Page 42 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Rumor has it, she finally got her perfect couch.

Ainsley

“Absolutely not,” I declare, recoiling from the angular gray sectional like it just called me ‘ma’am’ at Starbucks. “That thing looks like it was designed by someone who hates spines.”

Maverick raises a brow and tilts the price tag toward me. “It’s practical.”

“So is eating expired yogurt, but that doesn’t mean I want to.”

He rests a hand on the cushion, testing it. “Seems durable.”

“Yeah, like a brick. A very expensive brick that screams, ‘No one’s ever been loved here.’”

Janice—our exhausted furniture guide who’s clearly three couples away from quitting retail—approaches with the same customer service smile she had when I fake-sobbed into a recliner twenty minutes ago. “Still narrowing things down?”

“I want a couch that understands me,” I tell her earnestly. “Something emotionally available. Something that can cradle my body and my anxiety.”

“Something that can survive a full bowl of Frosted Flakes being launched during a sea lion emergency,” Maverick adds dryly.

I shoot him a glare. “You startled me during a rescue mission. That sea lion was trapped.”

“You flailed like you were in open water.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t passed out on the couch with tortilla crumbs in your armpit.”

He shrugs like he’s not embarrassed at all.

Maybe this seems like just another chaotic errand in our very not-normal relationship, but this isn’t about the couch. Not really. This is about what’s changed.

Three months ago, Maverick ruled Havemeyer like it was a hedge fund with hormones. IOUs, favors, secret influence—he ran it all. And then one day, he didn’t. He handed it to Rowan. Clean break. No drama. No announcement.

Because he wanted off the chessboard.

Because he didn’t want people coming through him to get to me. Because he finally realized he’d rather build something real with me than control everything from a distance.

He still runs Pops’s investment firm on the side, obviously. The man would rather die than hand over a balance sheet of his making. But the rest? The power, the manipulation, the constant risk of being used?

He gave that up. For me.

And don’t think I’m not painfully aware of what that means. The guy who calculated people like assets decided I was the investment. Not a liability. Not a complication.

A priority.

Janice leads us to a cluster of couches that don’t look like they were made by Bond villains, and I spot it immediately.

A deep navy sectional. Lush. Inviting. And it looks like it can handle emotional damage and post-sex snacks.

I fall onto it. “Oh, my gosh,” I sigh, practically purring. “This couch gets it. This couch is the one.”

Maverick sits beside me, less dramatic but noticeably calmer, like his bones recognize this is what rest is supposed to feel like.

“It’s actually… comfortable.” He leans back with a sigh that’s just shy of sinful.

“You hear that?” I curl into him. “That’s the sound of memory foam.”

He chuckles, hand sliding across the back cushion behind me. “Do we think it’s strong enough to survive your sleep drool?”

“I don’t drool,” I lie. “That’s my cooling system.”

“And what about your personal snack graveyard? I’ve pulled entire pretzels from under your thigh.”

“Once! And I ate them!”

He grins. “Exactly.”

But he’s smiling in that rare, real way that only surfaces when his guard is completely down. The smirk is gone. The tension in his jaw, that ever-present weight of control—gone. It’s just him. Maverick. My Maverick. Sitting beside me on a couch he doesn’t have to calculate the ROI on.

And I realize something wild: this couch isn’t just perfect.

It’s ours.

Maverick shifts beside me, and I can feel the quiet satisfaction radiating off him like heat. This isn’t just a couch. It’s a symbol. A beginning. A choice. One he’s already made.

“We’ll take it.” His voice is low but firm in that way that always makes my heart stutter.

Janice lights up like we just solved world peace via upholstery. “Excellent choice! Let me check our delivery schedule and grab the spec sheet. Be right back!”

She scurries off, heels clicking and clipboard flapping. The moment she disappears around the corner, I pivot to face him fully, legs curling beneath me.

“So,” I say, grinning. “We’re really doing this. Joint furniture ownership. What’s next? Matching monogrammed bathrobes?”

“Already ordered,” he deadpans.

“Shut up.”

“Yours says Crumb Queen .”

I gasp. “You take that back.”

“You licked Dorito dust off your own tank top last night.”

“It was dark!”

He just smirks and tilts his head at me. “I love you.”

It hits like a sucker punch to the soul. Not because I don’t know it—but because he says it like a truth he’s building everything else around.

“I love you, too,” I murmur, softer now, tracing my fingers along the seam of the couch between us. “You didn’t have to give up all of that, you know.”

“I did. Because I couldn’t keep playing king while constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering who was getting close just to use me. I’ve had enough of people treating me like a door to knock on when they want something.”

He leans in, eyes never leaving mine. “I only want you.”

And now I’m melting. Into him. Into this couch. Into the life we’re building with flawed blueprints and snack-stained throw pillows.

I shift closer until our knees touch. “You know what’s terrifying?”

“Harold from the apartment below ours?”

“Okay, yes, him too, but also, how good we look on this couch together.”

“Oh, we’re doing this now.” His voice drops to that register that fries my nervous system.

“Look, I just think”—I slide onto his lap without hesitation—“that before we make a major purchase, we should verify… quality assurance.”

His hands find my hips automatically, grounding me with that controlled strength that always makes me feel weightless. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet here you are, letting me climb you like a tree in a furniture store.”

He groans, head tipping back slightly as I roll my hips. “Heaven help this couch.”

“I told you it had to withstand emotional and physical stress.”

“You’re gonna kill me before this thing gets delivered.”

I lean in, brushing my lips across his jaw. “You’d die happy.”

His mouth finds mine with a hunger that makes the world around us vanish. It’s not a slow kiss. It’s not tentative or curious. It’s ownership. Reverence. The kind of kiss that says, I gave it all up for this. For you.

My fingers thread into his hair as he deepens it, his other hand splaying over my lower back like he’s anchoring himself. Every part of me reacts—heat blooming, limbs humming, the soft weight of everything we are pressing down into the cushions.

And then?—

“Oh, my.”

We both freeze.

I turn my head slowly and, of course, standing not five feet away is an elderly couple holding hands and trying so hard not to make eye contact.

The man is grinning like he just won bingo, and the woman looks personally offended on behalf of the entire generation.

“I—uh—testing,” I sputter, waving a limp hand toward the couch. “Just… checking the, um, lumbar support?”

“Sturdiness,” Maverick adds calmly, because, of course, he recovers faster. “We believe in thorough inspection.”

The man snorts. “Hell of a test you’re putting it through.”

“Franklin!” the woman hisses, dragging him away by the elbow.

He’s still chuckling as they disappear around the corner, and I bury my face in Maverick’s shoulder, equal parts mortified and unreasonably proud.

“That just happened,” I whisper.

He kisses the top of my head, hands still lazily resting on my hips. “You started it.”

“Don’t act like you weren’t two seconds from unzipping my jeans in the middle of aisle three.”

“No comment,” he mutters into my hair.

The click of Janice’s heels approaching has me vaulting off his lap like I’m being ejected from a ride at Disneyland. I plop onto the far end of the couch, legs crossed, trying to look like someone who was definitely not straddling her boyfriend moments ago.

Janice rounds the corner, all cheerful efficiency. “So! Thursday afternoon delivery work for you two?”

“Perfect.” Maverick casually attempts to wipe lip gloss off his face without anyone noticing.

Janice taps a few things on her tablet. “Let’s get your info entered, and you’ll be all set.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re walking out with a receipt, a delivery time, and possibly a lifetime ban from the family-friendly section of the showroom.

“I can’t believe we just traumatized an elderly couple,” I say as Maverick opens the car door for me like he didn’t just get second base adjacent on aisle three.

“We didn’t traumatize them.” He slides into the driver’s seat like he didn’t just get groped in a showroom. “Franklin looked like he wanted to take notes.”

I snort. “Please. That man hasn’t blushed since Reagan was in office.”

“You sure? He looked pretty invested in our testing methods.”

“We have two days left with the old couch,” I warn, clicking my seat belt. “Don’t tempt me to expand those methods.”

“Tempt you?” He smirks, starting the engine. “I’m counting on it.”

His hand finds mine without hesitation, like it always does now. Like muscle memory. Like commitment. Like every moment is a yes. And I swear, if he keeps choosing me like this, I’m never letting go.

“So,” I say, watching the city blur past the window, “any regrets? Handing over your IOU empire? Missing the thrill of blackmail and bribery?”

He considers this, and for a moment, I see a flicker of the old Maverick—the one with the glacier-blue eyes and the permanent tension in his shoulders. But then he glances at me and just… softens.

“Not even a little. Power’s overrated when you’re constantly calculating your own life like a spreadsheet. Rowan’s better at managing the chaos anyway. I was just keeping the wolves at bay.”

“And now?”

“Now I get to build something that’s actually mine. Not Pops’s. Not the school’s. Not a kingdom I have to defend every second.”

He squeezes my hand. “I picked you over every favor ever owed. You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted with no strings attached.”

Cue the complete emotional system meltdown. My stomach does that weird swoopy thing, and my heart decides it’s time to try out jazz drumming.

“You keep saying things like that, and I’m going to be emotionally unstable until Thursday,” I whisper.

“Thursday?” He smirks.

“Delivery day. Obviously.”

He laughs, but it’s warm, low—like he’s happier than he knows how to be yet. I want to bottle that sound and drink it when I feel like setting the world on fire.

“So, how’s Carter doing in his new role as Rowan’s indentured academic assistant?”

Maverick smirks. “Word is he’s mastered the art of formatting citations and cries softly when assigned group projects.”

I snort. “Karma’s just poetic like that.”

“Dean Mills has been signing off on everything Rowan asks for. I think he’s just relieved I’m not sitting across from him every week, making veiled threats.”

“You used to terrify him.”

“I still do.” His voice is all silk and steel. “I just don’t need to anymore.”

I look over at him—this man who used to carry everyone’s secrets like a burden, and now just holds my hand. And I think that may be the most powerful he’s ever been.

“I love you, you emotionally evolved crime lord,” I say, leaning my head on his shoulder as we pull into our lot.

“I love you, too, cereal menace.”

We head upstairs to our slightly too-small apartment, already talking about how we’ll rearrange the furniture. He says he’ll carry the old couch down on his own. I suggest lighting it on fire. He says no. I say I’m not asking.

And somewhere between that back-and-forth and slipping off my shoes inside the door, it hits me again.

This life we’re building? It’s not about the furniture. Or the favors. Or even the empire he left behind.

It’s about the choice he made.

He picked me. On purpose. Without hesitation. With his whole freaking heart.