast.”
His mouth opens, probably for another dumb joke.
I shift, just slightly, throwing my leg over the other, with my arms crossed.
His eyes drop to the thin cotton around my chest, on the obvious outline of the barbells beneath my tank. He clenches his jaw as his cocky expression falters.
“Are you—” he starts, his deep voice cracking.
“Gonna finish that sentence?” I say, too sweet. “Or just stare?”
He blinks fast as he stands quickly.
“I’m gonna…uh…check on the pets.”
“They’re fine. Rex is probably hexing your pantry.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, backing toward the hallway. “I’ll just…yeah. Do that.”
He stands up quickly, running his fingers through his hair, and bolts into the kitchen with an unusual amount of speed.
Just poof, disappeared.
There’s no way I’m letting him walk away without giving me answers.
I storm into the kitchen with murder in my eyes.
The overhead lights spill a muted glow across the matte black and white quartz, the polished flecks catching just enough to shimmer under the brightness.
I lean against the doorframe, and my gaze collides with his bare back; broad, sun-kissed skin stretched tight over muscle that looks carved from hours on the field and the weight room.
His shoulders flex as he moves, every ridge and line shifting in a way that shouldn’t be legal. Water droplets trailalong his spine, rolling down to the waistband of his sweats, and the sight makes heat pulse low in my belly before I can stop it.
Maverick’s standing in the kitchen like a fucking weirdo, shirtless and oblivious, and it makes my pussy throb just from looking at him. I shut my eyes, scowling.
Amelia, baby, control your body bitch.
