Page 20 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rumor has it, she's losing her mind.
Ainsley
The mac and cheese tastes like cardboard, which is a crime against humanity because this is Maverick’s one cheat day of the week, and he’s been looking forward to this trashy dinner all month.
But I can barely force myself to swallow, my throat tight with anxiety that has nothing to do with processed cheese and everything to do with the fact that I’m officially the worst girlfriend in the history of relationships.
“Final answer?” Regis Philbin’s voice drifts from the TV, but I’m not really watching. I’m just staring at the screen, fork suspended halfway to my mouth, replaying this afternoon’s disaster on loop.
“You’re not eating,” Maverick observes, twirling his fork through the orange noodles with way more enthusiasm than anyone should have for boxed pasta. “Did I overcook it?”
“No, it’s perfect,” I lie, forcing another bite. “Just tired.”
He studies me with those sharp blue eyes that see too much. “Long day at the lab?”
“Something like that.” I push the mac around my bowl, creating little cheese tornadoes that match the chaos in my stomach.
On screen, a contestant from Ohio is debating whether to use a lifeline on a question about marine biology that I could answer in my sleep, but I can’t focus on anything except the memory of Carter’s face when I handed him back his jacket.
“Enjoy the gala?” His voice was deceptively casual as he checked his jacket pockets with surgical precision.
“It was... educational.” I tried to keep my voice steady while my heart hammered against my ribs.
His fingers lingered on his phone, and for a terrifying second, I thought he knew. Thought he could somehow sense that I’d violated his digital sanctuary and come up empty-handed.
“I hope you learned something useful,” he said, eyes never leaving mine. “It would be a shame if all that effort was for nothing.”
The way he’d said it… like he knew exactly what I’d been trying to do and found it amusing. Like I was a child playing dress-up in adult clothes, thinking I could outsmart him.
“Ainsley.”
I blink, refocusing on Maverick’s concerned face. “Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you wanted to go out tonight. Maybe catch a movie? That new thriller you mentioned is playing at the drive-in.” He reaches across the small table to brush his thumb over my knuckles. “We could make popcorn, steal a blanket from the couch that you refuse to let me replace...”
The sweetness in his voice makes my chest ache.
This is what normal couples do; they eat dinner together, watch game shows, and plan spontaneous date nights.
They don’t lie to each other about blackmail schemes and stolen phones and the very real possibility that everything is about to explode in their faces.
“I’m not really in the mood,” I say, pulling my hand back to grab my water glass. “Maybe we could just… stay in? Go to bed early?”
His expression shifts—just slightly, but I catch it.
The tiny crease between his brows that means he’s recalibrating, trying to figure out what’s wrong without pushing too hard.
It’s the same look he gets when his heart monitor starts acting up and he’s deciding whether to acknowledge it or pretend everything’s fine.
“Sure.” His voice is carefully neutral. “Whatever you want.”
But I can tell he’s not buying my act. Maverick Lexington didn’t build his reputation by missing obvious tells, and right now, I’m about as transparent as Saran Wrap.
I’m fidgeting with my fork, avoiding eye contact, and giving one-word answers to his attempts at conversation.
If I were anyone else, he’d already be ten steps ahead, figuring out exactly what I was hiding and why.
The fact that he’s not pressing means he trusts me.
Which makes this so much worse.
On the TV, the contestant decides to phone a friend, and I watch numbly as she explains the question to someone who clearly knows less about marine ecosystems than my stuffed sea lion, Lawrence.
It’s painful and ridiculous, and normally, I’d be yelling at the screen, but tonight, I can barely muster the energy to care.
Because Carter’s phone had been a dead end.
Three hours. I’d spent three hours going through every app, every message, every photo, looking for something—anything—that could give us leverage.
And what had I found? Nothing. The man keeps his digital life cleaner than a monastery.
No incriminating texts, no blackmail folders conveniently labeled “Evil Plans,” no smoking gun that would make this nightmare go away.
Either he’s smarter than I gave him credit for, or he keeps the really damaging stuff somewhere else. Somewhere I can’t reach.
“You know”—Maverick stabs a particularly stubborn noodle—“if something is bothering you, you could tell me, right?”
My fork clatters against the bowl. “Of course.”
“Because you’ve been...” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Different. Quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
He gives me a look that clearly says bullshit. “You once gave a twenty-minute lecture about sea lion mating rituals during a commercial break. You’re never quiet.”
Heat crawls up my neck. He’s right, obviously.
Normal Ainsley would be dissecting the contestant’s strategy, explaining the ecological importance of kelp forests, probably making him promise to take me to the Monterey Bay Aquarium for our next anniversary.
Normal Ainsley doesn’t sit in sullen silence while her boyfriend tries to make conversation during his favorite trashy dinner.
But normal Ainsley isn’t being blackmailed by a sociopath with daddy issues and a trust fund.
“I’m just tired,” I repeat, because it’s easier than the truth. “The internship’s been intense.”
“Greg giving you trouble?”
“No, Greg’s perfect. He’s learned three new tricks this week.” I force a smile, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. “He can balance a ball on his nose for almost thirty seconds now.”
“That’s great.”
I can tell he’s not convinced by my sudden brightness.
He knows me too well, knows that talking about the sea lions usually unleashes a flood of excited babbling about cognitive development and behavioral modification.
The fact that I managed exactly two sentences means he’s definitely suspicious now.
The contestant on TV loses on a question about coral bleaching that any marine biology student could have answered, and I feel an irrational surge of anger at her failure.
Like her inability to know basic ecological facts is somehow connected to my inability to protect the man sitting across from me.
“Maybe I should call in sick tomorrow,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
“To the internship?” Maverick’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. “You never call in sick. You once went to work with food poisoning because you didn’t want Greg to think you’d abandoned him.”
“That was different. Greg has separation anxiety.”
“And now?”
I shrug, not trusting myself to elaborate.
Because the truth is, I want to call in sick to everything.
To my internship, to my classes, to this entire mess that’s spiraling further out of control with each passing day.
I want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head and pretend that Carter Mills doesn’t exist, that I never went to that stupid gala, that I’m not caught in an increasingly complex web of lies that’s going to destroy everything I care about.
But I can’t do that. Because hiding won’t make this go away. And every day I wait, every day I fail to find something useful against Carter, is another day closer to him deciding he’s tired of playing games.
“If you try anything clever,” he said, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my skin crawl, “remember that Maverick’s the one who’ll pay the price. I’d hate for his academic career to suffer because his girlfriend couldn’t follow simple instructions.”
The memory makes my stomach clench. Carter wasn’t just threatening me; he was reminding me exactly what’s at stake.
Maverick’s future. His degree. His ability to continue running his grandfather’s company.
Everything he’s worked for, everything he’s sacrificed his health to maintain, hanging in the balance because I thought I could outsmart a predator in khakis.
“You want to tell me what’s really going on?”
I look up to find Maverick watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Not angry, not suspicious—just concerned. Like he genuinely wants to help, if only I’d let him.
For a split second, I consider it. Consider telling him everything—about Carter’s threats, about the gala, about my failed attempt at digital espionage.
Consider letting him take control of this situation the way he takes control of everything else, with calculated precision and ruthless efficiency.
But then I remember the sound his watch makes when his heart rate spikes. The way his jaw goes tight when he’s stressed but trying to hide it. The beta blockers he takes every morning like communion wafers, trying to keep his cardiovascular system from staging a revolt.
If I tell him about Carter, he’ll try to fix it. And trying to fix it might kill him.
So instead, I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine. “I’m fine, Mav. Really. Just overthinking some stuff with my thesis proposal.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. Just turns his hand palm-up and laces our fingers together, his thumb tracing gentle circles over my knuckles.
“You know I’m here, right? Whatever it is. Whatever you need.”
The sincerity in his voice almost breaks me. Because he means it—I know he does. Maverick Lexington would move mountains if I asked him to, would tear down anyone who threatened me without a second thought. He’d probably enjoy it.
But this time, I’m the threat. My choices, my lies, my complete inability to handle Carter Mills without dragging everyone I love into the wreckage.
“I know,” I whisper, squeezing his fingers. “I love you.”
“Love you, too,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest truth in the world.
On the TV, a new contestant steps up to the hot seat, all nervous energy and misplaced confidence.
Regis Philbin welcomes her with that trademark blend of warmth and mild condescension, and I watch without really seeing as she settles in for what’s probably going to be a short-lived run toward a million dollars.
Just like me, she has no idea what she’s gotten herself into.