Of course, people are going to recognize him.
He keeps trying to close the space between us. His arm brushes mine, or his hand swings just a little too close.
I sidestep, walking faster ahead of him.
“You always walk this fast?” he says, catching up to me in two strides. “It feels a little personal.”
“I just have long legs,” I lie, scurrying ahead again.
A throaty laugh escapes him. “You definitely do not, pipsqueak.”
“All this talk about you being the best quarterback in the NFL…” I say, looking over my shoulder. “Better make sure you keep up.”
“Keep up?” Maverick says as he grins, shamelessly. “Baby, I’m just trying not to get distracted watching your ass sway in your leggings.”
I shoot him a glare over my shoulder, again. “First of all, can you not. Second of all, you literally invited yourself on this trip.”
He smirks. “Yeah, I wanna spend time with my hot wife.”
“I’m not your wife.”
“In my eyes, you are,” he whispers under his breath.
I pretend I didn’t hear that, and just as I’m about to rip him a new one, camera shutters start clicking rapidly at us.
Shit.
Flashbulbs pop, as cameras begin swarming us. My stomach twists, but I keep my chin high, even when the crowd swallows us whole.
“There he is!” someone shouts, and the mob closes tighter.
“Maverick Hayes, tell us about the wedding!” another voice bellows, the mic jabbing toward his mouth.
My spine stiffens, and I can feel Maverick’s hand slide to the small of my back, a silent command to keep moving.
Another voice yells through the crowd.
“Kind of a quick one, huh? Is she pregnant?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as my nails dig into my palms, the cameras flashing faster.
I try to twist away, but Maverick tugs me in closer, practically tucking me under his arm.
And then, like gasoline to the fire, another pap yells.
“What’s with all the tattoos? Not great for your image, man.”
Each jab gets louder than the last, each one aimed at tearing me apart without even knowing my name.
I should cut my losses now and walk away before I forget that none of this is real, and before I start wishing it was.
Because Maverick Hayes might be able to charm an entire stadium, but he can’t save me from myself.
Maverick stops walking. Just stops, with the mob stumbling around him.
His jaw tightens, blue eyes fixed on the guy who said it. For a moment, the street goes silent except for the click of camera shutters.
“She’s my image,” he growls, voice low and rough enough to rattle my ribs.
