“You want aprivateshow?” he asks.
Do I want a private show?Hell yes I do.It’s the show I never knew I needed. The show I would happily pay front-row VIP ticket prices for. The show that could, potentially, break my brainforever.
I clear my throat. “Um.No.Obviously not.”Gross!my tone says. “Who wouldwantthat?”
Liar, liar, bikini on fire.
Maverick’s laugh is a low rumble, and from here on out, I want to call him Callum; it sounds so romantic. I’m curious to know more about him than just his name.
Such a sexy name for a big, burly man.
I sneak a peek over the top of my sunglasses, seeing him in a completely different light. All of a sudden he’s not just this gruff, slightly broody football player with a bad knee—he’s aCallum, with ancestors who probably fought epic sword battles on windswept cliffs and who knows how to wield an axe in ways I’m surewouldn’tbe limited to firewood.
If you catch my drift, wink wink ...
I shift on the deck chair, eyes straying to the kids splashing in the water on the neighboring pier. “So, Callum.”God, I love the way that sounds.“What made you choose football?”
He looks down at the lake, too, jaw working for a second before answering. “Didn’t choose it. Kind of fell into it.”
“How do you accidentally fall into football?”
“I was a big kid. Strong. Fast. By the time I was in seventh grade I could outrun the older kids. My dad signed me up for rugby as an intramural in middle school, and as they say—the rest is history. Football was the closest thing to it once I got into high school.”
“And you love it?” I ask, studying the way a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Sure. At first, yeah. Felt good to win. Then, you know—it turned into a job. Sponsors. Contracts.” He shrugs a shoulder, gaze still fixed on the rippling water. “Now it’s just a paycheck.”
That makes my heart twist a little. There’s a weariness in his voice that feels heavy.Lonely.
“That’s kind of sad,” I blurt out before I can think twice.
He looks at me. “You always say exactly what you think?”
Um. Most of the time. “Sorry, not on purpose.”
Maverick’s mouth twitches, like he can’t decide if he wants to laugh or roll his eyes. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Silence stretches between us for a beat, soft and gentle, until I decide to break it again, too curious to let him go back into his own head.
“What about Scotland?” I press, lowering my voice. “When is the last time you went back?”
“Last summer, my mom and I went to see my nan.”
His nan.
My ovaries tingle. I might actually melt straight through this dock and sink to the bottom of the lake.
“That’s sweet,” I manage, voice neutral while my brain sends images of him wrapping a gray-haired old woman in a hug; the kind of grandson who brings flowers and does the dishes for his grandparents.
He shrugs, a hint of a smile teasing his lips. “She’s ninety-two. Figured I’d better make time.”
“What’s she like? Your nan?” I ask softly.
He lets out a breath, and I swear something in his shoulders eases. “Bossier than you,” he admits, a grin flashing. “Still runs the town gossip mill too. Knows everything about everyone. Calls me ‘wee lamb,’ which is humiliating.”
My grin stretches wide. “Wee lamb?”
“Yeah.”
