I shrug like it’s no big deal, even though pride hums beneath my skin. “Thank you.”
“I’m June, the owner,” she says, still flipping through the pages. “Honestly, I’m looking for an artist like you. Are you available to come in on Friday?”
“I’m free whenever you need me.” My voice is calm, but inside, I’m screaming.
I need this.
June nods slowly, snapping the portfolio closed and handing it back. “Come by next Friday at noon, and you’ve got a spot.”
I exhale, tension draining from my shoulders just a little. “Thank you.”
Maverick’s already leaning against the counter, his eyebrow raised as his mouth twitches like he’s fighting the urge to say something ridiculous.
“See? I knew they’d fall for you,” he murmurs once we’re outside, the bell clanging behind us again.
“I’m just here to work,” I mutter, flipping through the binder to make sure everything’s in place.
“And I’m here to be your cheerleader.”
Town locals seemto know Maverick.
They offer quick nods and easy smiles; no one shoves phones in our faces or asks for autographs, not like in Los Angeles.
Ruby Ridge treats him like he’s just Maverick, notMaverick Hayes, starting quarterback of the Tennessee Mustangs, and I can see how much that means to him by the way his shoulders drop the second we walk in.
We’re seated in a corner booth with cracked leather seats and a view of the quiet downtown street outside, where fairy lights are strung between buildings and the breeze rustles through the trees.
The table is tucked in enough to feel private, but open enough for the waitress, who clearly wants to die from smiling at Maverick, to deliver two menus and a quick “It’s good to see you back, Mav.”
He thanks her with that charming, lopsided grin. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“I’m not taking no for an answer,” he says once she leaves. “You crushed that interview, dollface. We’re celebrating, pick whatever you want.”
I arch a brow. “Seriously?”
“Duh,” he says, setting his menu down. “That woman saw your art and damn near bowed.”
I look away, as warmth crawls up the back of my neck.
Dinner goes by in a blur of laughter and teasing. He orders a steak the size of a plate and talks with his hands.
His eyes catch me staring when I think I’m being subtle, and every time our eyes meet, there’s a glint of mischief and awe that I’ve never seen in a man before.
I order short rib pasta and tell myself I’m just here for the food, not for the way he bites his lip between jokes or the way he leans closer when I speak, so he can listen and pay attention to what I’m saying.
He’s intoxicating; everything about him is piquing my curiosity.
It’s annoying.
When we leave, the night air feels crisp, and the stars above Ruby Ridge shine a little brighter than they do in LA. There’s a warmth in my chest that I pretend is from the wine.
We stop outside his SUV, and I reach for the passenger handle, but his voice stops me.
“Wait,” he says gently.
I slowly crane my neck with my brows pinched.
He walks toward me nonchalantly with his hands in his pockets. “Congrats again, dollface.”
