Maverick’s phone is blowing up with more family notifications, his expression shuttering with each new message. He bites his bottom lip, looks around, looks at me, worry marking his beautiful features.
“I really fucked things up for you, didn’t I?”
He hasn’t even shown me the messages, but there’s real fear in his voice. I’m reminded, once again, that he’s had feelings for me for a very, very long time. And he’s far more vulnerable than he’d ever let on.
Before he can spin out, I put up my hands. “Hey, what’s this look? And what’s your family saying that’s got you so concerned?”
“Please don’t tell me I fucked this up before we even really got started,” he begs, looking for all the world like he’s about to cry. “Holmes says he’s worried you might lose your job.”
I join him in bed, lying back on my pillow, pulling him against me. Not unlike the image I painted.
“You didn’t fuck up. This is who you are, and I forgot that for half a minute.” I shrug. “Also? Joni is completely on board, and if she still thinks I have a job, then I probably still have a job.”
“Wait. You forgot who I am?” he asks, almost like it’s a good thing.
I place my palm over Maverick’s heart. “In here? Never. I just forgot the small, insignificant detail that you are, in fact, world famous.”
“Yeah,” he says with a dramatic eye roll, “famous for being famous.”
Oof. I don’t like this self-deprecation, even if it mirrors some of the less-than-flattering thoughts I’d once had about him.
“You’re also probably the most misunderstood human on the planet,” I assure him, skating my fingertips along his jawline.
The hope in Maverick’s eyes breaks my heart.
“You really think so?”
“How many of the people who saw your post know about the Brazilian jiu-jitsu? How many of them know the daily grind of living with an impossible language processing disorder? How many of them just think you’re hot?”
“None and all.”
He looks down as he says this, and I tap under his chin till he meets my gaze.
“Exactly. And I’m lucky enough to know you in here,” I say with another tap over his heart, “well enough that I forgot about all the rest of it.”
I hear how that sounds, and I’m quick to correct myself.
“Not that the rest of it isn’t important. You take your fame and do amazing things with it, even more than I realized. Even more than anyone’s realized.” I gesture my head exploding. “I’m reeling because you got more eyes on that post in thirty seconds—at five o’clock in the morning—than I have in all my social media posts combined.”
He gives my shoulder a love bite. “What social media? Your profile picture looks like an out-of-focus passport photo, and the only three posts I was able to find were pseudo-artistic angles of your massive cat.”
“Stalker.”
“Digital voyeur,” he tosses back, even as his deep brown eyes shine with worry. “Still, I’m sorry if I made things harder for you.”
I press a kiss to his lips, then take a beat, so he knows I’m taking his words seriously.
“You didnotmake things harder for me.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I hold up my hand. “We need to put our heads together and figure out how to handle the social media of it all, and we will. That’s not exactly a hardship.”
His expression shifts from one of disagreement to one of calculation.
“Bring it on,” I say, laughing. Happy. “What’s this look?”
“If it’s no hardship for you to adjust to my social media presence,andif I am perfectly happy, hidden away in your tiny little apartment…” He shrugs, milking the moment. “Then maybe you can stop comparing our lifestyles and accept that I like you and everything about you, including where you live.”
Tricky.
“I can try,” I mutter, even as I carefully parse his words. “You really don’t hate my little apartment?”
