16. Evie Wilder
Chapter sixteen
Evie Wilder
Just when I was getting used to him calling me Wilder, he had to go and call me his wife . I was up half the night picturing him coming to my rescue over and over again. The stern look on his face that sent that creep running. His harsh, biting tone when he told the guy to back off. Then the tender but fierce way he held me in his arms and kissed my head. I’ve been hugged by Maverick countless times over the course of my life, but kissed ?
I almost stumble walking down the stairs as the feeling of his lips against my hair comes rushing back to mind. It’s another early morning for me, this time with even less sleep than usual. Should I have stayed upstairs to ensure no chance of seeing Maverick until I absolutely had to? Probably. But the allure of seeing him ride in on his motorcycle is too strong.
I stop with the front door halfway open and bite my lip. This is a bad idea. Whatever these feelings are bubbling up within me are dangerous. Maverick cares for me, sure, but this little crush I have is most definitely unrequited. He’s seen how much of a mess I am firsthand. Why on earth would he want to be with a damaged single mom who cries at the drop of a hat?
I’m about to close the door when I hear a thud , paired with a low grunt. The sounds repeat in different patterns a few times, piquing my curiosity. Maverick should be almost back from the bakery, unless his schedule isn’t the same every day. I slowly step out onto the porch, then tiptoe in the direction of the noise.
As I get closer to the garage, the sound of heavy breathing and the thwack of something being hit becomes more prominent. I peek around the side of the wall into the garage and my heart stops…then starts again. Maverick is boxing shirtless . His glistening, muscular back is on display as he works the bag like it’s a fierce opponent. He’s wearing nothing but black exercise shorts and hand wrap around his knuckles. I watch, mesmerized, as he does different combinations. His muscles ripple with each movement. Blazing heat travels up my neck to my face as my mind concocts ideas of what other things he’d be capable of. I have to lean against the garage opening for support because seeing him like this makes my knees weak.
His movements eventually slow to a stop. He lifts his arms above his head in a stretch that makes my whole body catch fire. Rivulets of sweat trail from his shoulders down to the band of his shorts. He leans to the side and I tilt my head with him. And to think I almost didn’t come out here. I would have missed this. I wish I would have brought my camera. This would have been a worthwhile subject.
Maverick turns, catching me off guard. I squeak and practically dive back toward the porch .
“Wilder?” he calls out. I take a step back toward the door. “Even if you run away, we both know I saw you.” The amusement in his tone makes me even more inclined to run.
Internally cursing my curiosity, I step back into his line of vision. I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes when I see him. Because really ? He has to look like that ? His broad chest is defined and each of his muscles looks like it was sculpted by someone who peeked into my dreams and wanted to capture the exact likeness of my ideal man. My face is on fire as I drag my gaze up his torso to his teasing grin.
“I came outside to sit on the porch swing and I heard noises so I came to investigate,” I explain. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
I take a step back, preparing to run upstairs and stick my head in the freezer.
“Wait,” he says and I pause, because it’s difficult to think with all those shiny muscles on display. “Do you want to try?”
I blink. “Try what you’re doing? As in boxing?” My eyebrows hit my hairline.
He smiles, amusement lining his features. “Yes. I think you might like it. It’s a good way to get out anger.”
“So, you think I have anger problems?” I ask, disbelief coating my tone.
“I mean, you did threaten to key my car yesterday.”
I bite back a smile. “It was a hypothetical scenario, not a threat.” I eye the large punching bag hanging from the ceiling.
“Come on, at least give it a try. If you hate it, you can go back inside and I’ll make you coffee before the movers get here.”
I take a hesitant step. “Will I still get coffee even if I like it?”
He gives me an exasperated look. “Just get over here, Wilder. ”
“Fine, but you can’t make fun of me when I’m terrible at this. I’m not even dressed properly.”
My oversized, chunky knit sweater and blue pajama shorts are hardly made for athletics.
“You’re not doing a full workout, you’re just throwing a few punches. What you’re wearing is fine.”
I set down Beckham’s baby monitor nearby then cross the garage floor to be closer. I’m tempted to ask him to put on a shirt, but then he’d know he was affecting me. It’s disconcerting to be so close to him when he’s essentially half-naked.
“Do I need gloves?” I ask, glancing at the black fabric wrapped around his knuckles.
“You probably won’t hit the bag hard enough for it to matter, but I can wrap your knuckles just in case. If you like it, we can get you some gloves.”
I nod and wait as he goes to a bin on the wall to retrieve the roll of fabric. He comes back and gestures for me to hold out my hand. I lift my right one, realizing that I didn’t think this through. Maverick’s large, warm hands begin to deftly circle the fabric around my wrist, then up to my knuckles and over my palm. I watch him complete the first hand, holding my breath the entire time. His feathersoft touch has thousands of butterflies taking flight in my abdomen. Can he tell how he affects me? I hope not. I couldn’t take the embarrassment of his rejection. Not after everything I’ve been through.
“Other hand,” he rasps.
I follow his instruction, switching my hands. This time, I take in his face as he focuses on his work. His brow is slightly furrowed, and his lips are parted in a way that usually anticipates a kiss. He’s probably just regulating his breathing after his workout. Based off the sweat on his forehead, he pushed himself today. Maverick has always been that way though. I remember watching him and Drew practice while I studied on the bleachers. He always went above and beyond what the coach told him to do. Run four laps? He’d do five in the same amount of time as the others.
He finishes his work, then looks up to meet my gaze. His eyes are the color of dark chocolate bonbons. They’re framed by thick black lashes and smile lines.
“How does that feel?” he asks, one of his hands still holding mine. Heat seeps through the wrapping and travels up my arm. He’s so close right now. If I shifted my hand I could touch his chest, his abs, the scruff on his jaw. My pulse kicks up speed as my mind involuntarily brings up colorful images of me doing just that.
“Um, how should it feel?” I take in a shuddery breath.
“Secure, but not too tight. You want to be able to make a fist.”
I tear my gaze from his and look down at my hand. He lets go so I can squeeze it into a fist. I’m able to, but not as easily as if my hand had nothing on it.
“Not like that. You’ll end up breaking your thumb.” He pries my fingers apart, then readjusts them so that my thumb is no longer tucked into my fingers. “There you go. Now you’re ready.” His voice is smooth and silky, like my favorite sipping chocolate I used to get in New York during the winter. I want to close my eyes and bask in it.
“I don’t feel ready,” I say, which seems to encapsulate most of my life as of late.
“There’s no pressure or judgment. I want to see how you hit the bag on your own, then I’ll tell you how to fix it.”
He takes a step back, giving me space to swing. Now that he’s further away from me, my mind is less addled, but my anxiety is much higher. I have no idea what I’m doing. Drew taught me some self-defense when I was younger, but I don’t remember much except to kick low and how to escape if someone grabs ahold of me.
“Just go for it,” Maverick encourages me.
I take a deep breath, rear my arm back, and swing. My fist brushes the bag. It doesn’t even make a sound. I look over at Maverick. He runs a hand over his mouth to conceal a smile.
“Yep, this was a terrible idea. I’m going now before I embarrass myself anymore.”
I turn to walk away, but Maverick snags my wrist, pulling me back toward him. I stop just short of running into his bare chest. Disappointment and relief mix like a bad cocktail in my stomach.
“There’s no reason to be embarrassed,” he says in a gentle tone.
I glare up at him. “You were laughing at me.”
“I was not. I was smiling.”
“On second thought, please teach me how to punch. It will come in handy.” I give him a too-sweet smile. One lined with murderous thoughts.
He chuckles. “Easy there, Wilder. I was smiling because I thought you looked cute.”
My face flushes. Cute . I don’t even know how to process that. Cute as in aw look at that cute puppy or cute as in she’s so cute I want to kiss her ? Maverick doesn’t elaborate.
“Let me teach you before you decide this isn’t for you,” he says while I’m still working on wrapping my mind around cute . Such a tiny word, but it has left a meteor-sized impact on my brain.
“Okay, teach me,” I say, breathless .
I step back in front of the bag. Maverick stands opposite of me to the right of the bag.
“Separate your legs some,” he says, demonstrating the width for me with his own bare feet. I follow suit. “Okay, now hold both your hands up in fists in front of your face.”
He demonstrates once more, and I attempt to copy him. I know for a fact I look much less intimidating than he does. He looks like he belongs in the ring, probably because he used to spend a lot of time in one while in college.
“A little higher,” he coaches. I lift my arms up, the sleeves of my sweater falling to my elbows. “Good.” I blossom under his praise.
“May I?” he asks as he motions toward my hands and then the bag.
I’m not sure what he’s asking, but I’m so dazed that I nod in agreement.
He circles until he’s behind me, which I didn’t expect. I feel pressure against my back and realize it’s his chest . I suck in a breath. His arms circle around me until his hands are over my own, encasing them in molten warmth. My heart is pounding in my chest. Can he hear it this close to me? I hope not.
“Okay.” His breath hits my ear and I shiver. He definitely felt that. “I’m going to guide your hands so you can feel how to punch. We’ll go slow.”
I swallow. My mouth can’t form words, it’s too dry all of the sudden. Maverick guides my right hand first, rotating in a way I didn’t before. He retracts my hand after it presses against the bag, then does the same with my left.
“Feel the difference?” he murmurs.
“Mhmm. ”
“One more time, then you can try on your own.”
I slowly nod. My eyes almost flutter shut when he guides my arms again. I want to sink back into him. To tilt my head to the side and feel his lips–I cut off the thought with a start. No . No, I cannot be thinking this way about him. I step out of his grasp.
“I think I understand now,” I squeak out.
“Okay,” he says, sounding as disoriented as I feel. He steps around to my left side, keeping enough distance between us that I can finally draw a full breath again.
I position myself back in the stance he’d shown me, shaking my head to dislodge the thoughts that his proximity had brought to mind. With my legs and arms in position, I mimic what he did before. This time when I make contact, it elicits the softest sound.
“That was good,” Maverick says and I can’t stop the grin from spreading across my face. “Now try again, but imagine you’re punching through the bag. Give it a little more force.”
I nod, and get set up once more. I do as he says. Satisfaction rolls through me as I feel myself get it right. I hit a few more times, alternating between my left and right in different patterns. I don’t know anything about combinations, but it feels good to hit something.
“You’re doing amazing, Wilder,” Maverick says as I keep going.
Emotions start to rise the longer I go. Images of Ezra’s phone screen with texts from another woman push to the forefront of my mind. Then comes ones of me sitting alone in my new apartment, breathing through early contractions while scared out of my mind. What is happening? My eyes start to burn. I let my hands fall, sucking in deep breaths. I thought doing this would make everything go away, not come back in full force .
“Everything okay?” Maverick asks. I look at him, noting the concern in his eyes.
I try to pull myself together so that I don’t show what’s going on.
“I think this sweater is making me too hot. I should go in to check on Beckham. Thanks for the lesson.”
I quickly turn away and rush out of the garage before he can say anything else, barely remembering to grab the baby monitor on my way out. Tears start to stream down my face as soon as I’m out of sight. I take the stairs two at a time. My chest is heaving from the workout and the climb. I collapse onto the couch and curl up as sobs overtake me.
Will I ever escape these thoughts? Fabric brushes my lips as I put a wrapped hand over my mouth to stifle my cries. Will I ever get to just be happy?