Chapter 2
Maverick
I get sold like a damn snowmobile raffle.
Four hundred dollars.
To a woman I’ve never seen before.
The pavilion is still buzzing, Evelyn still smiling like she just solved romance for the entire state of Montana.
I look at my buyer, and my brain short-circuits in a way I don’t appreciate.
She’s young, that’s obvious. Twenty-something.
Curvy in the kind of way that makes men lose their minds.
Chocolate-brown hair spills out in soft waves, like she tried to tame it and it refused.
Green eyes, big and bright and too honest, framed by lashes that make no sense on a day this cold.
Freckles dust her nose and cheeks like someone sprinkled her with cinnamon.
And her mouth.
Full. Soft.
She’s beautiful.
Not the polished, look-at-me, I-know-I’m-beautiful kind.
The other kind.
The kind you don’t see coming because you’re too busy thinking about roofs and obligation and keeping your head down.
My chest tightens.
My hands itch.
My body reacts like it hasn’t gotten the memo that I don’t do this. That I don’t want this. That I didn’t ask for this.
She looks like she expects the floor to open up beneath her at any second. Her shoulders are tense under her coat. Her cheeks are pink, but her eyes are sharp.
Not sharp like she’s hunting.
Sharp like she’s cornered.
Something in me goes still.
That’s when it happens. The shift.
The moment my brain stops thinking about the veterans’ roof and Evelyn’s meddling and how I’m going to escape this circus, and starts thinking one simple thought.
She’s not here for fun.
Evelyn’s voice floats behind me, too bright. “Paperwork in the back!”
I hate this transaction.
And I hate the way my gaze keeps dropping to the woman’s mouth like I’m starving.
This is what I get for being an idiot.
I didn’t even want to be in this auction.
I didn’t want to be in the calendar either.
But Evelyn Hartwood is a force of nature wrapped in pearls, and I learned a long time ago that some things hit harder than fists.
Guilt does.
Obligation does.
Back in December, I was standing outside Town Hall, minding my own business, when Evelyn came flying out the door like a missile.
“Maverick Rodgers,” she said, pointing at me like she’d caught me committing a crime. “Perfect.”
I should’ve turned around. I should’ve walked into the woods and never come back.
Instead, I did the stupid thing.
I paused.
“What?” I said, already regretting it.
She smiled. Not a sweet smile. A tactical one.
“We’re doing a fundraiser calendar,” she announced.
“No.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, walking right up into my space like personal boundaries were a myth. “And before you growl at me, it’s for the veterans’ center.”
I stared at her.
She stared back like she lived for this.
“I don’t take pictures,” I said.
“You do,” she replied instantly. “You just don’t like it.”
“I’m not taking my shirt off.”
She blinked, innocent. “You won’t be naked. But you will be shirtless.”
“That is not my thing.”
She tapped her finger against her chin like she was thinking. “You’ll do it. You’ll hold a puppy. Everyone loves puppies.”
“I don’t like puppies.”
That was a lie.
I knew it the second I said it, and she knew it too. Her eyes lit up.
“Great,” she said. “See you Saturday.”
I tried to say no again. I did. I opened my mouth.
Then she leaned in, voice dropping, and she hit me right where she knew it would hurt.
“You think the veterans’ center doesn’t deserve funds, Maverick? You served too.”
I still remember the way my stomach sank.
Because she didn’t say it like a threat.
She said it like a disappointment.
And I’ve stood in places worse than this. I’ve walked through hell in a uniform and come out with ghosts riding my shoulders. I’ve done things that don’t fit into polite conversation.
But I can’t look at a veteran and tell him I didn’t feel like helping.
So, I showed up. I posed. I held a damn puppy while someone told me to smile, and my smile looked like pain.
And that puppy, with his big eyes and his stupid little paws, climbed right up my chest and licked my chin like I was his.
Evelyn squealed like she’d won the lottery.
Later, outside, Eddie slapped my back so hard it nearly knocked me forward.
“That one’s going viral,” Eddie said.
“Go away,” I told him.
He ignored me. Of course he did. Eddie ignores the concept of silence the way most people ignore a speed limit.
“I tried to sign myself up,” he added proudly. “They said no.”
“They said no because you’re old as fuck,” Red muttered, arms crossed.
Eddie grinned. “That’s not what they said. They said I wasn’t a bachelor.”
Red looked him up and down. “You are definitely not.”
Eddie didn’t even blink. “I offered to become one. Right there. On the spot. For the cause.”
John laughed, low and gruff. “For the cause, sure.”
Eddie pointed at me. “At least you’re doing it, Rodgers. Even if you look like you’re about to eat the photographer.”
I did keep the puppy.
Not that I told anyone that.
I brought him home after the shoot, set him down on my cabin floor, and he walked around like he owned the place within five minutes. Like he’d always been there.
Nugget.
Five months old now. Still a menace.
Still the only creature on earth I don’t mind touching my stuff.
Now, standing here at the Valentine auction, it feels like December all over again.
Just with higher stakes.
The paperwork is already handled, done in the back.
Now I’m back out here under the lights, pretending I’m fine with being someone’s prize.
Because this time, it’s not a calendar.
It’s a weekend.
And the girl looking up at me is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Which is a problem.
I don’t deserve softness.
I don’t deserve someone’s trust.
I’ve got too much inside me that doesn’t stay quiet in the dark.
Evelyn says I’m a softie under the scowl.
She’s wrong.
Or maybe she’s right and that’s worse.
My gaze flicks to the next bachelors.
Gil Pruitt looks like he belongs in a boardroom. Steel eyes. Smirk already loaded.
On the other side, Hunter Colgrave stands there like a lumberjack with a shut mouth and a long fuse. Big. Quiet. Silver-eyed.
I look away. I don’t have time for any of it.
I take my pretty buyer’s hand. Her fingers are cold. The contact hits me like a jolt.
She inhales sharply, and her eyes go wide for half a second before she tries to smooth it away.
I don’t let go.
Then I reach for her backpack with my other hand because it’s too big for her frame and it looks heavy. She tenses like she might fight me for it.
“It’s fine,” I say, low.
Her mouth opens, then closes. She swallows.
I start walking.
Not because I’m trying to drag her. Because the sooner I get her out of the middle of this crowd, the sooner she can breathe. The sooner I can figure out what the hell I’m doing.
She stumbles a half-step to keep up.
“Slow down,” she says, voice tight.
I stop immediately and turn slightly. She’s staring at the floor like she’s trying to hold herself together by force.
“I wanted to say,” she starts, then stops.
Her fingers flex in mine.
Her throat works like she’s swallowing words she can’t afford.
I don’t push.
I don’t ask.
But I watch her like a hawk, and a theory forms in my head with the kind of certainty that makes my blood run colder.
She’s running from something.
Or someone.
Her eyes flick up, meet mine, then flick away again like she’s afraid I’ll see too much.
Too late.
My protective instincts don’t wake up.
They roar.
It’s primitive. Immediate. Ugly in its intensity.
And it lands on one simple truth.
She’s mine to protect.
I don’t know her name yet.
I don’t know what she’s done or what’s been done to her.
But she looks like she’s been holding her breath for a long time, and my body decides, without consulting my brain, that I’m not letting anyone make her do that under my roof.
I tighten my grip on her hand, gently.
“Come on,” I say.
She nods once, small.
We step back out into the festival air, and she draws a breath like she’s been underwater.
There’s a booth nearby with flowers, a little pop-up shop tucked between hot cocoa and handmade scarves.
It’s ridiculous.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I just know she’s shaking a little, and the whole town just watched her buy a weekend with a stranger, and she’s trying to act like she’s not terrified.
So, I do the first thing that comes to mind. I steer her toward the flower booth.
The vendor looks up, sees me, and her eyes widen like I just walked naked into church.
“Maverick?” she says, like she’s checking for a hallucination.
I ignore that too.
I point at a small bouquet. Not roses, too obvious. Something softer. Winter greens, white flowers, a touch of red tucked in like a secret.
“I’ll take that,” I say.
The vendor blinks. “You’re buying flowers.”
“Yes.”
“For you?”
My jaw clenches.
“For her.”
“Nova,” she says softly. “My name is Nova Jennings.”
I nod once. “For Nova.”
The vendor looks between us, stunned. Then she fumbles with the paper wrap like her hands forgot how to work.
I pay. I don’t even look at the price.
I take the bouquet and turn to her.
She stares at the flowers like they might bite.
“Take them,” I say.
Her brows pull together. “You didn’t have to.”
I shrug, because if I put feelings into words I’m going to choke on them. “Every woman deserves flowers on Valentine’s Day.”
The sentence feels strange coming out of my mouth.
I don’t do Valentine’s Day. I don’t do holidays. I don’t do hearts and romance and red ribbons.
But I do know what it’s like to go without kindness for too long.
And I’m looking at a woman who looks like she’s been starving for it.
Her lips part, like she’s about to argue, then she stops.
She takes the bouquet carefully, like it’s fragile.
Like she’s fragile.
Something twists in my chest.
She lowers her face slightly, breathing them in, and her shoulders drop a fraction. Just a fraction.
But it matters.
“Thank you,” she whispers.