“Distract you?” I laugh throatily. “More like cool off. This place is hotter than hell.”
Three long strides, and he’s disappeared down the hallway where the thermostat is. Of course. Take things literally.
The hollow thud of boots, and he stands diagonally across from me, arms folded, leaning against the wall. Unaffected. Unreadable. The first man ever to make me rethink my stance against pickup-driving rednecks.
His eyes dart habitually to the windows and doors, still in protection mode.
“Do you ever really stop working?” I ask.
“Not when I have something worth protecting.”
I nearly choke on my lemonade, swallowing loudly and gracelessly.
“You are worth it, you know.”
His face broods—unmoving, eyes storming.
“God, I should never have confessed that to you. Now, I’m never going to hear the end of it.” I say it more to berate myself than to engage with him.
“You needed to say it,” he says with a finality that sounds like wisdom, though the last thing I want is advice.
I shrug. “Don’t make it bigger than it is. It was just a fleeting thought. Not something I’d think about…” I search for the right word, “regularly.”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t think about it at all.”
I huff a sigh, twisting my hands together in front of me. “And I shouldn’t be twenty-one with a guardian. But life isn’t about whatshouldhappen, is it?”
“Depends,” he rumbles, too dark.
“On what?”
His eyes drop to my mouth again, and heat curls low. My heart hammers against my ribs as I draw the angular planes of his face with my gaze. Rough. Dangerous. Virile.
“On whether I’m on or off the clock.”
He says it too fast, like he has to force out the words before his brain can catch up. Then, takes a chug of lemonade like a desert-bound man who hasn’t drunk in days.
The empty sound of the glass thuds on the counter as he sets it down, refusing to make eye contact. “Just so you know, Mia. Your value isn’t in concert tour dates, performance bookings, merch sales. You could give up singing tomorrow, and you’d still be wanted. Needed.”
It’s like the last part steals something from him, his face hardening. Before I can react, he grabs a sack from the counter, tossing it in my direction. His face says it all. He doesn’t trust himself to stay.
“What’s this?”
“Nothing,” he says, stormy-voiced, heading for the front door. He pauses halfway through, calls over his shoulder without looking back, “Just so we’re straight. Next time you decide to leave, ask for a ride. You’re no prisoner here.”
Then, he disappears. No doubt on one of his perimeter searches. Invisible but never far away.
Plastic rustles as I open the bag. Lavender, mint, and ivory. Three skeins of the softest yarn and a floral tin filled with colorful metal crochet hooks in varying sizes. My fingers slide over the familiar smooth metal, the backs of my eyes stinging dangerously.
“Grandma.”
I press the lavender yarn to my face, marveling at its velvety texture. Closing my eyes, I’m transported back to the quiet time between words when gentle hands seamed with wrinkles guided my work and taught me how to craft little turtles and foxes, owls and kittens from string.
But how did he know?
My eyes snap to the door, waiting, breathless, to understand the meaning of this gift and the man behind it. Even more afraidto embody this silence—what I’ve wanted for so long but don’t know how to fill.
“Maverick Holt,” I whisper, fingertips glancing over the mint-colored wool. Marveling, unraveling, re-finding myself in the quiet of the room. “You are a mystery.”
