I take a long breath. Blink at the ceiling.
Then deadpan, “Pregnant. Definitely pregnant.”
He laughs, tipping his head back, one hand on his chest as he feels around for mine. “You can’t say shit like that when my heart rate is already one forty.”
I roll and kiss his shoulder, smiling into his flesh. “Kidding. But I do feel ... hungry. Like I want tacos? But I’m also not in the mood to go anywhere.”
Maverick yawns. “Shower, then order something?”
Mmm. “Perfect.”
Chapter 22
Maverick
We fall into a pattern.
Not a perfect one. Not the kind where someone makes green juice at sunrise and folds the laundry into little aesthetic cubes.
But ours.
Annabelle hogs the blanket. She puts hot sauce on everything—including scrambled eggs, which honestly feels criminal. Wears slippers with pajamas, even though she gets naked for bed.
And I’m obsessed with her.
Not in a creepy fucking way. No. It’s an “I could get used to this” kind of way ...
Annabelle keeps her stuff in the guest bathroom—but somehow usesallthe counter space in mine too. Leaves hair clips lying around everywhere but can never seem to find them. And I’ve caught myself smiling at my phone like a lunatic more times in the past three days than I have in the last three years.
So yeah. A pattern.
Which is why when the doorbell rings and my teammate Deshaun saunters in like he owns the place—because I gave him the code, obviously—we’re lounging on the couch about to dig into takeout, too tired to get cute and leave the apartment.
He stands in the entry hallway, staring over to where we’re chilling. “Is this the new missus?”
What a gentleman. Not.
Deshaun strolls into the living room, plops onto the opposite end of the couch where we’re sitting, and grabs an egg roll from our bag like weinvitedhim to dine with us.
What the fuck, dude!
Any other day I would barely notice—’cause he’s done it dozens of times—but what if Annabelle and I were, like, fucking in the living room or something? I wouldn’t want this jackass to see that, and neither would she.
“Annabelle.” My sigh is long and loud. “This is Deshaun. My teammate. He’s a total pain in my ass, and now yours.”
Ha.
“Hey, Deshaun, good to meet you.” She’s smiling sweetly, but her eyes scream “I’m judging you and you have exactly thirty seconds to win me over.”
Deshaun eyes her, then me, then our food, like he’s collecting intel. “So is it true? You went and got hitched?” He shoves the egg roll into his gullet and chews.
Annabelle snorts. “The details are foggy.’”
Deshaun leans back, still chewing. “I didn’t believe it when I saw it on the news, ’cause it’s the news, right? Can’t believe everything you see. But fucking unreal man—here you are, chillin’ together.”
“Here I am, chillin’.” She laughs, pressing a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone, but there isn’t a real marriage certificate, so right now we’re just ...”
“Just what?” he asks when she doesn’t continue.
