-Maverick (your totally chill, emotionally stable, fake future husband.)
I stare at it for way too long.
My reflection stares back at me, hair wild, tank top slightly askew, and a sharp ache behind my eyes that I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying since he said those five stupid words.
“I need a fake marriage.”
I should’ve said no. I should’ve walked away when he proposed this insane deal. Because if I stay close, if I play wife to Maverick Hayes, I’m opening a door I swore I’d nailed shut years ago. But the second he asked me what I wanted, I caved.
Pathetic.
I should be furious. I should yank it off the mirror and toss it in the trash.
A reluctant pull at the corner of my mouth, my face betraying me, something about his idiotic note, and the fact that he wrote it at all, pokes a crack into the armor I’ve been clinging to since the moment I walked into his house.
I press my fingers lightly to the sticky paper, as if it might vanish the second I admit I don’t hate it.
Because I don’t.
I hate him for being a dumbass, sure, for blindsiding me with something that should’ve come with a PowerPoint anda goddamn legal team, for walking around this place shirtless like it makes up for not using his words.
But the note?
The stupid Sharpie handwriting, the smiley face, and the fact that he thought to leave it at all?
That part gets to me, and I hate that it does.
Fuck it.
maverick
. . .
A week later
Am I crazy for already securing a studio for Amelia? The answer is no, I’m not crazy, I’m committed.
My eyes focus back into reality, shit, I zoned out. This might be the most serious meeting of my career, and I’m wearing joggers and a backwards hat.
Amelia’s perched next to me on the edge of my leather couch with her legs crossed, hair in a messy ponytail, a silver ring glinting in her nose. She’s wearing her sexy little tights, an oversized grunge Ghostface tee, and knee-high boots. She could stomp on my neck right now, and I’d thank her.
Jesus Maverick.
Maggie, my PR agent and long-time personal tyrant, clicks her pen and flips the next page in the stack of documents.
“This,” she says briskly, tapping the contract with the end of her pen, “is the official agreement. It outlines the timeline of the fake marriage, key public appearances, joint sponsorship deals, and expectations from both parties.” She flips a page, eyes cutting up at me with a pointed look. “You’ll also find a detailed behavioral clause, which, let’s be honest, is mostly aimed at you, Hayes.”
I nod slowly. “Love that for me.”
Amelia doesn’t even glance my way.
She’s flipping through the NDA, utterly unfazed by the fact that this entire thing hinges on both of us pretending to be hopelessly in love.
Joke’s on her.
I’m already there.
Maggie clears her throat. “Now, you’ll both sign the NDAs first. When you’re seen in public, you’ll act like the perfect couple—utterly and hopelessly in love.”
