Page 21

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rumor has it she’s pregnant with his baby.

Ainsley

H is shampoo smells like him—of mint and cedar but with way less attitude. I like it, and it’s a good thing too since none of my stuff is in the bathroom. I knew throwing those IOUs in the toilet was a bad idea.

But I was pissed.

At the time, I loathed anything with a penis—Maverick included. Even if he has been a decent roommate so far. Sure, his moods swing more than mine, but in those calm moments, when he’s not trying to scare me away, he’s a nice guy. I’d go as far as to say he’s been sweet to me.

He keeps his distance, that’s for sure, but I understand that I’m not a welcome guest and my being here is disrupting his life. I get it, I do. And I don’t want to be a burden to him. I really am appreciative of his kindness and efforts to find me another apartment.

But today I couldn’t keep my hatred from spewing out at anyone in my path. Freaking Tucker proposed to Taylor—on social media! Live! I watched him get down on one knee while Taylor’s friends oohed and aahed behind her.

I’m devastated.

I know I shouldn’t have kept following both of them on social media, but sometimes I do crazy things I’m not proud of, okay?

I trusted them both, and their betrayal ran deeper than I thought.

Sure, Maverick convinced me to delete a few pictures, but it didn’t delete the love I had buried behind my smile.

Trust me, I want to move on. I want to forget both Tucker and Taylor like a bad blind date.

I don’t want to remember how he smelled or how he kissed my forehead before class. I don’t want to remember any of it, but I do.

“Ainsley.” A fist bangs on the door. “You’re not drowning, are you?”

It’s cute the way he acts like he doesn’t give a shit, but yet, he’s checking on me. Of course, his voice strains, like he had to force the words out, but the point is, the big bad wolf cares, even if he would love for me to believe he doesn’t.

“I’m fine. I’ll be out in a moment.” Turning the water off, the bathroom is quiet, save for the steady drips from my body.

“Mav?”

Is he still at the door?

“Your food is on the counter,” he says, his voice clipped. I know he leaves after that because my chest feels lighter like his massive presence made it harder to breathe.

Quickly—as quick as a drunk girl can—I dry off and make a mad dash to my room where I toss on a romper and brush through the massive amount of tangles.

I didn’t look when I passed the kitchen, so I don’t know if Maverick was there or if he retreated to his room like usual.

I mean, I think we had a moment just now—at least I did.

Those strong fingers that slipped under the elastic of my bathing suit sent crazy tingles throughout my body—no, it wasn’t just the alcohol talking either.

Granted, Maverick was the whole reason my butt was showing in the first place, but he could have left it for his friend to see. But he didn’t. He cared.

I take one last look in the mirror. I don’t look great, but I don’t look that awful either.

It’ll have to do; besides, Maverick doesn’t care what I look like.

He might be nice occasionally and have chivalrous moments, but he isn't interested in me and I’m not looking for a guy. I’ve had my fill of those for a while.

With my head bowed—I so need a pedicure—I walk into the kitchen like a dog caught unraveling the last toilet paper roll.

“Don’t ask me to warm it up,” he mutters.

At his comment, I pull my head up and see his tall frame leaning against the counter with a bowl of?—

“Did you make mac and cheese?” I’m way too excited over this discovery. I’ve dreamed of this delicious, calorie-filled delicacy for the past three nights.

I rush over to the counter and snag the remaining bowl. “You made this?”

I don’t know why it seems shocking that he cooked.

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t do it much.

He mostly lives off beer and raw vegetables.

However, he does have ice cream in the freezer so .

. . “Your eating habits are like a pregnant lady,” I note, tilting my head at his beer, sitting full on the counter.

He lifts a brow. “Pregnant ladies drink beer?”

I shovel a non-ladylike bite of cheesy noodles down my throat. “Mmm,” I moan, my knees going weak at the cheesy goodness. “This is divine.”

I ignore the scoff and eye roll he gives me. “It’s not a filet.”

Mumbling around another bite, I agree. “No, it’s much better than a filet.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re”—I stop mid-sentence because I need another bite—“ridiculous. Don’t judge me. I don’t judge you when you waste your beer every night.”

Fact. Every afternoon, Maverick comes home from taking souls or stealing firstborns, grabs a beer, twists the cap off, and rolls it through his fingers before carrying it around dutifully, as if it’s his phone.

He rears back at my words. “I don’t waste beer. I’ve drunk some of this one. ”

He does waste them, even the one sitting next to him. The question is, why? Why waste them if you don’t like them? Why not just drink tea or milk? What does it matter if people see him with a beer or a Capri Sun just as long as he drinks it?

“Sure, you don’t. The one next to you is so fresh that it’s no longer sweating.”

“I like it room temp,” he argues, picking it up like he might drink it.

“That’s why you keep it in the refrigerator.” I nod like his explanation makes perfect sense when it doesn’t at all.

“Eat your food,” he snips.

“Drink your beer.”

The playful look he had earlier drops in a matter of seconds. Here comes the “cold” Maverick. Not the one who lives here. My theory is the real Maverick Lexington is buried somewhere beneath all the lies and rumors but coaxing him out will take the right hand and one amazing bluff.

“I have work to do.” He snatches his beer and tries to walk past me.

Not happening. I might not be as drunk as I was earlier, but I still have enough of a buzz to make me brave.

“I thought you were taking the night off for poker?”

He cocks a brow, keeping his distance like he’s scared to touch me. “I was, but then someone decided to put on a show for the neighbors, and well, here we are.”

“You didn’t need to cancel. I would have stayed in my room.”

He snorts out a sound of amusement. “Please. You’ve never followed one rule I’ve given you.”

True. “I don’t do well with many rules. It makes me antsy. Why do you want to keep my living here a secret anyway?”

I eye the almost full bottle in his hand. “Aren’t you going to take a drink? I’ve been told that I drive people to drink with my conversations.”

It’s true, I have been told I’m nauseating at times, but really, I just want to see him take a swig of the beer he always carries around but never drinks.

“It’s no one’s business what I do at my own home.”

See? He doesn’t address the beer situation. He only gives me a morsel of the truth.

“Agreed. But you still haven’t drunk any of your beer, and from the stress lines in your forehead, you could probably use it.”

Come on, tell me the truth. Show me the real Maverick.

“You need to sleep. You’re sounding belligerent.”

“And you are sounding like a little faker.”

“Who says I haven’t drunk any? You were in the shower when I opened it.”

Why am I doing this? Why am I trying to corner Maverick into admitting he doesn’t drink beer? Honestly, I don’t know. I think I would like to see that he doesn’t have it all together, as he would love for you to believe. I want him to show me some of his truth like I’ve bared mine.

“I know you haven’t drunk any. You never do.”

He lets out a big sigh and rakes a hand through his hair.

Fine. I’ll let it go. For now.

“Did you have a good day?” I change the topic.

That’s neutral, roomie type conversation, right? I mean, it’s not like I’m asking whose soul he took this afternoon.

His eyes snap to me and narrow. It’s taking all he has not to shake me or chain me up in my room, but the chivalrous Maverick wins out. “It was fine.”

His voice sounded pained.

“Like every other day,” he adds when I just stare at him, waiting for details.

“I’m guessing that every day to you is like living your best life for most people.”

Everything is at his fingertips. People want to be him.

They want freaking tours of his apartment, for goodness’ sake.

I can’t understand it, though. From what I’ve seen of Maverick Lexington, he’s quite the bore except when he’s making or enforcing deals.

He’s quite sexy and alpha-y and scary when he does those things.

But here?

Here he retires to his room early except for Wednesday poker night.

He doesn’t watch TV, and he doesn’t go out much at night.

I mean, he goes places, I suppose. He doesn’t invite me along, so I can’t say for sure what he’s doing.

He could be going to the library or the hospital to read to children.

All I know is that he’s here—a lot—always working away on his laptop.

At some point, though, he maintains that body. No way is he naturally blessed with muscle on top of muscle. I’ve never even seen him do a push-up or a P90X DVD or anything, though. However, I wouldn’t be opposed if he decided to do either of those after dinner.

“Don’t be ridiculous. My life is not someone’s best life. My life is exhausting.”

And complicated. And probably full of more rumors than truth, but we’ll let him go with exhausting.

“Did you procure any new favors then? Is that why you’re in such a good mood?” Blame it on Boxed Wine Ainsley. She wanted to know more about all this favor business.

His eyes roll dramatically.

“What have I told you about asking questions about the favors?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a playing card. It doesn’t scare me anymore. I have so many now that Maverick will die before I can repay them all.

Well, that’s not true, but let’s just say I owe him more than a handful at this point. What’s one more?