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CHAPTER NINE

Rumor has it she tried to burn his apartment down too!

Ainsley

“ H ow’s it going with the new roommate? What did you say her name was again?”

Would it be awful if I didn’t tell Bostic Maverick’s name? Would it be sparing him stress if I said Maverick’s name was Mavis? Right. No more lies.

“ His name is Maverick,” I admit.

Why am I so tense? It’s not like Boss is my mom, who would be very wary of me moving in with a complete stranger who’s known around the campus as a scary mofo.

I’m a grown woman—at times—but definitely not the last few days.

Honestly, with the way I’ve been acting—crying and eating all the carbs from Mav’s cabinets—I’m scared he’s going to renege on our deal before he finds me an apartment.

He says his guy is “working on it,” and I should not get too comfortable, but then he asks why I haven’t unpacked my shit. He’s a weird one.

Boss hums a non-answer. Does that mean he’s okay with me living with a stranger? If you ask me—which no one is—it’s better to live with a stranger than live in a parking lot.

“Is he a good guy?” he finally asks.

Why is he asking hard questions this morning? I shovel in a fork-full of pancake. “Uh-huh. ”

That’s the semi-truth. He hasn’t been entirely awful—at least to me. As for others, I can’t say with certainty.

“Do you have your own room?”

Yes! A question I can answer honestly. “Yes, I do. It’s nice. There’s no puke stains or barred up windows.”

It’s actually really clean with relatively fresh paint, but I haven’t been sleeping in it.

Each night, when Maverick finally turns his light out at like two in the freaking morning, I sneak into the living room and curl up on the couch and tiptoe back into my room when the sun peeks through the balcony doors.

I know Maverick did a lot for me to have my own bed, but I don’t want it.

He was right. Tucker probably did fuck Taylor on it.

And even if he didn’t, he probably lay awake at night, next to me, and thought about her.

I know it’s stupid.

I know.

But ever since the survival instinct left me, and I found myself safe with a man everyone fears, the tears flooded my soul, and pain invaded every inch of my heart.

I can’t stop it. It’s like waves and waves of memories hit at the worst moments.

Moments when I should be showing Maverick that I’m grateful, and I appreciate him leaving a clean towel on the bathroom sink when he finishes showering.

It’s like he’s the most hateful, considerate host ever.

I don’t want him to think I’m a mess of a person.

I might be a mess now, but I haven’t always been.

“So he’s being good to you? You’re okay, I mean?”

Look at Boss being all paternal.

I flash him a confident grin. “I’m fine, and I won’t be there too much longer. Maverick’s friend is looking for a place for me to stay. Me staying at his apartment is only temporary.”

I don’t know why I added that last bit, but I felt like I needed to justify what we’re doing. It’s not like I’m banging him, but if I were a dad, that would be the first place my mind went.

That big head of his tips just a little before he nods. “You’ll let me know if you have any problems with anyone.” It’s not a question. My fire-savior is my very own Thor—protector of my Universe. I’m legit living a Disney movie. I have a genie and an Avenger.

“Will do, Boss. Now, I gotta run. I have a class to get to.”

I stand to leave and look at Kyle, who is already reaching for my plate. “Sorry,” I mouth. He waves me off, and Bostic grunts like I’m ridiculous by feeling sorry for the trainee.

“I’ll see you guys later,” I say, reaching for my bag and pointing from my eyes to Luke's, letting him know I’m watching him. The shit has been on the phone the entire time I’ve been here. I didn’t even get to speak to him.

Next time.

Right now, I need to get through this next class, and then I’m going to go home and make my magical genie a surprise dinner to show him that I’m not the worthless slug I seem.

Have I mentioned I have zero cooking skills? Like below awful. Once, my mom tried teaching me how to bake cookies, and I mixed up the measurements for salt and sugar. Why do you put salt in cookies anyway? Isn’t the whole point to make them sweet?

Anyway, my cooking Maverick dinner before he gets back from wherever he goes every day—hell maybe—is going epically bad.

So bad that when he finally does come home, I’m standing on the kitchen/poker table, waving a dishrag in the air trying to get the smoke detector to shut the hell up before someone calls the fire department.

“Everything is okay,” I assure him.

A hint of a smile plays on his lips. “Looks like it.”

Such a smartass. “Who changes the batteries in these things anyway?” I’m out of breath, and my arms feel like noodles.

“The person who’s living with a pyro,” he says smugly, going over to the stove and turning off the switch, which, in hindsight, I should have done before I ran to the smoke detector. Still, given my recent experience, I didn’t want to get Maverick or myself kicked out of this apartment.

“What the hell were you cooking?” His nose scrunches up, and he grasps the pot handle with a dishtowel, leaning it to the left so he can look at the contents.

Oh no. Not now. Not again.

The burn starts at the bottom of my eyelids. Don’t do it, Ainsley. Don’t you dare cry.

“I’m so sorry.” Sniff. “I was trying to show you that I’m grateful for the room and”—hiccup. Fan the blasted smoke detector—“that I’m not such a mess all the time. But?—”

He dumps the contents of the pot in the sink, ignoring my emotional outburst and the wailing alarm.

“Is that macaroni?” He sounds shocked. “Were you trying to make mac and cheese?”

A tear streaks down my face just before the proverbial dam breaks. “I can’t even make boxed macaroni and cheese,” I wail. “I truly am worthless.” And throwing the world’s greatest pity party. I have stooped to new lows. “I wanted to make you dinner, but I’m not much of a cook.”

He flips the switch for the garbage disposal and fights an eye roll.

“Get down.”

Oh shit. Now he’s mad. Instead of him coming home to a hot bowl of mac and cheese—that I wanted—he’s angry.

“I’m so sorry.”

The words would sound so much clearer if I could stop sobbing. What is with me? Is this the five stages of grief? Could I be—“Ahh!” My legs are yanked out from under me, and I brace for the impact that never comes.

“What are you doing?” I choke back the fear. At least the tears are gone, and Maverick’s shoulders are . . . amazeballs. Like these things are boulders shoved under his shirt. When does he work out ?

His answer never comes. Instead, he sets me down and snatches the rag from my hands. “Go get dressed.”

“Oh, no. Are you throwing me out because I really was just trying to say thank—” I stop at the glare he’s giving me.

“Would you like me to repeat myself?”

Uh, no. I don’t think so.

“I’ll be just a minute then.” I try not to sound defeated when I click the door closed, and the smoke alarm quiets.

But when I hear the dishes rattle and him cleaning up my mess, I succumb to the ache.

Why had I never learned to cook? Why did I rely on Pat, our cook at Studs and Spuds, to leave me a plate every night?

Would it have been that difficult for me to YouTube some kind of class?

It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. At least spring break is coming up in the next couple of weeks. I can go home and see my mom and eat about a billion calories. I can sleep in my own bed that hasn’t been tainted with bad memories and affairs.

“You have five minutes,” comes the low voice at my door.

Great, looks like we’re headed back to the fire station. Bostic will not be happy. He’ll for sure think it’s me this time.

I hurry and throw on some leggings and a sweatshirt—no sense in looking fancy while being tossed out of your second apartment in a week.

It’s whatever, though. This too shall pass. I will be stronger than I was before all this happened. I hope.

A few minutes later, I’m packed and standing in an empty living room. “Maverick? I’m ready to go. I’ll come back tomorrow for the rest of my things.”

When he doesn’t clap or answer, I take a look around, noting the clean kitchen and the balcony door cracked. Ahh.

I walk over and peer outside into the dark, noting his tense form sitting in a chair. Rapping softly on the glass, I tell him, “I’m packed and ready. I’ll need to come back tomorrow for my things.”

At first, I think he intends to ignore me, but then I see his arm extend—is that a beer?—and pour the contents of the bottle on the porch .

“Eek!” I hear someone cry from below and then a “Shh,” before the door closes.

See? Even the neighbors know when he’s in a bad mood.

When the bottle is empty, he rises unhurriedly and almost lazily. He takes a sweep of my clothes. “You’re ready?”

I look down at my comfy attire. “Yeah, these are my eviction clothes.”

No smile. No laugh. Not even a comment that I now have designated clothes for evictions. He just brushes past me, tosses his beer in the trash, and grabs his keys. “Come on.”

“Do you really need to escort me out? I promise I will leave. I won’t even camp out in the parking lot. I’ll pick another.”

“Stop talking.”

Oh. Okay. This is serious.

I nod and let a little, tiny, baby sigh go. I think I’m going to miss his couch the most.

“Leave your bag.”

Devil say what? “Uh, I need my bag. I can’t drive without my license, and I need my wallet to get gas so I can sleep?—”

“Ainsley!”

I drop my bag. I don’t need it tonight anyway. I can ride on fumes for a while.

“Let’s go.”

Without further objections, I follow Maverick out the door and?—

“Get in.”

Is he planning to kill me? Did I really find a new age Ted Bundy? For the love of all that is holy.

A deep sigh bursts from Maverick’s chest while he holds open the passenger door of his car.