Page 16 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rumor has it, she’s playing dress-up for the devil.

Ainsley

I’m an asshole. I might have said yes to the gala, but I didn’t say yes to Carter.

“Gross, you smell like Maverick,” Eliza groans, waving a hand in front of her face as I collapse face-first onto her bed. “What’d you do, bathe in his body wash?”

I roll onto my back and grin at the ceiling. “I fucked him on the poker table before I left.”

Her mouth drops open. “You didn’t.”

“I absolutely did.” I stretch like a cat who just licked the cream and stole the saucer. “Right on top of his precious poker chips. He made me help re-sort them afterward because I compromised the deck’s integrity.”

I close my eyes, letting the memory replay like my favorite kind of sin. He’d been sitting at the table, sorting cards with military precision, wearing that stupid old Lone Star Beer T-shirt that clung to him in all the right ways, brooding, focused, dangerous. My favorite version of him.

I’d walked in wearing just his shirt and nothing else. He looked up, paused, and his eyes darkened instantly.

What happened next was chaos in the best possible form.

His hands gripping my thighs, lifting me onto the table like I was lighter than logic.

The feel of green felt against my back, the scatter of chips under my palms. His mouth on my skin, pulling moans from me like secrets.

The way he took his time with no rush, no mercy, all claim.

He made me say his name like he didn’t want me to forget who I belonged to.

I didn’t. I won’t.

“Are you trying to kill him?” Eliza shakes her head but smiles. “The man has a heart condition.”

“If I am, it’ll be the sexiest obituary ever written.” I sit up and run my fingers through my wild hair, tangled, marked, full of Maverick. “Besides, he started it. Came home all intense and muttering about strategy and power dynamics.”

“And your response was to ride him on a table he treats like a religious artifact.”

“Exactly. Equal power exchange.”

“Goodness, you’re unwell,” she mutters, dragging a garment bag from her closet. “Also, you need a shower. You reek of sex and questionable life choices.”

“Nope,” I say immediately.

She pauses. “You’re... not showering?”

“Hell no. I want Carter to smell him on me.” I can still feel Maverick’s grip on my hips, the way he murmured ‘mine’ against my neck, the shiver it sent down my spine. He left fingerprints on my skin and heat in my blood, and I am not wasting that edge on a hot shower and good hygiene.

Eliza stares at me. “You’re weaponizing post-sex pheromones.”

“Yes.”

“And this is your actual plan.”

“Obviously.”

“You’re terrifying.”

“Compliment accepted.”

She starts laying out what I already know are the dresses Sebastian sent—two options: one safe, one scandalous.

“Green,” I say before she even holds it up. “Carter wants bait? Let’s see if he chokes on it.”

Eliza tosses the dress to me. “Good. Because Sebastian said if you didn’t wear it, he’d personally show up and shove you into it.”

I slip it on and—damn. It’s deadly. Emerald green, slinky as sin, hugging my curves like it knows what it’s doing. The neckline dips low, the back dips lower, and I look like someone who’s about to walk into a room and start a fire just for fun.

“He sent heels and jewelry, too,” Eliza says, handing me a box. “And before you ask, yes, he picked the earrings himself. I didn’t let him go full Pretty Woman montage, but it was close.”

I snort. “He’s lucky Maverick doesn’t know. Mav would have a coronary if he found out Sebastian’s dressing me for a night out with Carter.” I meet her eyes in the mirror. “He’d be mad because I lied.”

She doesn’t disagree. Maverick thinks I’m here to help Eliza study for her marine biology final, that I’ll crash here overnight and come home with notes and coffee and some dumb sea lion facts.

He has no idea that tonight I’ll be standing next to Carter Mills, smiling like I’m not waiting for the moment I can stab him metaphorically—or literally—in the back.

“You sure about this?” Eliza pins the final twist of my hair into place. “Because once we walk in, there’s no backing out.”

“I’m sure. This is the only way to get close enough to find what he’s hiding.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I’ll improvise.”

I grab my clutch and check my phone. One message.

Maverick: Study hard. Don’t let Eliza convince you that dolphins are spies. Bring coffee tomorrow.

I swallow hard and type back.

Me: You got it. Love you.

Then I slip the phone away and square my shoulders, still wearing his scent like armor.

“Ready?” Eliza grabs her coat.

I nod. “Let’s go rattle the cages.”

We walk out the door, heels clicking like warning bells. As we step into the night, I don’t feel like prey; I feel like the one setting the trap.

The black car is already idling at the curb when we step out of the building—sleek, pretentious, probably detailed just for tonight. The windows are tinted, the driver doesn’t get out to open the door, and everything about it screams that Carter Mills thinks he’s important.

“Eliza,” I say under my breath, “remember, no matter how nice he pretends to be, he’s still a snake.”

She grins. “Good thing I brought my antivenom.”

We slide into the back seat where Carter’s already waiting, phone in hand but not doing anything with it—just holding it like he’s been waiting.

His eyes flick up as we enter, and there it is.

That flicker. He doesn’t say anything right away, doesn’t have to.

I see it in the way his nostrils flare for a second, the subtle shift in his posture, the barely there tic in his jaw when the scent of Maverick rolls off me and into his territory.

I settle into the leather seat like I belong there and smile politely. Eliza wedges in beside me, all legs and confidence in her navy gown, and Carter finally speaks.

“I wasn’t aware it was a group outing.” His voice is smooth but dipped in frost.

I smile wider. “Thought I’d bring someone to keep me from rolling my eyes into a coma.”

He hums like he finds that amusing, but his eyes cut to Eliza with cool calculation. “And here I was, hoping to make a proper entrance with you.”

“You still are. We’re just making it interesting.”

Carter shifts in his seat, gaze sweeping over me again, longer this time. There’s a faint crease between his brows, something sour blooming beneath the surface. He won’t say it, but I know what’s bothering him. He smells Maverick. He just doesn’t know how to name it without sounding insecure.

“You look... different,” he says finally.

“Is that a compliment or a warning?”

“It’s an observation. A sharp one.” His eyes narrow slightly, lingering at my collarbone.

I just smile and cross my legs, letting the dress shift higher along my thigh. “Sharp suits the night.”

Next to me, Eliza stifles a laugh. Carter ignores her, or tries to. “You didn’t tell me you’d be dressing to start fires.”

“I didn’t realize I needed your permission. Besides, it’s not like this is a real date.”

The silence that follows is tense enough to snap.

“I’m just saying,” Carter mutters, looking out the window now, “you’re making a statement.”

“Good. I hope it’s loud.”

Eliza shifts beside me, clearly enjoying the slow unraveling of Carter’s composure. “Relax, Mills. You should be flattered. She didn’t wear this for you, but you still get to be seen with her.”

Carter doesn’t respond directly, but his hand tightens slightly on his phone, and his lips press into a line.

The rest of the drive passes with charged quiet—Eliza scrolling through her texts, me staring out the window, pretending not to notice Carter watching me from the corner of his eye like he’s trying to puzzle something out.

He knows something’s off. He just can’t place it. And that’s exactly how I want it, because the longer he’s guessing, the less control he has. And the less control he has, the easier it’ll be to take everything from him.

The car slows in front of the gala venue—a limestone monstrosity decked in white lights and ivy like it’s trying too hard to be both modern and historical.

There’s a red carpet, of course, and photographers.

Not paparazzi exactly, but the kind of university-affiliated press that lives for donation galas, legacy families, and capturing the perfect picture for next quarter’s glossy alumni newsletter.

Carter shifts beside me, spine straightening, chin tilting up like he’s walking into a coronation.

And then he smiles—that smug, self-satisfied smile that says he’s already won.

He thinks he has me, thinks this moment of stepping out with me in this dress, in front of cameras, beside his name, is proof that Maverick’s losing. That he’s getting to me.

The car door opens. Carter moves like he’s practiced this—stepping out first, fixing his jacket, scanning the crowd. He pauses just long enough to reach a hand behind him in silent invitation, palm out, expecting mine. He thinks he’s about to help me out of the car and straight into his narrative.

But Eliza moves faster. She slides across the seat with easy, catlike grace, her heels hitting pavement with purpose as she grabs Carter’s outstretched hand like it was meant for her all along.

“Smile pretty.” She loops her arm through his before he can react.

The flash of cameras explodes around them. Carter hesitates—just a fraction of a second—but instinct kicks in. He plasters on a polished smile, letting the press catch him with what looks like confidence and charm. Eliza leans in just enough for the photos to suggest closeness.

The second they hit the carpet, the photographers start snapping in earnest.

“Carter Mills! Who’s your date tonight?”

“Smile this way!”

“Miss, what’s your name?”

Carter plays it cool because he can’t not—because walking out alone would look weak, but walking out with Eliza, calm and stunning and smirking like she’s three steps ahead, still gives him the photo he came for. Even if it’s the wrong girl.

I stay in the car for an extra beat, heart hammering. It was the plan—our plan. Eliza as the decoy, me as the ghost. Inside, but invisible. No pictures, no proof, nothing Maverick might see that would make this worse than it already is.

The driver finally looks back through the rearview mirror, trying to figure out if I’m getting out or not.

I do, stepping onto the sidewalk slowly, carefully, keeping my head down just enough to avoid eye contact with the press.

No one’s paying attention now anyway; all the lenses are trained on Carter and Eliza, who’s still smiling like she’s having the time of her life.

They start up the steps, and I follow a few feet behind, silent and forgettable—just another guest, background noise. And that’s exactly what I need to be tonight, because I’m not here to be seen. I’m here to get close enough to find what Carter’s hiding and take it all away.