The signature comes out too scrawled and flashy. I’m used to signing in metallic Sharpie, not a ballpoint pen. But it feels good. The brush of my hand across the paper. The sense, though fleeting, that I belong to me and me alone.
She stands rounding the desk and sweeping her hand to follow. “Let me show you to your room.”
A staff member follows behind, carrying my overnight bag. He disappears as she shows me around the secluded room with a private bathroom and modest-sized television.
Instead of feeling like they’re closing in on me, the walls are a kind of freedom that ripens with each breath, each step I take. But beneath these minor victories is a bittersweet ache only Maverick can fill.
My raven-haired cowboy bodyguard.I wonder what he’s doing now as I run my fingertips across the dining room table, mind wandering back to heat and breath.
“Your parents have requested a meeting,” Mrs. Everley says.
I brace my hands on the table, anger simmering beneath the surface. But it feels softer somehow, less powerful and dangerous in the light of day.
“When?”
“Whenever you’re ready. They would like to discuss your living arrangements and legal needs.”
I want to cross my arms and stubbornly refuse their help. After all, they abandoned me. But if it weren’t for them, I would never have worked with Lone Star or met Maverick.
“Maybe this afternoon? Before dinner?”
“Yes, after I’ve had a little time to settle in.”
Three hours later,I enter a minimally furnished conference room, eyeing my parents with a frown.
My mother’s face blanches. Dad shifts awkwardly, like he can’t decide whether he should sit or stand.
Mrs. Everley waves me to a seat, then takes the one next to me. “Ms. Lowell, I want to start by explaining that your parents requested this meeting. I’ll be mediating, and you should feel free to leave at any time.”
Anger and skepticism wrestle behind my ribs as I eye my parents. Both older than I remember. But a flicker of curiosity makes me ask, “How did you get here so quickly?”
Dad lives in Nashville and Mom in Las Vegas.
“Is it okay if we talk?” Dad addresses Mrs. Everley, shifting in his seat.
She nods.
His eyes meet mine. “You’ve been all over the news, Mia. The incident in Rhode Island, the shooting here. Your disappearance. Then, Crowe started calling…”
Mom adds, “I’ve been worried sick about you. I didn’t expect much. But a call—from you—would have been nice.”
“So would a childhood,” I answer, narrowing my eyes.
“See, Teddy?” Mom glares at Dad. “Always blaming me for everything.”
“I didn’t come here for a fight,” he hisses, frowning.
“But you saw it yourself?—”
Mrs. Everley intervenes, tiny voice surprisingly loud. “I would like us to stay on topic, please.And to take our turns.”
“I’m not here to defend myself,” Dad continues. “But after the statement, I had to intervene. See what your mom and I can do to help.”
Mom’s mouth twitches. “Yes, Mia. We want to help,” she seconds, voice breaking slightly. “But only if you want it.”
“Everything I need, I already have,” I whisper, staring at the table. But when my eyes dart from one face to the other, it hits me all at once. This is not the time or place for stubborn independence. I need allies, no matter where they come from.
“Are you sure?” Mom says.
