Page 14 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rumor has it, she witnessed a massacre at Spuds and Studs.

Ainsley

The onion rings at Spuds and Studs are criminally underrated, and I’m about to commit the crime of eating half the basket before Maverick even touches his sad little grilled chicken wrap.

He’s sitting across from me in our usual booth, sleeves rolled up, brooding hard while staring at his food like it personally offended his entire bloodline.

“You’re making that wrap cry,” I say, snatching another onion ring. “Either eat it or let me put it out of its misery.”

He doesn’t even blink. “I’m trying to remember what joy tastes like.”

“You act like grilled chicken is a personal attack.”

“It is. It’s a punishment. Probably biblical.” His voice is flat, but there’s something underneath it, exhaustion, maybe, or the kind of tension that comes from carrying too much weight for too long.

I grin around my food, trying to lighten whatever dark mood has settled over him like fog. “So what’s with the existential dread? You’ve been stuck in broody mob boss mode for a while now.”

“Just tired.” His tone is clipped. It’s classic Maverick for drop it, James .

Naturally, I don’t. “Tired, or plotting someone’s downfall? Because you’ve got the energy of a man who buried a body in the woods last night.”

His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t look up from his tragic meal. “Work.”

“That’s it? Work?” I lean forward, studying his face.

There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there this morning, and that muscle in his jaw keeps jumping like he’s grinding his teeth.

“Fine people don’t order the saddest wrap on the menu and glare at it like they’re trying to will it into a double bacon cheeseburger. ”

He finally picks up the wrap, but it’s all for show.

One limp bite, then he’s done, setting it back down like it’s contaminated.

The restaurant buzzes around us. It’s the weekend crowd: ketchup-covered toddlers screaming in delight or protest (impossible to tell which) and overworked servers trying to do the job of six people.

But Maverick looks like he’s in another dimension entirely.

“You know I’m gonna keep poking until you crack, right?” I say, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re not slick. You’ve been quiet all week, and not in your sexy-sociopath way. In the I-might-be-actively-imploding way.”

His eyes flick to mine, and for half a second, they soften. He looks exhausted, like whatever weight he’s carrying has finally started to bend steel. But then the mask drops back into place, his walls slamming shut.

“Contracts,” he mutters, voice dry as dust. “Timelines. Numbers. You know, boring shit that keeps people from going to jail or bankruptcy.”

I open my mouth to press again, because I can smell bullshit from a mile away, and this reeks of it.

And then a shadow falls across our table.

I look up and instantly regret it.

Carter Mills.

Khakis, smugness, and the walking embodiment of a LinkedIn endorsement. Of course, it’s him. Who else has the audacity to roll up on us mid-dinner like this is a networking event instead of me trying to stress-eat my way through Maverick’s mysterious mood?

“James.” He flashes the kind of smile that’s probably been the cause of at least six restraining orders. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

My stomach does that thing it does when you realize too late that the milk has expired. “Carter,” I say flatly, setting down my onion ring like it personally betrayed me. “Can’t say the feeling’s mutual.”

Across the table, Maverick goes completely still. Not visibly, not dramatically—just still. The way jungle cats go quiet right before they pounce. The temperature around our booth drops ten degrees.

“I was just grabbing dinner with some friends,” Carter continues, gesturing toward a table of business school drones who all look like they collectively own the entire Vineyard Vines catalog. “Saw you and thought I’d say hello.”

His eyes cut to Maverick for the briefest second, measuring, calculating, like he’s trying to determine how much risk is baked into the six feet of brooding silence currently watching him like prey.

“Mills.” Maverick’s voice is low, neutral, and somehow still violent. “You lost?”

Carter chuckles like that was cute. “Not at all. Actually, I was hoping to borrow Ainsley for a second.”

“Nope,” I say immediately, before Maverick can speak and potentially break the restaurant. “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

“It won’t take long.” And with all the self-awareness of a traffic cone, Carter slides into the booth next to me without waiting for permission.

I’m forced to scoot sideways toward the wall, boxed in by khaki entitlement and the rising tension radiating from across the table like heat from a furnace.

“I just wanted to follow up about the Dean’s Gala,” Like that sentence isn’t a loaded bomb dropped directly into my lap. “Still hoping you’ll consider coming. Saturday night, black tie, phenomenal networking opportunity?—“

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, my throat suddenly tight.

Carter’s smile widens, predatory and sure. “Of course, you do.”

His hand lands on the table, suspiciously close to mine. My skin goes cold. Across from me, Maverick doesn’t move, but his grip on his water glass tightens just enough to make the ice shift audibly.

“The gala’s a great opportunity.” Carter leans slightly closer, invading my space with casual confidence. “For your future, I mean. You’ve got a unique voice. A passion for marine ecosystems. People at events like that can open doors.”

“You mean the kind of people who confuse manipulation with mentorship?” My voice hardens.

He doesn’t even blink. “I mean people who recognize potential. And value the right kind of connections.”

His fingers drift closer to mine, not quite touching, but the implication is crystal clear. I can feel Maverick’s stare like pressure against my skin, the air between us crackling with barely contained violence.

“Ainsley’s not interested.” Maverick’s voice is casual and deadly.

Carter ignores him completely. “What do you say, James? One night. Fancy dress. A glass of wine with someone who doesn’t treat you like a liability.”

That’s when Carter’s hand finally brushes my wrist.

And that’s when Maverick stands.

No loud movement. No warning. Just the quiet scrape of the booth and six feet of coiled silence rising like a gathering storm. The change in him is instantaneous and terrifying. Every muscle goes taut, his breathing shallow, and those blue eyes turn arctic.

“Get your hand off her.” Calm. Clear. Razor-edged.

Carter turns, completely unimpressed. “Relax, Lexington. We’re having a conversation.”

“Right. The kind where you trap her against a wall and pretend it’s charming.”

Carter actually laughs, and it’s the kind of smug sound that makes me wish Maverick didn’t have a heart condition, because I can already feel what’s building in the air like an oncoming train. “Touchy tonight, aren’t we? Didn’t realize polite interest counted as a felony now.”

“You’ve got about three seconds to back away from my girlfriend,” Maverick replies, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes freshmen dive for cover, “before this polite interest ends with a dental plan.”

Carter blinks like that actually surprised him.

“Territorial, huh?” Carter muses, brushing a nonexistent speck off his sleeve with infuriating casualness. “That’s what happens when your kingdom starts cracking. You get paranoid about challengers.”

Maverick’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something darker. “I’m not paranoid. I just know exactly what kind of snake you are.”

Carter makes the fatal mistake of smirking. Of letting his eyes flick down to where his hand is still resting too close to mine, fingers barely grazing my skin. “Problem is, you can’t punch your way out of irrelevance.”

Wrong words. Wrong tone. Wrong everything.

Maverick doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t warn. Doesn’t hesitate.

He just swings.

The sound of his fist connecting with Carter’s jaw is unreal. Bone against bone, sharp and final, echoing through the restaurant like a gunshot. Carter’s head snaps to the side like a rag doll, and he crashes into the edge of the booth with a grunt of pain and shock.

For a split second, the entire place goes dead silent.

Then chaos erupts.

Chairs scrape against linoleum. Someone gasps. A server drops a tray of drinks with a crash and a splash. Carter’s friends leap from their table, business school boys in Patagonia vests trying to look tough as they swarm our booth like a pack of entitled wolves.

Two of them grab Maverick by the arms while another rushes to Carter, who’s clutching his face, eyes wide with rage and blood blooming bright red at the corner of his mouth.

“You psycho!” Carter yells, stumbling upright with help, his perfect composure finally shattered. “You just— You hit me!”

“I warned you,” Maverick growls, shaking off the guy on his left with one flex of muscle and barely contained fury. “I told you to back off.”

“You’re done, Lexington!” Carter spits, eyes blazing with pain and humiliation. “You think you can get away with this? My father?—”

“Oh, I’m counting on him hearing about it,” Maverick interrupts, voice ice-cold and wearing a smile that would make serial killers nervous.

Carter lunges forward, but one of his friends yanks him back. “Not here, man. Not now. Let’s go.”

“You’re gonna regret this!” another one shouts over his shoulder as they drag Carter toward the exit, leaving a trail of threats and blood droplets behind them.

Maverick doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, chest rising slowly, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the door until it swings shut behind them and cuts off their retreating voices.

Then, like nothing happened, he sits back down.

He picks up his sad little chicken wrap, peels back the tortilla with deliberate precision, and mutters, “Still looks like punishment.”

I stare at him in complete disbelief. “You cannot be serious right now.”

He glances up, eyes calmer now but with the storm still flickering beneath the surface. “What?”

“You just went full John Wick in the middle of Spuds and Studs! Between the appetizers and entrees!”

“He touched you.” He says it like that explains everything. Like it’s the most logical thing in the world.

I press my fingers to my temples, trying to process what just happened. “Maverick, you can’t just punch people in restaurants. There are laws. And witnesses. And probably security cameras.”

“Wrong. I just did it.”

“Carter’s not gonna let this slide,” I say, dropping my hands to look at him seriously. “He’s not just some smug asshole. He’s a smug, connected asshole. You know who his dad is. This is going to have consequences.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like he’s already calculated every possible outcome. “And?”

“And now you’re on his radar. Officially. That punch might’ve felt good, but it’s going to cost you something.”

Maverick meets my eyes, steady and completely unapologetic. “I’ll pay it.”

Before I can respond, our server appears timidly beside our table, a dish towel-wrapped bag of ice trembling in her hands.

“Um... here.” She doesn’t quite make eye contact as she places it in front of Maverick. “For your... uh, knuckles.”

“Thanks,” Maverick replies calmly, as if he didn’t just commit assault fifteen feet from the soda machine.

She scurries away like her life depends on it, and I lean across the table, lowering my voice. “What the hell was that? Seriously. You’re not a caveman.”

He presses the ice to his knuckles, wincing slightly at the contact. “No. But he put his hands on you. He ignored you saying no. He knew I was sitting right here, and he still did it.” His voice is quiet but intense. “That’s not flirting, Ainsley. That’s a power play. And he lost.”

I want to argue with him. Want to lecture him about impulse control and proper conflict resolution and all the reasons why violence isn’t the answer.

But I can’t.

Because he’s right.

Because for all his flaws and fury and fist-throwing idiocy, Maverick was the only one who saw Carter for exactly what he is and acted accordingly. The only one who stepped in when words failed and boundaries meant nothing.

Still—

“This is gonna get worse before it gets better,” I say softly, watching him flex his bruised knuckles.

He nods once, matter-of-fact. “Yeah. But at least now he knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That there are consequences.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s something fierce and protective there that makes my chest tight. “That I meant what I said. That he can’t just take whatever he wants.”

I nod, too, and for a moment, we just sit there in the wreckage of what used to be a semi-peaceful date night. The restaurant slowly returns to normal volume around us, people pretending not to stare, pretending they didn’t just witness the opening shot of what is now, officially, war.

And me? I lean back against the booth and try to pretend my pulse isn’t still hammering in my throat. Pretend I’m not scared of what Carter will do next. Pretend I don’t already know that whatever’s coming, Maverick won’t be able to punch his way out of it.

But he’ll try anyway.

Because that’s what he does: He protects what’s his.

Even if it breaks him.