Page 22 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Rumor has it, she flooded the apartment.

Maverick

The first thing I hear is slurred yelling.

Not just yelling—commentary. Colorful. Loud. And unmistakably directed at no one in particular.

“Gravity is a myth,” Ainsley announces like she’s breaking exclusive news to a live studio audience. “You hear me? Mythological! Like unicorns. Or men who text back after they come.”

I blink up at the ceiling, still half-asleep, but not enough to ignore the sound of water sloshing.

“Also,” she adds, voice wobbling with the kind of theatrical venom that can only be fueled by 1:00 a.m. existential dread or alcohol, “Maverick Lexington is a communist. He won’t let me live my life. He hates joy. And pools.”

Ah.

So we’re doing that tonight.

I sit up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my face. My head throbs in sync with the secondhand shame rolling in waves from the other side of the wall. I don’t even check the time. There’s no hour when this would make sense.

More water sloshing. More slurred opinions.

“He thinks he’s so smart. With his investment metaphors and his eyebrows and his… abs.”

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.

This is going to be a nightmare.

Again.

She’s supposed to be in bed. Not… outside. Not near a body of water. Not monologuing like a drunk villain in an indie musical.

I cross the apartment and unlock the balcony door, already bracing for whatever version of chaos she’s summoned this time.

And there she is.

In all her aquatic, wine-soaked glory.

She’s floating in the middle of a plastic kiddie pool. The same one I explicitly told her not to use in the parking lot last month after she nearly got hit by a Honda Civic while sunbathing on a floatie shaped like a crustacean.

So, naturally, she dragged it onto our balcony.

Which is somehow worse.

She’s wearing an old tank top and bikini bottoms, one sandal, and my Harvard Business School hoodie, which I only wear to piss off pretentious people.

She’s half submerged, sprawled across an inflatable duck.

A box of Franzia dangles from the ledge, connected by what looks like a makeshift wine straw.

Her hair’s twisted in a bun that’s mostly fallen out, and she’s using one of my legal textbooks as a coaster.

“Are you drunk?”

She lifts her head slowly. Blinks at me like I’ve asked her to explain quantum physics.

“Emotionally, yes.”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You filled up a kiddie pool. On the balcony. At 2:00 a.m.”

She lifts the wine pouch and waggles it at me. “It’s called self-care, Maverick. Look it up.”

“Ainsley.”

“What?”

“You’re going to drown. In six inches of warm hose water and fermented juice.”

“Then let me.” She throws her arms wide, nearly tipping the duck. “Let the merlot take me!”

Heaven help me.

I step closer, arms crossed. “You’re going to wake the entire building.”

“Good,” she snaps. “Let them judge me. Maybe someone out there has the decency to own a slip n’ slide and a soul.”

I stare down at her, squinting.

She’s crying.

Not hard. Not loud. But her eyes are red, her mascara’s smudged, and the bravado is cracking around the edges.

“I messed everything up,” she whispers suddenly. “I didn’t mean to.”

I crouch down beside the pool. My voice drops low. “What’d you do?”

She shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Ainsley.”

She looks away. “I hate how good you are. How calm. How you always know the answer while I’m out here throwing kiddie pool tantrums like some rejected Disney villain.”

“Hey.” I reach out and brush a wet curl from her cheek. “You’re not a villain.”

She snorts. “Tell that to Jesus. He knows what I did.”

Fuck, I love this girl.

And she’s unraveling right in front of me.

I should tell her to come inside. To drink water. To stop giving our neighbors another reason to report us to the apartment manager.

But instead, I just sit beside her chaos.

And wait.

Because whatever’s coming next?

It’s not going to be funny. Not really.

But for now?

She floats. I sit.

She reaches over the side of the duck and scoops a handful of lukewarm water. Then throws it at my feet.

Not a splash.

Not a threat.

Just… sadness water.

“That’s for your sins,” she mumbles.

I stare at the wet patch darkening the bottom of my sweatpants. “You done?”

“No.”

She lobs another handful at me. This one arcs wide and hits the side of the sliding door.

“Missed,” I mutter.

She frowns at her hand like it betrayed her. “I need a ladle.”

“Don’t you dare weaponize my soup utensils.”

A beat passes. She exhales dramatically and drapes her arm over the duck like she’s fainting.

“I’m gonna live in here now,” she declares. “This is my new address. Ainsley James, Pool Suite 401. Mail can be forwarded to Duck.”

“Duck is deflating.”

She gasps, clutching the duck. “Lies. He’s just… emotionally decompressing.”

Fuck.

I rake a hand through my hair and look up at the sky, like maybe divine intervention will strike me down and end this before the apartment manager does.

Then she turns those glossy blue eyes on me. Lethal. Teary. Focused.

“You want to help me feel better?”

I pause. “That depends on what phase of the spiral we’re in.”

Her lips curl into a slow, wicked smile.

Oh, no.

She points at me. “Strip.”

I blink. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Take. Your. Shirt. Off.”

My mouth opens. Then closes.

She’s dead serious.

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Science.”

I lift a brow.

“I’ve had a rough day,” she explains, like this is a medical emergency. “I’m emotionally compromised. And you’re… you. With your abs and your angry eyebrows and your tragic collarbones. I deserve a little visual serotonin.”

“Visual serotonin.”

She nods solemnly. “Consider it reparations for everything I’ve ever done wrong.”

“You’re asking me to emotionally support you with my body.”

“Welcome to the patriarchy, Maverick.”

I stare at her.

She stares back, unblinking, gripping a juice box straw full of wine like it’s a weapon of war.

Heaven help me.

“I hate that this might actually work,” I mutter.

“You love me,” she sings, slurring slightly. “You’d do anything for me. Even if it involves partial nudity and mild objectification.”

She bats her lashes. One false eyelash hangs on for dear life.

“You are one downward spiral away from a restraining order,” I say flatly.

She lifts the straw again. “That’s not a no.”

I sigh and pull my shirt over my head in one smooth motion.

She gasps like she’s watching the sunrise.

“Glory be,” she whispers reverently. “The abs live.”

I toss the shirt at her face.

It lands half in the pool, half on her arm. She shrieks like I hit her with a dead fish.

“Sir! This is silk-blend sin! Respect the moment!”

“You wanted a strip show,” I deadpan. “You didn’t specify choreography.”

She laughs—loud and real—and my chest aches in that complicated way it does every time she falls apart and still finds a way to sparkle.

She swipes at her eyes, smearing what’s left of her mascara across her cheek. “You’re stupid,” she mumbles.

“You’re drunk.”

She shrugs. “Same diff.”

I crouch beside her again. “Are you done floating?”

She tips her head to the side, considering. Then, “No. But I might be done sinking.”

That one lands like a sucker punch.

I nod once. “Okay. Then I’ll be here.”

I pick up the wine pouch. Twist off the straw. Toss it into the trash can by the grill.

She watches me like I just carried her out of a burning building.

“I love you.”

I brush the hair off her forehead. “I know.”

And I do.

Even when she’s floating.

Even when she’s drowning.

Especially when she’s both.

She reaches out slowly, fingers brushing the curve of my forearm. Her eyes drop to my chest—still bare, still damp with sweat and balcony humidity.

“You didn’t have to actually strip, you know,” she whispers, but there’s no mockery left in her voice.

“Pretty sure you threatened me with emotional terrorism if I didn’t.”

Her lips twitch.

Then she shifts.

Pulls herself upright in the kiddie pool with all the grace of a drunken sea lion and scoots toward the edge until her knees bump the rim. Her eyes lock on mine as she lifts herself slightly onto her knees, wet hands trailing up my ribs.

“I need you to know something.” Her breath fans warmth across my chest.

“Ainsley—”

She leans in and presses a soft kiss to the center of my sternum. Her lips are cold from the water, but the heat that follows roars through me like a fuse lit at both ends.

Another kiss, just below.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Another, lower, right above my abs.

“I’m so sorry.”

Her voice cracks. She’s not drunk now—not in the way that matters. This part? This is real.

She presses her forehead against my chest, both hands splayed over my ribs, like she’s trying to memorize the rhythm of my heartbeat.

“I don’t want to mess this up.” Her voice is barely a breath. “But I think I already have.”

I wrap my arms around her, careful not to pull too tight, even though that’s all I want to do.

“You haven’t.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

She just stays there, lips parted against my skin, breath shaky. Her fingers tremble slightly as they trace over the edges of a scar she doesn’t know the origin of yet. She’s not asking questions. Not tonight.

She kisses the center of my chest again, softer this time. Slower.

Then the top of one ab.

Then another.

“You’re ridiculous,” I murmur, trying to play it off, to slow the rising tide of emotions and arousal and heartache tangling together like a noose.

She looks up at me.

Mascara wrecked. Eyes glassy. Hair damp and tangled.

“Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

I nod once. “Heaven help me.”

And she smiles.

Not the tipsy smile.

The real one.

The one that makes staying feel like the only logical choice I’ve ever made.

She looks up at me again, lips parted, breath shaky.

“I want to make it up to you,” she whispers.

My jaw tightens. “You don’t have to.”

Her fingers trail down my stomach. “I know.”

There’s no coy smile. No teasing in her voice. Just something raw. Honest. Like she needs this more than I do.

“I need to feel close to you. Right now.”

I nod once.

She leans forward again, slower this time, and I feel the warmth of her mouth against my skin—lower now. Deliberate. Soft kisses, each one laced with an apology she won’t say out loud. Each one tethering her to me when everything else inside her feels like it’s slipping.

I suck in a breath as her fingers curl into my waistband.

And then?—

My hand cups her cheek, stopping her.

Not because I don’t want it.

Because I do.

I really do.

But not like this.

Not when she’s trying to trade pieces of herself for peace she doesn’t owe me.

Her eyes flick up, wide and wet.

“I love you,” I say again, firmer now. “Even when you’re a mess. Even when you don’t know how to fix it.”

Her lip trembles.

And this time, when she presses her face into my stomach, she doesn’t try to go further.

She just breathes.

And I hold her there.