Chapter 17 Amelia
amelia
. . .
Ineed to work or I’m going to lose my fucking mind sitting here twiddling my thumbs in his massive farmhouse.
Sitting up slowly, I rub the bleariness from my eyes. Daylight filters through the sheer curtains in streaks of yellowish hues, and I sigh before throwing my legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I tread softly across the room.
Shuffling into the bathroom and flicking on the light, the brightness stings for a second, causing my eyes to briefly water. I splash cold water on my face and reach for the towel, but something catches my eye in the mirror.
A neon pink sticky note is pressed to the corner of the glass.
Good morning, wifey. You look beautiful.
I roll my eyes. “Ugh,” I mutter, peeling the note off and crumpling it in my hand.
Something tugs at my chest, a familiar flutter I used to crave. I hate that it makes my lips twitch into a half smile. I hate that he knows how to get under my skin with his dumb jokes and those annoying sticky notes.
I turn the knob of the sink with more force than necessary.
Cold water hits my face like a jolt of ice, sending tiny droplets dripping down my neck as I press the towel to my skin.
The sticky note is still crumpled beside me, but the words echo louder now.
You look beautiful.
I exhale slowly.
Once my skin is dry and moisturized, I throw my hair back in a messy clip, letting a few strands fall loose around my face. The bathroom smells faintly like Maverick’s body wash—orange and something sweet.
I make my way to the corner where my suitcase sits, half-unzipped with clothes spilling out on the sides.
I crouch down, flipping through crumpled T-shirts, black ripped jeans, and a few oversized hoodies until I find something halfway decent—high-waisted faded jeans, a ribbed black tank, and my combat boots.
After getting myself ready, I head downstairs.
The vague aroma of pancakes with a hint of bananas fills the air. The scent is warm, thick, and nostalgic, with cinnamon laced in browned butter.
I stop at the last step, craning my neck towards the smell, and there’s Maverick, shirtless once again, in his signature black sweatpants.
Heat creeps up my thighs, and I instinctively clench them together.
God, you dumb bitch, control yourself.
His back is towards me as he flips the pancakes over the stovetop. The morning light hits his toned back, accentuating the rigid features of his intricate muscles, muscles I didn’t even know existed.
Fuck, he’s ripped.
He’s in the middle of flipping a pancake when he hears the creak of the wooden stairs. He turns around with the spatula in hand, with a grin plastered all over his handsome face.
“Morning, dollface,” he says.
My eyes flick to the counter. Again, he has six different iced coffees lined up. “What the hell is this?”
He shrugs like it’s obvious. “I didn’t know what you were feeling this morning, so I got you some different options.”
I blink. “Thank you?”
“I even asked Catalina what’s your go-to coffee order, wanted to make sure I got it right.”
“Catalina?” I arch a brow.
“Yeah, before she manhandled me,” He shrugs, flipping a pancake onto a plate. “I told her I wanted to know your favorite things. You’re someone worth knowing.”
That one hits different.
My heart stutters, just once, like a skipped beat. I blink it away and grab one of the iced coffees, cracking the seal to hide my reaction.
“Sweet talker,” I mutter into the straw.
He smirks, leaning one hip against the counter. “Only for you, Mrs. Hayes.”
Before I can muster a smartass response, there’s a sudden blur of motion. Rex jumps onto the kitchen counter next to Maverick.
Maverick yelps, stumbling back. “Help!”
Rex hisses.
“Why is he always here when I’m trying to be romantic?” Maverick points an accusatory finger at him.
I roll my eyes, laughing. “He’s just protecting his mother.”
Maverick glares at Rex. “I swear he’s got it out for me. He’s plotting something.”
Rex slowly blinks, tail swishing like a smug little bastard.
Once breakfast is over and the dishes are rinsed, I gather my bag and glance at the clock. “I need to go into town, I need a job or I’ll lose my mind.”
Maverick’s head snaps up. “I’ll take you.”
“I’m capable of walking.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a Southern gentleman, remember?” He tosses me a wink and grabs his keys. “Let me get dressed, then we’ll hit town, sugar.”
We walk through downtown Ruby Ridge, which I think is very charming, unlike Catalina when she first arrived here.
Rustic storefronts with flower boxes pass my periphery. People wave as we pass. The aroma of fresh bread from the bakery nearby makes my mouth water, and the faint scent of leather from the boot shop mixes with the twang of something herbal.
A tattoo shop comes into sight.
Blackbird Ink Co., the sign reads, as we walk closer to it. The sign is bold, the large windows are clear, and the door is propped open with an iron sculpture of a raven with flowers surrounding it. The buzz of tattoo guns hums softly from inside.
I stop walking, the sound instantly calming my nerves.
“You good?” Maverick asks.
“I’m gonna walk inside and ask if they’re hiring.”
He raises his brows and smiles, “Damn right you are, baby.”
Baby? Damn this man with his Southern drawl.
The moment we step inside, the clang of the bell above the door echoes through the shop, followed by the low buzz of machines, and the faint tune of rock music pulsing through the overhead speakers.
Blackbird Ink Co. feels darker than the parlors I’ve worked in before — its walls are a deep charcoal shade with exposed brick showing through, and every surface is adorned with art; some are framed, others are directly painted on the wall, and many are tacked in wild clusters on a corkboard near the front desk.
On the left, a red velvet couch stands, its well-worn surface has seen many nervous clients waiting for their tattoo sessions.
Maverick lingers behind me, taking it all in with his usual curious expression and that infuriatingly perfect posture.
“This place has character,” Maverick mutters behind me, voice low and amused. “Are you sure you’re not secretly part raven? This vibe feels like you’d nest here.”
I shoot him a sideways glare. “I didn’t realize we were taking ornithology detours this morning.”
He smirks, but his eyes remain fixed on me, following every detail.
“Not a compliment,” I add flatly, as I’m already walking toward the desk.
There’s a brass bell, and I give it a quick tap. The sound rings sharp and clear throughout the parlour.
A petite woman with a buzz cut and a snake tattoo wrapped around her neck steps out of a side hallway while wiping her hands with a paper towel.
“Hey, my name’s Amelia,” I say, reaching my hand out towards her. “I’m looking to see if you’re hiring. I’m a tattoo artist, and I just moved here.”
She reaches for my hand, shaking firmly. “Got a portfolio?”
“Always.” I pull the black leather binder from my tote bag and hand it over.
She flips it open, glancing at the first few pages, pausing at one of my more detailed underbust pieces. “Damn, these are clean.”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, even though pride hums beneath my skin. “Thank you.”
“I’m June, the owner,” she says, still flipping through the pages. “Honestly, I’m looking for an artist like you. Are you available to come in on Friday?”
“I’m free whenever you need me.” My voice is calm, but inside, I’m screaming.
I need this.
June nods slowly, snapping the portfolio closed and handing it back. “Come by next Friday at noon, and you’ve got a spot.”
I exhale, tension draining from my shoulders just a little. “Thank you.”
Maverick’s already leaning against the counter, his eyebrow raised as his mouth twitches like he’s fighting the urge to say something ridiculous.
“See? I knew they’d fall for you,” he murmurs once we’re outside, the bell clanging behind us again.
“I’m just here to work,” I mutter, flipping through the binder to make sure everything’s in place.
“And I’m here to be your cheerleader.”
Town locals seem to know Maverick.
They offer quick nods and easy smiles; no one shoves phones in our faces or asks for autographs, not like in Los Angeles.
Ruby Ridge treats him like he’s just Maverick, not Maverick Hayes, starting quarterback of the Tennessee Mustangs, and I can see how much that means to him by the way his shoulders drop the second we walk in.
We’re seated in a corner booth with cracked leather seats and a view of the quiet downtown street outside, where fairy lights are strung between buildings and the breeze rustles through the trees.
The table is tucked in enough to feel private, but open enough for the waitress, who clearly wants to die from smiling at Maverick, to deliver two menus and a quick “It’s good to see you back, Mav.”
He thanks her with that charming, lopsided grin. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“I’m not taking no for an answer,” he says once she leaves. “You crushed that interview, dollface. We’re celebrating, pick whatever you want.”
I arch a brow. “Seriously?”
“Duh,” he says, setting his menu down. “That woman saw your art and damn near bowed.”
I look away, as warmth crawls up the back of my neck.
Dinner goes by in a blur of laughter and teasing. He orders a steak the size of a plate and talks with his hands.
His eyes catch me staring when I think I’m being subtle, and every time our eyes meet, there’s a glint of mischief and awe that I’ve never seen in a man before.
I order short rib pasta and tell myself I’m just here for the food, not for the way he bites his lip between jokes or the way he leans closer when I speak, so he can listen and pay attention to what I’m saying.
He’s intoxicating; everything about him is piquing my curiosity.
It’s annoying.
When we leave, the night air feels crisp, and the stars above Ruby Ridge shine a little brighter than they do in LA. There’s a warmth in my chest that I pretend is from the wine.
We stop outside his SUV, and I reach for the passenger handle, but his voice stops me.
“Wait,” he says gently.
I slowly crane my neck with my brows pinched.
He walks toward me nonchalantly with his hands in his pockets. “Congrats again, dollface.”
I’m about to respond to him, but the air is knocked out of my lungs as he pulls me into a hug.
It’s not one of those friendly, awkward one-armed hugs; this is entirely different, and it drives me wild.
He wraps both of his big arms around me, the heat of his body cocooning me, causing my eyes to flutter shut.
I let myself enjoy it for one brief second.
His hand is splayed across the small of my back, as the other is up between my shoulder blades.
My face ends up against his chest, and I feel the solid thump of his heartbeat against my cheek.
I don’t pull away.
His body visually is all hard lines and muscle, but being held by him makes me feel safe, and something in my gut twists at how good it feels. I deeply crave more of his touch, the touch of a man I have deprived myself for years because of one stupid one.
His fingers tighten just slightly, not enough to squeeze, but enough to let me know he’s feeling this too.
I hear his breath pause as he tightens his grip around my waist.
His lips barely brush my hair, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss me.
He doesn’t speak, nor does he ruin it with another dumb joke.
I finally lean back, just enough to look up at him; his blue eyes are darker than they were a moment ago, and his throat bobs when he swallows.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and I hate how breathless it sounds.
He nods once.
For a second, neither of us moves.
The tension is like electricity sparking between our mouths, not quite a kiss but very close. His thumb grazes my waist, causing my stomach to flip.
I do the smart thing, I think, by opening the passenger door and getting in before I make a mistake.
But my hands are shaking, and I can still feel him everywhere.