He hasn’t noticed that I’m here.
His massive hands are braced on the counter, palms spread wide against the white quartz. Muscles ripple across his shoulders, veins running down his forearms, every line of him tense and restless. He’s just… standing there.
I can’t look away. Every line of his back flexes like he’s built to ruin me, and my thighs press tighter together without permission.
God help me, I want to bite his shoulder blades. Who even thinks like that?
His voice stutters, breaking my focus on oogling. I only catch a glimpse of what he’s saying, like he’s talking to himself, but the words sharpen as he keeps pacing. “...nipple piercings… Jesus Christ…” He drags a hand over his face, muscles flexing down his back, broad shoulders bunching with every movement. “She’s got pierced—what the fuck is wrong with her…”
I bite down hard on my lip to stop myself from laughing because Maverick is standing in his own kitchen, dripping with sweat and having a full-blown meltdown over my tits.
I scoff, loud enough to slice through his mumbling. His head jerks up, and I swear I see his shoulders become even more taut.
He whips his head around, blue eyes wide as they trail back down to, yup, my pierced tits.
“You’re not wearing a bra,” he blurts, voice crackinghalfway between awe and panic. His eyes drop and linger a second too long before he jerks them back up to my face, cheeks flushed.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and lets out a shaky laugh. “Jesus… that’s, uh, yeah, that’s really hot.”
I arch a brow, crossing my arms over my chest just to make him squirm more. “Wow,” I deadpan, tilting my head at him. “Congratulations, Hayes, you’ve officially discovered boobs. Want a medal?”
He scrubs a hand through his damp hair, gripping the back of his neck like he needs the anchor, eyes wild when they land on me again. “You’re just walking around here like that, and I’m supposed to think clearly?”
“Why am I here, Maverick?”
“I—what?”
I cross my arms tightly under my chest, knowing damn well it just makes the tank stretch tighter, but I don’t care. My glare locks on him, but his eyes still trail down my body like he can’t help himself.
Heat coils low in my stomach, and I shift my weight to one hip, trying to look unaffected. My fingers drum against my arm, restless, betraying the way my skin hums under his stare.
“I don’t even know why I’m in Tennessee,” I snap, my voice low and sharp, though it comes out softer, sultrier than I mean it to. “And you’re standing here acting like I’m supposed to play house with you.”
He backs up a little, just enough to bump the counter again. His hand shoots out to brace against it, chest still heaving as his damp hair falls into his eyes. He mutters a curse under his breath, jaw flexing hard.
“You asked me to come here.” I jab a finger toward him, eyes narrowed. “You said you needed to talk.”
My arms fold tighter under my chest as I take a slow step closer, heat simmering under my skin. “So far, all you’ve done is give me a tour, let me stew on your couch in my underwear, and stare at my tits.” My mouth twists into a dangerous smirk as I tilt my head, daring him to deny it. “So what is it?”
He finally exhales, shoulders slumping as his gaze drops to the floor, streaks of his blonde hair falling into his eyes. His big hands rub over his thighs, and for once, he almost looks… serious.
“I’m in some PR trouble,” he whispers, “I need a fake marriage to clean up my image.”
He glances up through his lashes, and in the next second that dumb, lopsided grin stretches across his face. He lifts his hands in a helpless little shrug, blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Surprise.” He wiggles his brows and points finger guns at me, clearly way too pleased with himself for dropping a bomb like that.
Fake marriage?
“You’re fucking joking,” I say finally.
He shakes his head.
“Nope.”
“You flew me to Tennessee, didn’t say a damn word for hours, and now you’re standing in front of me, shirtless in your kitchen, asking me to fake marry you?”
Maverick has the nerve to look sheepish.
