23. Evie Wilder
Chapter twenty-three
Evie Wilder
Sweat trickles down my temple and I wipe it away with my arm. I’ve been boxing in the garage for almost an hour now, and even the cool breeze circling through this morning can’t keep the sweat at bay. When I woke up with Beckham early this morning, I was exhausted. So after feeding him and snuggling him for a while, then letting him have some tummy time, we both went back to sleep. I woke up later only to realize I slept through my normal workout time with Maverick.
The disappointment I felt when I rolled over and saw how late it was on my phone was a red flag. A big, neon sign kind of warning that I am getting too attached to him. We’re supposed to be roommates, friends at most. I shouldn’t miss him every time we’re apart. There shouldn’t be this pit of longing within me that’s only full when my eyes are on him .
All these feelings are what made me come downstairs to work out–I need to exercise away my foolish emotions. The problem is, it’s an hour in and nothing has changed. I wish Maverick was out here, telling me in that quiet, subdued way of his that I’m doing a good job. I wish he was teasing me, riling me up so I hit harder and move faster.
I’m secretly hoping when I go back inside that he’ll see me in my sweaty workout gear and get that look in his eye that says he’s proud of me. I didn’t see him when I came downstairs. Since his motorcycle and truck are still here though, he must be in his bedroom.
No matter how much I push myself, the desire to be around him doesn’t lessen. In fact, I think my dumb brain has decided to associate the endorphins from exercise with him. I hate it. I love it so much that I hate it.
My chest heaves. I drop my hands, the padded gloves brushing my shorts. I suck in a few deep breaths, then start to rip at the velcro of my gloves.
“Ugh,” I huff as I work to get the first one off. Somehow even my gloves are sweaty. I press one slick glove to my stomach, which makes me realize what I’m wearing. This morning in my sleepy haze, I had the confidence to put on a crop top and shorts . The shorts are high waisted, so only a sliver of my midriff is showing, but it’s enough to make me change my mind on wanting to see Maverick.
I throw my gloves in a bin on top of the boxing pads Maverick wears during our sessions, then pick up the baby monitor. Beckham is likely to wake up any minute now. If I hurry, I can run up, get a five minute shower and change into something more covered before he wakes up and Maverick even knows I was down here. Assuming he’s not out of his room already. Either way, I can rush by fast and throw an excuse about Beckham so he doesn’t see me for long.
With my plan in mind, I swing open the garage door and walk into the mudroom area…straight into Maverick’s chest. His bare, wet chest. I gasp, Beckham’s monitor dropping and skittering across the floor as I stumble back. One of Maverick’s arms darts out and wraps around my waist to steady me. My palms flatten against his skin. He smells as if he’s fresh out of the shower and the scent is dizzying.
It’s then that I look down and see the towel Maverick is gripping in his other hand.
“You’re naked!” I blurt out.
“Not exactly,” he breathes.
I rip my gaze from his white-knuckled grip and meet his eyes. There’s a molten heat in his irises that makes my knees weak. If he wasn’t holding me up, they might buckle beneath me. His chest is rising and falling rapidly beneath my touch. Everything is too warm, too close, too much. Each breath I take is filled with him. I’m torn between wanting to press closer and wanting to run away.
“If you didn’t have that towel, you’d be naked,” I whisper, because my mouth has not gotten the memo from my brain to stop talking .
“Then let’s hope I don’t drop it.”
I swallow, willing myself to not think about that scenario.
“I thought you were upstairs,” he murmurs, his eyes not leaving mine. “I was coming to grab some clothes I left in the dryer.”
“I slept through our workout, but I didn’t want to miss it.”
His eyes trail down over me, the very outfit I didn’t want him to see is now the reason my stomach is pressed against his abs. He can’t see how it looks, but I’m certain he can feel it. I draw in a shuddery breath. His eyes darken and zero in on my mouth. My lips part. Anticipation heats me from the inside out, like a strong cup of coffee on a winter’s day.
It’s when his chin dips ever so slightly that the spell breaks. Fear shoots up my spine like a rocket. I can’t do this. I push against his chest and step back. His hand slides over the dip of my waist before falling away.
“I-I should go get a shower before Beckham wakes up,” I say, keeping my eyes on my feet.
“Okay.”
The two-syllable word follows me as I grab the monitor off the floor and head up the stairs. The tortured rasp of his voice haunts me in the shower, and while fixing a bottle for Beckham. It doesn’t leave my head all afternoon. Over and over I replay the moment, and each time when I get to where he dips his chin, my heart plummets. I feel as though I were pushed out of a plane without warning.
I’m terrified , I realize after the thirtieth time of going over the situation. A new fear is arriving to join all the others. Instead of simply being scared Maverick is too good for me or won’t want to deal with all my brokenness, I’m coming to see that the thought of kissing him–no matter how enticing it is in my fantasies–is frightening. The last time I kissed a man was Ezra, and he cheated on me because I couldn’t satisfy him.
If I wasn’t enough for him, how could I be for someone like Maverick? The resounding answer of my heart and head seems to be: I can’t.
It’s then that I determine no matter how desperately I want him, I can never have him. I can’t risk the earth-shattering pain of him feeling the way Ezra did. I could handle it from anyone else. Go through the pain with Ezra himself again. But not with Maverick. Never with him. If he walked away, I wouldn’t recover.
So, no matter how difficult it is now, I’m going to keep my distance. The short-term pain will be worth it when we still have our friendship years from now.
Two days after my unfortunate epiphany, I’m seated in a huge living room in a mansion surrounded by women who have it much more together than I could ever dream. Sloane is holding Beckham, staring down at him with a bright smile. I’m clutching my book like a shield, still raw after my two days of grief.
I avoided Maverick as best as I could without hurting him. I don’t want him to think I’m shutting him out, but I also can’t risk getting too close again. That meant giving up our training sessions, at least until my head feels clearer. I told him I wanted a break, but I think he knew something was up. I can’t be around him like that. Seeing him sweaty in athletic gear is too dangerous. I still love boxing though, so I go downstairs whenever I hear his truck or motorcycle leave the driveway for work or running errands and give it my all for as long as I can before Beckham needs me again.
He asked me if everything was okay on the drive here. I tried to give him an honest answer without telling him my feelings for him. It ended up sounding weird and vague. A jumbled mess of bumper sticker phrases like I’m just tired and there’s a lot on my mind right now . He looked almost as dejected as I feel right now when he pulled away to go to Grayson’s house for a guys’ night .
I haven’t been able to get the motivation to participate in the group. Which makes me even more sad, because I really loved the book. Marriage of convenience is one of my favorite tropes. But I don’t have the energy for conversation. I wanted to stay home, but I didn’t want to turn down my first invitation into this friend group.
“Evie?” Dahlia’s voice pulls me from my abyss of melancholy. I look up, and she must realize I wasn’t listening, because she repeats the question. “I asked what you thought of Olivia’s character arc?”
“Oh,” I say, shifting in my seat. “Um I thought that it was good,” I say lamely, then cringe. “I’m sorry, I’m out of it tonight. You must think I’m so rude.”
Dahlia’s brows pull together. “I don’t think you’re rude at all. Is there something wrong?”
I look around the large group of women with their gorgeous hair, perfect outfits, and matching concerned expressions. Anxiety wraps a hand around my throat and tightens.
“Just have a few things on my mind is all,” I say, forcing my lips up into what I hope is a reassuring smile. “But I’ll be okay. I want to hear what everyone else thinks. I’ll try to pay more attention.”
Dahlia looks at me for a moment, and I feel like I’m standing behind one of those cartoon x-ray machines, where you can see inside of the person with just a glance. Knowing that she’s a therapist only increases the feeling. I don’t want her or anyone else to know what’s going on.
“Okay, then, Myla, what did you think?”
Sloane’s roommate Myla immediately starts in on the healing journey of the main character .
Dahlia leans over to me, her voice low. “If you ever need to talk, just let me know. I’m here for you, and I know a lot of the other girls would say the same.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from breaking down. Having friends who care enough to check on me is what I’ve been missing for months, and now I can’t even talk to them. They may say they're supportive, but what happens when I show them all my issues and tell them my feelings for Maverick? They’ve known him longer than me. They probably all love and want what’s best for him, and any person with sense knows that’s not me.
I’ll get through this alone though, just like I did in New York. It’s going to be okay. I look at Beckham smiling in Sloane’s lap. We’re going to get through this.