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

CHAPTER TWO

Rumor has it, she barks during sex.

Ainsley

There’s nothing like a sea lion barking at full volume to drag you straight out of sleep.

“Turn it off,” Maverick groans beside me, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Before I throw it out the window.”

Again. He means again.

This is not the first time he’s threatened bodily harm to my sea lion alarm clock. Nor is it the first time he’s followed through.

I slap the snooze button before it can get us evicted. “You know it’s adorable.”

“It’s a form of psychological warfare,” he mutters, voice muffled beneath his arm.

I grin. “You bought it.”

“I was under duress.”

“You were in Target and feeling soft because I said you looked hot in that Henley.”

He grunts. Which, translated from Maverick-ese, means: maybe you’re right, but I’ll die before admitting it.

“You could just admit it’s grown on you,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.

He doesn’t answer. Just groans again, turns away from me, and pulls the blanket over his head like he’s trying to erase me from existence.

I stare at the lump beside me for a second, debating whether to poke him again for sport, but caffeine wins out.

So, I roll out of bed with my hair a wreck, sleep shirt slipping off one shoulder and pad into the kitchen on bare feet.

The tile is freezing, and my will to live is sitting somewhere around 12 percent, but I have cinnamon oat creamer and an unhealthy codependent relationship with caffeine, so I will survive.

The coffee pot gurgles to life just as I hear him behind me, his barefoot steps slow and reluctant.

I glance over my shoulder.

He’s shirtless, hair mussed and sticking up in the back in that way that should not be as attractive as it is, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

His sweatpants hang low on his hips, the waistband loose, like he just barely remembered to put them on before wandering out here.

He doesn’t say anything right away, just rubs a hand over his jaw and glares at the kitchen.

“I thought you were staying in bed,” I say, hopping onto the counter and wrapping my hands around my mug.

“You left me with that damn clock,” he mutters, voice rough and hoarse.

“You threatened the clock,” I remind him, lifting an eyebrow. “That’s called consequences. Welcome to the justice system.”

He walks past me without a word, just a low, exhausted groan and a scowl aimed directly at the coffee pot. He leans over it, peering into my half-poured mug like I’ve poisoned it, frowning at the creamer bottle already sitting on the counter.

He doesn’t even touch it. Just sighs. Loudly. “You used the cinnamon oat creamer again.”

“Yes,” I say, lifting the mug to my lips with exaggerated grace. “Because the other one is full-fat sugar sludge, and you, my darling walking arrythmia, have a heart condition.”

He grunts. Not even a real protest—just a defeated caveman sound that translates roughly to my life is a series of beige health foods, and I hate this for me.

I watch him shuffle to the freezer. The man opens it with all the enthusiasm of someone about to witness a crime scene. He freezes the second he sees the bagels.

“There are bagels in there,” I offer helpfully. “Whole grain. From that bakery you claim tastes like sadness but still had the audacity to eat three from last week’s batch.”

His head turns slowly. “Because it does taste like sadness. Specifically, sadness... with chia seeds.”

“Chia seeds are good for your heart.”

“So is joy. Which you’ve clearly banned from this household.”

I don’t even blink. “They’re heart healthy.”

He pulls the bag out anyway, like it’s physically paining him, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “fucking cardboard .” He doesn’t argue anymore, which is the secret signal that I’ve won. That, and the way he starts slicing the bagel with aggressive martyr energy.

“I miss Pop-Tarts,” he mutters, more to himself than me.

“I’m sure they miss you, too,” I say. “Right up until they clog your arteries and leave you for dead.”

He pauses mid-slice to glare at me. “That’s dark.”

“That’s accurate.”

He doesn’t argue that part either. Just continues prepping his disappointing bagel while I sip my coffee and enjoy the quiet pleasure of knowing that, once again, I’ve successfully bullied my very stubborn, very sexy boyfriend into not dying prematurely. All before 8 a.m.

Domestic bliss.

Sort of.

We sit at the little table in the corner, the one we found on Facebook Marketplace for fifty bucks and swore we’d replace but never did. It wobbles if you lean on it too hard, which is honestly a pretty solid metaphor for both of us before coffee.

His whole-grain sadness sandwich lands in front of him. My sugar-coma-in-a-mug is already halfway gone. And his laptop? That gets cracked open in a hurry.

“Seriously?” I say, blinking at him over the rim of my mug. “You’re working right now?”

“It’s 7:30.”

“Exactly. You haven’t even blinked properly yet.”

“Clients in London don’t care what time it is here,” he mutters, fingers already flying across the keyboard.

I stare at him. Because of course. Of course, we’re doing this. Of course, he’s prioritizing clients over, you know, basic functioning as a human being.

“It’s Wednesday,” I remind him, trying to keep my voice light. “You have ethics class.”

“I’m not going.”

Just like that. Like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t sit right here two weeks ago and swear to his grandfather and me that he’d stop skipping. That he’d start showing up for himself, not just his clients.

“Maverick,” I say, slowly. Carefully. Like I’m approaching a wild animal that might bite.

“I’ve got someone covering for me.” He doesn’t even look up. “Notes, recording, the whole thing.”

I freeze mid-sip.

“An IOU?” I don’t know why I ask; I already know the answer.

There’s the tiniest twitch in his jaw. A tell. He hates that I can read him this well.

“Unbelievable,” I murmur, setting my mug down a little harder than I mean to.

“You promised Pops you’d go, and you meant it. I know you did.”

“I’m handling it.”

“No,” I say, sharper now. “You’re outsourcing it. Again.”

“I’m managing my responsibilities.”

“You’re cheating on your responsibilities with someone who probably thinks ‘fiscal liability’ is a Marvel villain.”

That gets a blink, but still no real reaction. He just keeps typing, expression flat and defenses up.

He does this when I get too close, when the pressure slips through the cracks. He shuts down. Not angry. Just… closed. Locked tight.

And yeah. It hurts. Because I love him. And watching him grind himself into the ground while pretending it’s fine is like holding your breath in a room filling with smoke. Eventually, you either scream or pass out.

I sigh and push my mug away, dragging both hands through my hair.

“You know he’s going to find out,” I say softly.

“Not if they do their job right.”

“Pops already thinks you’re working too hard,” I remind him. “If he finds out you’re skipping class to fix someone else’s screw-ups?—”

“He won’t.” His voice is sharp and clipped. Defensive.

Which tells me everything I need to know.

I study him for a second. The tightness in his jaw. The lines of exhaustion under his eyes. The way his hand clenches on the mouse pad just a little too tightly. He’s unraveling. Quietly. Efficiently. Like a thread pulled at just the right angle so no one notices until the whole sweater’s a mess.

I’m not mad. Not really. I’m just tired. For him.

“Fine,” I say finally, leaning back in my chair. “But when he does the disappointed face, I’m not bailing you out.”

“You never do,” he mumbles, tearing a piece off his bagel and frowning.

“Lies,” I say. “I brought you kale chips last week.”

“That’s not a favor. That’s a hate crime.”

I roll my eyes so hard I think I might pull something. “You’re dramatic.”

He takes a bitter bite of his bagel. “You’re controlling.”

“Because you want to die via sodium bomb and I’ve decided that’s not going to happen on my watch.”

That earns me a sideways glance, but he doesn’t argue. Probably because he knows I’m right.

We fall into silence—his fingers clacking at the keys, the toaster still cooling behind us, the soft sound of morning traffic outside the window.

I stare at the empty mug in my hands and wonder how someone so strong can also be so impossibly fragile underneath it all.

He acts like this whole life is a game of poker he can win with enough bluffing.

But I see him.

Eventually, I glance at the clock and groan. “I need to get ready. I’ve got lunch with Bostic.”

That gets his attention. Finally. His eyes lift from the screen, focused and alert now. “Remind him I need the inspection reports for the building on 8th. He said I’d have them by Monday.”

I snort. “I’m not your assistant.”

“He owes me from poker night.”

“You say that about everyone.”

“Because it’s true.”

I push my chair back, walk behind him, and drape my arms around his shoulders. Rest my chin on the top of his head and let myself just be close to him for a second. He’s solid. Steady. And somehow always feels like home, even when he’s being an absolute idiot about his health and life balance.

“Have fun defrauding death with your gluten-free breakfast,” I murmur.

He catches my wrist gently, tugging me around into his lap before I can escape. I let out a yelp—half laugh, half surprise—as he pulls me down into a kiss that’s way too long for how much work he allegedly has to do.

It’s soft. And sure. And full of everything he doesn’t say.

When we break apart, his lips are still close to mine. “Stay out of trouble.” His eyes are locked on mine. “No fires. No protests. No arguing with your professors about dolphin neurology.”

“That was one time.”

“And a three-day academic review.”

“I regret nothing.”

And I don’t. Not when it comes to him. Not when it comes to fighting for the people I love, even if that means annoying them into eating flaxseed bagels and going to class once in a while.

I kiss his temple one more time, then start toward the bathroom. “Try not to have a caffeine-fueled heart attack while I’m gone.”

“Bring back something with real sugar,” he calls.

“Bring back your ethics textbook and we’ll talk.”