Maverick nods, arm draped along the back of the couch behind me. “And we’re figuring it out as we go. Together.”
His parents exchange a glance—one of those long married-people glances that says an entire conversation without words—and then his mom smiles.
“Okay, you two,” she says, clasping her hands. “We’ll let you get on with your evening. Send updates. Pictures, before they show up on SportsCenter—we want to be involved, not just spectators.”
“Deal,” Maverick says, already reaching to click the call off. “Bye, Mum. Bye, Dad. Love you guys.”
“Bye now,” his dad says, squinting at the camera like it personally offends him. “Love you.”
“Goodbye, Annabelle,” his mom adds, warmer this time. “Take care of yourself. And my son.”
I nod, throat tight. “I will.”
The screen goes dark.
We sit in silence for a beat, staring at the blank laptop, basking in the quiet, thinking of what to say next.
Maverick turns to me, brow raised. “That wasn’t terrible?”
“I only sweat through half my shirt.” My giggle comes out sounding anxious. “Could’ve gone worse.”
“See? Total win.”
Chapter 28
Maverick
I push the button on the blender and watch it whirl into motion, my concoction of protein powder, almond milk, spinach, and frozen banana transforming into something healthy and entirely undrinkable.
Gross. I hate how this shit tastes, but ... oh well. Whatever. This is the kind of smoothie a man drinks when he needs to sober up because he’s about to ruin his wife’s morning by uttering the two most dreaded words in existence:
Press. Release.
The second I kill the blender, my phone buzzes.
Speak of the devil herself.
Kira, Publicist:
Need to talk. Re: official statement. Clock’s ticking.
Yeah. No shit, it’s ticking.
The world thinks it knows we got married.
The world doesn’t know there is a baby on the way ...
I take a sip of the green regret in my shaker bottle and head into the living room. Annabelle’s curled up on the couch, under the throwblanket she brought from home, eating saltines straight from the sleeve and reading a book with a pink cover and illustrated couple on it.
I stop in the doorway and look at her for a second to enjoy the peace and quiet before I wreck it.
She’s barefoot, as usual. Her hair’s in a high pony. She’s wearing leggings and a cropped T-shirt, and she has no idea that in about ninety seconds, I’m going to drop a bombshell.
“Hey,” I say, casually dropping next to her on the couch. I grab one of her feet and get to work, massaging the heel.
She doesn’t look up. “If you’re about to tell me you finished all the pickles, don’t. I’m not emotionally stable enough.”
“Worse,” I say. “We need to talk about a press release.”
