Memories swirl in my head.Your parents abandoned you. They’re too selfish to care. They never ask about you.
Accusations delivered by Edwin with the same calculated, surgical precision he used to fire Jordan. Nip it in the bud before I could form an attachment to another human being. Before I could find myself and my strength through another person.
I shift beneath the covers, heart pounding. A sweet torture to know Maverick sleeps on the other side of the wall. If he sleeps at all.
I close my eyes, imagine going to him. Imagine what it’d feel like to be in his powerful arms, firm heat steadying me.
When Edwin finds out, he’ll stop this. Like he always does.
Unless I stop him first.
“And that’s the reason for the statement,” I whisper to myself.
At least, I followed my bodyguard’s advice, didn’t post the original video I intended to. The one I thought would tell my fans the truth, garner support. The one I’m pretty sure Edwin would have used to reframe everything around a lie.
That I’m unstable, mentally and emotionally. That I can’t be trusted and my perceptions are off.
Floorboards creak in the living room, and my pulse pounds. He’s awake, too. I rise quickly, wrapping myself in a purple silk robe and padding quietly into the living room.
Maverick stands in the kitchen, shirtless, the warm glow of the stovetop light washing over his chiseled flesh. Silvery raised flesh catches the light, a massive scar transecting an abstract black circle tattoo. My eyes trace the angry pucker of skin that breaks the shape, like the end of something.
He clears his throat, eyes steady, drawling, “Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I admit, taking a stool.
“Tea?”
I smile. He already knows my answer.
He moves around the kitchen quietly, muscles dancing beneath his tanned skin. A wild man with wander in his blood. The kind of guy who doesn’t stay anywhere too long.
I grab my laptop, log into my social media account, and frown. It hasn’t been six hours yet. It should post within the next half hour.
“Having second thoughts?” he asks, resting his hands on the counter.
“Yep,” I squeak, trying to suppress the quiver in my voice.
He doesn’t judge me. Doesn’t say what to do. Just stands there like a strong boulder, like the only physical thing tethering me to what I want.
I drum my fingers on the countertop, meeting his steady gaze. “If I don’t post it, none of this is real. You can go back to your life, your job. You can pretend this never happened.”
He nods slowly, jaw clenched. “That what you want, Mia?”
I rub a hand over my face, sighing. “Maybe it’s what makes the most sense. Maybe I’ve taken things too far. Made too big a deal out of Edwin and everything. Am I being ungrateful? Not thankful enough for all he’s done for me?”
His brows furrow, and he exhales slowly. “The silence is worse than the noise would be.”
The words, the way he looks at me, tell me he understands.
“Tell me about the scar, your tattoo,” I prompt.
He stares down at his chest for a long moment as if he’s gathering his words around his gaze.
“Used to be on the rodeo circuit. A professional bull rider. PBR champ. Leaderboards. Dust, mud, fame. All of it.”
“So, you were famous, too, then?”
He nods, staring at the countertop. “This,” he says, tracing the thick silver line along his chest, “finished things for me. Shut the door on all my best-laid plans.”
