Page 43 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

EPILOGUE

Rumor has it, he’s a softy.

Maverick

MANY YEARS LATER

5:47 p.m.

The boy is early, which means one of two things: either he’s trying to impress me—which is a bold strategy—or he’s so riddled with anxiety that he forgot how clocks work.

Either way, I’ve already made seven mental notes about his body language, posture, vehicle choice, and the visible sheen of nervous sweat coating his forehead before the doorbell even rings.

I’ve been watching from the window for the past ten minutes, which Ainsley would probably call “stalking” if she knew. But this is reconnaissance. Due diligence. The kind of careful observation that’s served me well in business and will hopefully prevent my daughter from dating a complete disaster.

“He’s here,” I call toward the upstairs hallway, my voice carrying the kind of calm authority that used to make board members nervous.

From the second floor, I hear the familiar rustle of satin, the sharp thud of makeup palettes hitting hardwood, and the unmistakable sound of my wife shouting down, “Be nice, Maverick! Remember what we discussed!”

Be nice. Right. Because that’s what prom night is about—being cordial to the hormone-drenched teenage boy who’s about to take my daughter into a dark auditorium with questionable lighting and even worse music.

Also, I’ve been legally leashed by my wife.

No background checks beyond what I could accomplish through casual conversation.

No GPS trackers hidden in corsages. No casually implied threats delivered over dinner conversation.

Just good old-fashioned, normal parent behavior. Whatever the hell that means.

So here I am, standing in my own foyer like a civilized human being. Face calm, posture relaxed, fingertips only slightly twitching with the effort it takes not to launch into a full-scale interrogation about this kid’s intentions, driving record, and long-term life goals.

Cooper, my sixteen-year-old son and professional instigator, appears beside me with the timing of someone who’s been waiting for this moment all week. He’s grinning like a gremlin who just discovered fire.

“Ooooh, this is gonna be good.” He settles into prime viewing position. “Dad’s about to go full psycho mode. I brought snacks.”

He flops onto the couch with a bag of microwave popcorn, clearly here for the entertainment value rather than moral support.

“Don’t you have homework you could be doing?”

He shrugs with the casual indifference only teenagers can master. “I’m observing intimidation tactics. It’s educational. Like a nature documentary, but with more potential violence.”

I notice he’s already got his phone out, probably live-streaming this entire interaction to his friends.

“Put that away.”

“Uncle Sebastian said he wants footage for the family archives. He’s taking bets on how long it takes you to make the kid cry.”

“Tell Uncle Sebastian I still know where he lives and exactly how many favors he owes me.”

“I told him you’d say that,” Cooper replies cheerfully, tucking the phone into his hoodie pocket with obvious reluctance. “He said you’re getting soft in your old age. Something about domestication.”

Before I can properly retaliate, there’s a thunderclap of tiny feet descending the stairs like a very small, very determined army.

Enter Grace, stage right.

Five years old. Pure chaos wrapped in a pink tutu and armed with a stuffed sea lion she’s carried everywhere for the past six months. She skids to a stop beside my leg and blinks up at me with those round blue eyes she absolutely weaponizes when she wants something.

“Is that Vivi’s boyfriend?” She presses her face against the front window to get a better look at the car in our driveway.

“He’s not her boyfriend,” Cooper answers with the authority of someone who’s clearly been briefed on the official family position. “He’s Dad’s next victim.”

The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time.

Grace gasps. “Are you gonna make him take an IOU?”

“No,” I say calmly, though the idea has admittedly crossed my mind. “That would be inappropriate.”

And I already asked Ainsley. The answer was a very firm no, followed by a lecture about normal parental behavior and the importance of not traumatizing our daughter’s social life.

“Why is it inappropriate?” Grace is genuinely confused.

This is what happens when you raise children in a house where everything is negotiable and most problems can be solved through strategic thinking.

“Because your mother said so, and I enjoy sleeping indoors and eating meals that aren’t poisoned.”

Grace huffs with obvious displeasure. “But boys who kiss girls should owe something. That’s just good business.”

I couldn’t agree more, but… “Take it up with your mom.”

The doorbell rings a third time, and I can practically feel the kid’s anxiety radiating through the door.

“He’s persistent,” Cooper observes, crunching popcorn. “Points for commitment.”

I reach for the doorknob, taking a moment to center myself.

This is just a normal interaction between a father and his daughter’s prom date.

No need for the kind of tactical intimidation that built my college empire.

No need to channel the version of myself that made grown men nervous and smart people very, very careful.

Except that’s exactly who I am, and pretending otherwise feels like wearing someone else’s clothes.

The door swings open.

Noah Richards stands on my front step like a man facing execution.

Seventeen years old, lacrosse player, GPA suspiciously close to my daughter’s—I may have done some preliminary research despite Ainsley’s restrictions.

He’s wearing a slightly too-big suit that probably belongs to his father, and his facial expression screams, I’ve heard the stories about you, and those stories were terrifying.

“Mr. Lexington.” His voice is admirably steady, considering the circumstances.

Good. I respect competence under pressure.

But his grip on the corsage box tells a different story—white-knuckled, slightly trembling.

The kid’s already sweating through his undershirt, which tells me my reputation is still intact, even in suburban dad mode.

I stare at him for a long moment, saying nothing. Sometimes, silence is the most effective weapon in any arsenal.

He clears his throat with obvious effort. “Good evening, sir. Thank you for… allowing me to escort Vivienne to the dance.”

Still nothing from me. Cooper makes a small sound of appreciation from the couch—he knows good psychological warfare when he sees it.

Grace peers around my leg like a tiny investigator. “Is this him? Is this the boy?”

“Yes,” I say finally, stepping aside with the gravitas of a man opening the gates of hell for a particularly brave soul. “Come in.”

Noah enters carefully, like he’s navigating a minefield. Which, in a way, he is.

Cooper’s sprawled across the couch in full spectator mode, clearly settling in for the show. “Dead man walking,” he sings under his breath, loud enough for Noah to hear.

Grace, meanwhile, goes straight for the jugular with the kind of directness that makes negotiations impossible. “Are you gonna kiss my sister?”

Noah freezes mid-step, probably wondering if this is some kind of test. “Uh—what?”

“She says boys who kiss girls owe IOUs,” Grace explains helpfully. “That’s how Dad’s business works. Everything has a price.”

“I—what’s an IOU?” Noah looks between Grace and me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

I place a hand on his shoulder—firm enough to be felt, not quite firm enough to be threatening. “It’s an arrangement between parties. A binding one. You don’t need to worry about it unless you plan on earning one.”

He makes a sound that might have been an attempt at nervous laughter.

“Grace,” I keep my voice level, “go find your mother. Tell her our guest has arrived.”

“But I wanna see what you do to him,” she protests, clutching her sea lion tighter. “Cooper said you might make him cry.”

“Cooper talks too much. Now.”

She huffs with indignation, then flounces toward the stairs, mumbling something under her breath.

I gesture toward the living room, where I’ve strategically arranged the furniture for maximum psychological impact.

One chair, centered in the room, facing the couch like a witness stand in a courtroom.

The lighting is perfect—bright enough to see every micro-expression, harsh enough to be uncomfortable.

“Have a seat.”

Noah does as instructed, perching on the edge of the chair like he thinks it might detonate. Smart kid. I remain standing because height advantage is a basic intimidation tactic.

Cooper leans forward with obvious excitement. “This is where the real fun starts,” he stage-whispers, earning a sharp look from me that he completely ignores.

Noah swallows hard, and I can see him trying to remember whatever coaching he received from his friends or father about surviving this encounter.

I study him for a long moment, cataloging details with the same precision I once used to evaluate business partners.

His tie is slightly crooked but clearly tied by someone who knows what they’re doing—probably his father.

His shoes are polished to military standards.

His car is parked perfectly parallel to the curb, exactly the right distance from the fire hydrant.

I can see his father’s SUV through the window, not his own vehicle, which suggests either responsibility or financial dependence.

The half-empty bottle of cologne he probably panic-sprayed in the driveway is still detectable from here.

I’ve seen less preparation from people entering board meetings worth millions of dollars.

“So,” I say finally, my voice carrying the kind of casual authority that makes people confess things they never intended to share. “You’re taking my daughter to prom.”

“Yes, sir. I’m honored that she agreed to go with me.”