Page 6 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER SIX

Rumor has it, she's got a stalker.

Ainsley

There are two things I’ve learned today.

One: Marine biology is actually trying to kill me.

Two: Maverick Lexington has lost his damn mind.

I’m sitting in the corner of the campus café, surrounded by a hurricane of flashcards, three pens that all claim to be “fine point” but are lying, and a very large iced coffee that tastes like grass and soy milk.

And yet, none of this chaos compares to the betrayal that occurred in our apartment this morning.

He wants to get rid of the couch.

My couch.

Okay, technically, it was Maverick’s couch first. But only in the way that a person technically owns a national monument until someone else comes along and appreciates it properly.

He had that couch before I moved in. It was just a beat-up, gray, lumpy-looking thing that looked like it had been through at least two breakups and a minor house fire.

I sat on it once, and that was it. Game over.

Full-body, life-altering comfort. I fell in love before I even knew how emotionally constipated Maverick was.

I remember thinking, sure, he might be cold and intimidating and allergic to feelings, but he owns this couch. So, clearly, there is hope.

And now? He wants to replace it.

With something ergonomic. I don’t even know what that means in couch terms, but it sounds like it’s going to be aggressively beige and morally disappointing.

“I just think it’s time,” he’d said, standing there like he wasn’t suggesting we rip out the heart of our home and set it on fire.

And I, in my most rational, adult tone, said, “I will bury you beneath that couch before I let you throw it away.”

Which, apparently, makes me dramatic.

So I left. Packed up my laptop and notes and came here to study and sulk. Not necessarily in that order.

I’ve been trying to focus on pinniped thermoregulation for thirty minutes, but my brain keeps replaying this morning like a director’s cut of a breakup scene. Except instead of fighting about trust issues or emotional availability, it’s CouchGate.

Goodness. I can’t live without it. The way the cushions dip just right, like it’s giving you a hug.

The way one of the arms squeaks when you lean against it.

It smells like Maverick’s cologne and popcorn and that time I spilled Thai food and tried to clean it with essential oils because I thought lavender could fix anything.

I’d give up him before I gave up that couch. At least the couch never judged my Hulu habits.

I’m spiraling. I know that. But I’m too caffeinated to stop.

So when a shadow falls over my table, my first instinct is to assume it’s karma, here to slap me for threatening to bury my boyfriend beneath upholstery.

But no. It’s worse.

It’s Carter Mills.

In a blush pink polo shirt—excuse me, probably “sunset coral”—with his usual smug expression and the kind of jawline that says My family sues people for fun .

“Ainsley James.” He says my name like he’s greeting a minor celebrity he doesn’t actually like. “What a surprise.”

I blink up at him, deadpan. “Is it, though?”

He grins and gestures at the empty chair across from me. “Mind if I join you?”

“I do, actually.” I say it sweetly. Like poison in a cupcake.

He sits anyway.

Of course, he does.

“Studying hard, I see.” He eyes the open textbook and the doodle I started absentmindedly in the margin. It’s a sea lion giving the middle flipper.

“Trying to, but the universe is being aggressively unhelpful.”

Carter taps the table with manicured fingers. “You look... tense. Everything okay?”

I raise a brow. “Do I?”

“You do. I’m not judging. It’s just an observation. You look like you’re one spilled coffee away from flipping this table.”

I stare at him. Then shrug. “Maybe I just don’t like being interrupted during peak pinniped focus time.”

He chuckles, clearly thinking he’s charming. “Fair enough.”

I go back to my notes like I didn’t just mentally relive the entire couch argument in painful, high-definition detail.

Carter doesn’t ask again, which is for the best. Because if I start ranting about Maverick and the Great Furniture Betrayal, I won’t stop until I’ve emotionally indicted him in front of a jury of baristas and confused undergrads.

But Carter doesn’t leave.

Instead, he flags down the barista with the kind of confident entitlement that makes me irrationally angry. “I’ll take an iced matcha with oat milk.” He says it like he drinks exclusively green things and thinks sugar is a moral failing.

I glance up from my textbook just long enough to deadpan, “You’re the reason decaf was invented.”

Carter grins, pleased with himself. “I like our dynamic.”

“I don’t.”

He folds his hands on the table like we’re in a business meeting and not me actively trying to study marine mammal circulation. “You know, I’ve always thought you were the most interesting woman on campus.”

“Oh, no,” I say flatly. “Please tell me this isn’t the opening line to a misguided flirtation. I’m not in the mood to reenact a rejected Gilmore Girls subplot.”

He leans in slightly. “Just making conversation.”

“Try someone else’s table. This one’s booked by someone with a strong sense of boundaries and an even stronger gag reflex.”

But he doesn’t move. Just sits there smiling like a fox in a very well-pressed Vineyard Vines shirt.

“I heard about your relationship.” His voice is so casual, like we’re 100 years old and talking about the weather. “With Lexington.”

Not this again. “Aw, you keep a scrapbook of campus gossip. That’s so cute.”

“He’s... an interesting choice for you, don’t you think?”

“He’s my choice,” I snap, annoyed at how fast my protective instinct kicks in. “And unless this conversation is about pinnipeds, I don’t care for your opinion.”

Carter’s drink arrives. He sips it like this is all foreplay for whatever power play he’s warming up to. “I was hoping you’d join me for dinner tomorrow.”

I blink. “Let me get this straight. You want to take me, Maverick Lexington’s girlfriend, to dinner? Do you have a death wish? Or are you just terminally stupid?”

“Neither. I’m ambitious.”

Oh, no. This is worse than flirting.

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I prefer strategic,” he replies. “I think you’re sharp, passionate, and loyal. And I respect that. But loyalty to someone like Lexington comes at a cost.”

The air shifts. My heartbeat picks up.

“I’m not sure what you think you’re implying,” I say, voice low and tight, “but Maverick is ten times the man you’ll ever be.”

His smile doesn’t crack. It never does. “And yet, you’re sitting here like something’s already unraveling.”

I still.

He sips his drink again, like this is just an amusing observation and not a loaded grenade tossed at my feet.

“I mean,” he adds, with fake sympathy, “how much longer can you really keep carrying the weight of someone else’s chaos?”

That’s when I know this isn’t flirtation. It’s an ambush dressed in a pastel polo.

“Get to the point,” I snap.

He does.

“I know about the IOUs. The favors. The poker games. The fact that certain students are mysteriously passing classes they never attended… while others just happen to owe Lexington something.”

My blood runs cold.

“I also know he has a habit of sending proxies into classrooms. Sometimes to take notes. Sometimes to take tests.” He swirls the ice in his cup like we’re just chatting about exam schedules, not academic fraud. “You think the dean would appreciate that level of resourcefulness?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, poorly.

“I know enough.” Carter’s voice is soft but sharp. “Enough to bury him if I wanted to. But I don’t. Not if you help me.”

I stare at him. “Help you... how?”

“Give me insight. Names. How the system works. What it costs. What it earns. I want to understand how Lexington built something this effective and how to make it mine.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m dead serious.” He smiles again, like this is just a friendly offer between colleagues. “And in return, I keep it all quiet. The IOUs. The fraud. The dean doesn’t hear a word. Everyone walks away clean.”

Everyone but me.

“But here’s the thing,” he adds, casually, like we’re discussing movie times and not blackmail. “This isn’t just about leverage or opportunity.”

Oh, great. There’s more?

“I think you’re fascinating, Ainsley.”

Oh, no. Absolutely not.

“Smart. Loyal. Sharp-tongued. Unapologetically stubborn.” His gaze lingers a little too long. “I’d like to take you to dinner. Off-campus. Somewhere quiet. Discreet.”

My stomach twists. “You’re asking me on a date, while also threatening to ruin my boyfriend’s life.”

“Call it... mutually beneficial company. You get a night away from the chaos. I get plausible deniability when my father starts asking questions about my priorities.”

I blink. “Wait, is this what this is really about? You want to use me as a smokescreen because Daddy Dearest doesn’t approve of your villain origin arc?”

Carter’s smile turns razor-sharp. “My father expects me to be predictable. Controlled. I like surprising him.”

“By showing up with the girl dating the campus criminal overlord?”

“Exactly. Imagine his face.”

“You’re insane.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong. Think about it. You go to dinner with me. I get what I want. Maverick’s secret stays safe. Everyone wins.”

I lean forward slowly, voice low and flat. “Let me make something crystal clear. I would rather lick the floor of a freshman dorm bathroom than go on a date with you.”

His eyes sparkle. “I admire your consistency.”

“Seriously. There is nothing you could offer me that would make me betray Maverick. Not a meal. Not your daddy’s approval. Not even front-row tickets to a sea lion dance recital.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he replies, standing. “You’re exactly as loyal as I thought.”

“Then why waste both our time?”

“Because loyalty”—he slides his phone back into his pocket—“makes for excellent leverage.”

And just like that, he walks away, clean, polished, and unbothered, leaving the scent of smugness and expensive cologne behind like it’s a calling card.

I sit there, fuming, iced coffee melting beside me, heart pounding so hard I can barely hear myself think.

He’s not just trying to dismantle Maverick’s empire.

He’s trying to recruit me.

Like I’m just another pawn on his board.