Page 38 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Rumor has it, she walked into the lion's den wearing Louboutins.

Ainsley

“Ow! Jeez, Eliza, are you trying to give me a lobotomy?” I yelp as she yanks the curling iron through another section of my hair with the delicacy of a lumberjack.

“Beauty is pain, babe,” she replies, completely unrepentant as she wraps another strand around the barrel. “And tonight, you need to be devastating. Like, make-Carter-Mills-forget-his-own-name devastating.”

“Pretty sure he already forgot his own name,” Sebastian calls from the couch, where he’s sprawled with a beer and absolutely zero shame about watching my transformation. “Kid’s been operating on two brain cells since birth, and one of them is dedicated to hair gel.”

Rowan snorts from his spot by the window, where he’s supposedly keeping watch but is mostly just providing colorful commentary. “The other one’s for identifying boat shoes.”

“You guys are terrible.” I laugh, then immediately regret it when Eliza tugs harder in retaliation.

“Hold still,” she commands, wielding the curling iron like a weapon. “We have exactly forty-three minutes to turn you into a femme fatale, and I refuse to send you into battle looking anything less than iconic.”

The apartment feels like a war room disguised as a beauty salon.

My dress hangs from the closet door—a black silk number that Sebastian picked out with surgical precision, claiming it would “make Carter’s daddy issues physically painful to witness.

” Shoes wait by the bed—red-soled heels that cost more than my textbooks and make me approximately six feet of pure intimidation.

It’s been three days since the kiddie pool conversation. Three days of planning, preparation, and watching Maverick move pieces around the board like a chess grandmaster who already knows he’s won. His recovery has been miraculous—or maybe terrifying. I can’t decide which.

Either way, tonight, Carter Mills learns what happens when you threaten a king’s queen.

“So remind me again why we’re all here instead of letting Maverick handle this himself?” Rowan asks, though he’s grinning like he already knows the answer.

“Because,” Sebastian explains patiently, “our boy has exactly zero chill when it comes to Ainsley. Left to his own devices, he’d probably just murder Carter with his bare hands and call it a day.”

“Which would be satisfying,” I add, tilting my head so Eliza can access a stubborn section, “but not particularly strategic.”

“Plus, someone needs to make sure he doesn’t actually commit homicide,” Eliza chimes in, carefully arranging a curl. “I look terrible in orange, and I refuse to visit you all in prison.”

The bedroom door opens, and Maverick appears in the doorway like he’s been summoned by the sound of his name.

He’s wearing all black: jeans, Henley, leather jacket that makes him look like he stepped out of a noir film.

His hair is perfectly disheveled in that way that probably took him thirty seconds to achieve, and his eyes are sharp with the kind of focused intensity that means someone’s about to have a very bad night.

“Time check.” His gaze is locked on me in the mirror.

“Twenty-eight minutes,” Sebastian reports. “Right on schedule.”

Maverick nods once, but he doesn’t move from the doorway.

Just stands there, watching Eliza work magic with hot tools and bobby pins, his expression unreadable except for the slight tension in his jaw that I’ve learned means he’s fighting the urge to cancel the entire plan and keep me locked in this apartment forever.

“You know,” Rowan observes, “for someone who claims this is all under control, you look like you want to murder everyone in a five-block radius.”

“Just Carter,” Maverick replies without missing a beat. “Maybe his father. Possibly anyone who looks at her wrong tonight.”

“See?” Sebastian gestures at him with his beer bottle. “Zero chill. This is why we need adult supervision.”

“I am an adult.” Maverick’s voice is a deadly calm.

“You’re a possessive lunatic with trust issues and a recent history of cardiac procedures,” Eliza counters cheerfully, not even pausing in her hair artistry. “Which, don’t get me wrong, is very sexy. But not particularly conducive to subtle manipulation.”

I catch Maverick’s reflection in the mirror, and something hot and dangerous flickers in his eyes. Not anger—something deeper. More primal. The look he gets when someone mentions that I belong to him, and he wants to prove it.

“Five more minutes,” Eliza announces, “and then we make magic happen.”

The next few minutes pass in comfortable chaos.

Sebastian provides running commentary on Carter’s complete lack of fashion sense.

Rowan updates us on the security situation at the restaurant—exits mapped, staff briefed, and contingencies in place.

Eliza puts the finishing touches on my hair, creating waves that look effortless but probably violate several laws of physics.

And Maverick just watches. Silent. Calculating. Terrifying.

Finally, Eliza steps back with the satisfaction of an artist completing a masterpiece. “Behold,” she announces dramatically, “the weapon of mass seduction.”

I turn to look in the full-length mirror, and damn. She’s outdone herself. My hair falls in glossy waves that catch the light, my makeup is flawless but not overdone, and the dress…

The dress is a declaration of war wrapped in Italian silk.

“Holy shit,” Sebastian breathes. “Carter’s going to swallow his own tongue.”

“That’s the plan,” I reply, smoothing the fabric over my hips. The dress fits like it was made for me, hugging every curve before falling in a way that suggests elegance while promising sin.

“Shoes,” Eliza commands, pointing to the Louboutins.

I slip them on, and suddenly, I’m tall enough to look Maverick in the eye without craning my neck. The height is intoxicating—powerful in a way that makes me understand why women have been using stilettos as weapons for centuries.

“Perfect,” Eliza declares. “You look like you could destroy empires.”

“That’s because she can,” Maverick says quietly, and when I turn to look at him, his expression makes my breath catch.

Pride. Possession. Something that looks dangerously close to reverence.

“Time to go,” Sebastian announces, checking his phone. “Carter’s probably already at the restaurant, sweating through his polo shirt and wondering why his life choices led him here.”

I grab my clutch—small, elegant, containing only the essentials: phone, lipstick, and a recording device that’s completely legal and definitely going to ruin Carter’s entire existence.

“Remember,” Maverick’s voice carries an edge of command that makes everyone in the room pay attention, “you’re not there to negotiate. You’re there to let him hang himself.”

“I know.” I check my reflection one last time. “Trust me, I’ve got this.”

“I do trust you.” There’s something fierce in his voice. “It’s everyone else I want to murder.”

Sebastian and Rowan head for the door, probably eager to get out before Maverick changes his mind and decides to handle this the old-fashioned way. Eliza gives me a quick hug and whispers something about kicking ass and taking names.

And then it’s just Maverick and me, standing in our bedroom while the weight of what’s about to happen settles between us.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” He steps closer.

“Are you sure you’re ready to let me go?” I counter, because I can see the war happening behind his eyes. The part of him that trusts me completely is battling the part that wants to burn down anyone who might threaten me.

Instead of answering, he moves. One step, then another, until I’m backed against the wall beside our dresser. His hands bracket my head, caging me in, and suddenly the air feels charged with electricity.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

“Say what?”

“That you’re mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sends heat shooting through my veins like a drug. This is Maverick at his most dangerous—not the calculating strategist or the business genius, but the man who would burn the world down before letting someone take what belongs to him.

“I’m yours,” I whisper, and his eyes go dark.

“Prove it,” he growls, and then his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is claiming. Consuming. His lips are demanding against mine, tongue sweeping into my mouth like he’s marking territory. One hand tangles in my perfectly styled hair while the other grips my hip, pulling me against him until there’s no space left between us.

I melt into him, my hands fisting in his jacket, and for a moment, the rest of the world disappears. No Carter, no plan, no restaurant full of witnesses. Just Maverick’s mouth on mine and the taste of possession and promise.

When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard, and my lipstick is definitely smudged.

“Now go destroy him,” he says against my lips.

I nod, not trusting my voice, and start to move toward the door. But his hand catches my wrist, stopping me.

“Ainsley.”

I turn back.

“Come home to me.”

It’s not a request. It’s a command wrapped in vulnerability, a reminder that underneath all the planning and strategy, he’s still the man who almost died on an operating table six days ago.

The man who loves me enough to let me walk into danger, even though every instinct is screaming at him to lock me away where nothing can touch me.

“Always,” I promise.

This time, he lets me go.

I walk through the apartment, where Sebastian and Rowan are waiting by the door, past Eliza, who gives me an encouraging smile, and out into the hallway, where my heels click against the marble like a countdown timer.

The restaurant Carter chose is exactly what I expected—expensive, pretentious, the kind of place where people wear their net worth like cologne. Le Bernardin wannabe with mood lighting and a wine list that I can barely pronounce.