Page 15 of Maverick (The Bull Riders #3)

I expel a hard breath, and stamp out of the room, slamming the door shut behind me as I go back into the kitchen, retrieve the cheese I just put away and get it back out again, laying it on the counter and plotting my charcuterie.

There’s a very nice artisan cheese place near my parents’ house, and the woman who runs it is French, and every time I go in, she is informing somebody that it cannot be charcuterie if it isn’t centered around meat, as charcuterie literally means cured meat .

I am still happy to call a cheese board charcuterie, even though it’s wrong, almost in defiance of her outrage.

Maybe that says more about me than it does about her.

I very happily scoop some honeycomb out of the jar and put it into a little bowl, then surround it with slices of cheese.

There’s something methodical and meditative about the process, and in all honesty, it’s one of the few slow activities that I enjoy.

Cooking, building a nice plate, mostly, things in that vein irritate me.

Because if I can’t have instant gratification, I don’t want it. But I like this. I just do.

It works for me.

I open up the bottle of wine, and let it breathe – because I’m sophisticated, damn it, and I know what to do with wine.

Then I bring a glass of wine and my cheese platter to the couch and sit there in blissful silence.

I’ve made a very good decision for my life by coming here, and it has nothing to do with the condoms in the other room.

It has nothing to do with Maverick as a person.

It has everything to do with the fact that I might be on my way into a new phase of life because of this.

It’s possible. Very possible.

Maybe this is why I went into the rodeo in the first place. Maybe it was meant to be a broader stepping stone to proving myself. And maybe I’ll never be my sister. That’s fine. But maybe I’ll find some success on my own.

I finish up my cheese – or at least as much of it as I can eat and cover the rest in Saran Wrap before putting it back in the fridge.

Then I decide to treat myself to a nice, long shower.

I hum as I move into the bathroom and turn the water on.

I get undressed and stand beneath the hot spray, and my mind turns back to those condoms again.

As I move my hands over my water-slick skin, it’s far too easy for me to think of Maverick, his hands, moving over my body, making me yearn, making the ache.

That man is such a problem. Such a gorgeous, sexy problem.

As my hand skims over my breast, I feel an answering pulse between my legs, and just for a second, I move my fingertips between my thighs and touch myself.

I shouldn’t do that. I shouldn’t touch myself and think about him, because I’m going to have to look at him tomorrow.

We are supposed to do something together with Frank, and if I fantasize about him right beforehand, I’m only going to make things uncomfortable for myself.

I’m about to indulge myself, about to give in, when I swear, I hear water coming from outside the shower.

I open up the door, look out, and see water pouring through one of the light fixtures in the ceiling.

“Oh shit,” I say, scrambling out of the shower and surveying the situation. The water is pouring out, fast and furious through the light, and I feel myself starting to panic.

I shut the water off in the shower quickly, but the water coming through the light fixture doesn’t stop.

“Oh no!”

I scramble to grab a towel, wrap it around myself, and run out of the bathroom to grab my phone. I send Maverick a panicked text. There’s water everywhere.

Well, there wasn’t water everywhere, but there was enough water. Enough water that it’s seriously concerning me.

The phone rings a second later. My face is all wet, and I put him on speakerphone because I don’t want to bring the phone up to my ear and electrocute myself and die.

“What do you mean there’s water everywhere?”

“I mean that there is water pouring through the ceiling in the bathroom. Through one of the lights. And I don’t know what to do.”

“Hang on,” he says. I hear the sound of fabric rustling, and then boots stomping, before I hear a door close firmly.

“Are you…”

“I’ll come rescue you. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

“Thank you. But… I didn’t do anything. All I did was turn the shower on.”

“I’m sure,” he says, sounding furious and grumpy. Fair enough.

I realize that I’m still in a towel, and I can tell that he is on his way. I’m frozen. Because I could tell him that I need to get dressed, but that feels awkward. And if I go get dressed, and he comes, then he’s going to end up standing on the porch. “I’m only wearing a towel.”

“We’ll go put some talking clothes on,” he says, his voice a low growl in my ear.

“Right. You can just come in.”

“Thanks.”

I scurry into the bedroom and drop my towel on the floor as I realize that I’ve put none of my clothes or personal items away, and everything is still in a bag.

I growl and unzip my suitcase, digging out my pajamas, which I put on quickly.

He’s already seen me in those a couple of different times.

So it’s fine. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and for the first time, I realize that the top I’m wearing is borderline see-through.

I can see the shadow of my nipples through the white waffle print, and I really had no idea.

It’s a cozy shirt. And the fabric feels plush, so I thought that it provided more coverage than that.

I don’t quite know what to do with that revelation.

And it’s too late, because I hear the front door open. So, I go barreling out of the bedroom, just as he is coming down the hall toward the bathroom.

“Sorry, there’s water pouring in through the light.”

He peers into the bathroom. “So, there is. I know where the shut off is.”

He growls under his breath as he walks out of the bathroom, back out to the front of the house.

He probably hasn’t even noticed that he can see my nipples through the shirt.

The man could not be less interested in me sexually if he tried.

I think about all the things that he said to me that first night.

Where he basically called out my immaturity.

All the things I find interesting about his age are things that make me uninteresting to him, I think.

And that’s fine. I think about the box of condoms on the bed, and I decide not to internalize any of this. It’s fine that I bought a box of condoms mainly with him in mind, and he seems totally uninterested. That’s not about me or my breasts.

I feel like it is. But I’m not going to dwell on that. I’m not.

I hear the front door open a moment later, and hear him stomping down the hall. “I’m going to climb up into the attic.”

“Oh,” I say. “Is that…”

“It’s probably rats,” he says.

“So, I didn’t break it?” I ask that question, but internally I’m wondering about the rats.

Where are the rats? Why are the rats? Do I have to worry about the rats?

“You probably didn’t break it,” he says, his eyes looking far too intently into mine.

They’re dark brown, but right then, I can see there are flecks of gold and amber, and they’re far too compelling for me to look at too long, because I might do something stupid like lean in.

I take a big step back.

He disappears again and goes down the hall toward my –

“Wait a second!”

But then he’s in my bedroom, where there’s a giant box of condoms on the bed, my warning coming too late.

I’m standing behind him. He looks at the box of condoms and then at me.

I feel my face getting hot. I’m sure that it’s cherry-red.

“The attic access is in your closet.” He gestures to the back of the room, and it all makes sense to me now, but…

I feel exposed because I know what I was thinking of when I bought those condoms. But he doesn’t know what I was thinking of.

That I was thinking of him. Maybe he just thinks I’m looking to have a good time out here in Idaho.

Of course, he also knows that I’m a virgin.

If only he didn’t know that. Because then he might have thought nothing of it. I can see that he’s thinking of it.

I take a sharp breath.

And then suddenly it feels like the room is smaller, like he’s too close, like I can’t breathe.

“What are you planning, Stella?”

“I just wanted a shower,” I say.

I can feel my nipples hardening into tight points, I can feel my heart beginning to beat harder.

My whole body overreacting to this moment.

If I had some experience, maybe I wouldn’t.

If I had some experience, maybe I could laugh it off.

Maybe standing in the room with a box of condoms that I bought while fantasizing about the man standing in front of me would feel like a funny little joke. Would feel like nothing, really.

His eyes are trained on the box of condoms. No longer on the closet at the back of the room which would give him access to the attic.

Does he want me? That simple question makes my heart beat faster.

His eyes meet mine, and I see something different there. Something intense. More than that, something determined and decided.

That night in the trailer after he won me, he went and laid on the bed and covered his face as quickly as possible. I couldn’t see his eyes. I couldn’t see his expressions. I assumed he didn’t want me because if he did, why wouldn’t he just have me?

Now I realize that I don’t know anything about him. Not what he wants, now or then. I don’t know what he looks like when he desires a woman, or what he does in a situation like this. My brain has created an entire legend of Maverick that it has decided is the truth.

A playboy who can have any woman he wants, based on nothing I’ve seen, but my own feelings about him. A man who decided he didn’t want me based on the fact that he didn’t rush to fuck me when I bet myself in a poker game.