Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
MIA
“You’re off duty,” I say halfway through the day. The burly cowboy never misses a beat, sauntering toward the kitchen. Thick thighs, tight ass—denim that’s downright criminal.
“Careful,” he grunts without turning back around.
“Why?”
He opens the cabinet and pulls out two glasses, filling them with ice from the fridge. “Because, like it or not, you still need a bodyguard—on duty.”
“Something tells me you never stop protecting.”
“Sour or sweet?” he asks, holding up two glass pitchers.
“When life gives you lemons,” I trail off, bitterly smiling. Ice clinks against the glass as he pours the liquid, bringing two brimming yellow glasses to the counter.
He pushes one toward me, leaning against the inside of the counter like he needs to keep space between us. That’s the last thing on my mind.
He takes a sip and grimaces.
“Maybe more sour than sweet,” I say, scrunching my nose at the first swig. “But it hits the spot.”
He palms the tiles, face softening. “That comment you said before … about wishing the stalker did a better job. What did you mean?”
His voice is velvet, the softest I’ve ever heard it. Anger bristles at the thought he might be patronizing me, but warmth pools in my chest along with a feeling like trust. Dangerous. Misguided. But with Maverick, I can’t make myself believe that.
I stare at my glass, watching a bead of sweat roll down the side.
Before it hits the counter, I snag it with my finger, bringing the cool droplet to my lips.
Maverick’s nostrils flare, and his eyes darken as they drop to my mouth.
I suck the tip of my finger a second too long, and a low hum escapes his chest. He looks away, gritting his teeth.
No man’s ever wanted me for me before. The feeling is liberating. Intimidating. I don’t know what I should do with it, though the persistent throb between my legs offers suggestions.
The cowboy swallows hard, eyes narrowing with laser focus on my face. “Answer the question, Mia.”
“Are you always this bossy?” I ask, enjoying how his cheeks darken.
“For your well-being? Yeah.”
I fish an ice cube from my drink, sucking it slowly between my lips. His gaze follows … despite himself. The thick veneer of professionalism evaporating. Suddenly, he straightens, fists clenched, turning away.
“You can’t avoid this conversation, Princess. Try as you might… to…”
“To?” I drop the cube back in the drink, fluttering my lashes innocently.
“To distract me.” Grim-faced, black-voiced.
“Distract you?” I laugh throatily. “More like cool off. This place is hotter than hell.”
Three long strides, and he’s disappeared down the hallway where the thermostat is. Of course. Take things literally.
The hollow thud of boots, and he stands diagonally across from me, arms folded, leaning against the wall. Unaffected. Unreadable. The first man ever to make me rethink my stance against pickup-driving rednecks.
His eyes dart habitually to the windows and doors, still in protection mode.
“Do you ever really stop working?” I ask.
“Not when I have something worth protecting.”
I nearly choke on my lemonade, swallowing loudly and gracelessly.
“You are worth it, you know.”
His face broods—unmoving, eyes storming.
“God, I should never have confessed that to you. Now, I’m never going to hear the end of it.” I say it more to berate myself than to engage with him.
“You needed to say it,” he says with a finality that sounds like wisdom, though the last thing I want is advice.
I shrug. “Don’t make it bigger than it is. It was just a fleeting thought. Not something I’d think about…” I search for the right word, “regularly.”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t think about it at all.”
I huff a sigh, twisting my hands together in front of me. “And I shouldn’t be twenty-one with a guardian. But life isn’t about what should happen, is it?”
“Depends,” he rumbles, too dark.
“On what?”
His eyes drop to my mouth again, and heat curls low. My heart hammers against my ribs as I draw the angular planes of his face with my gaze. Rough. Dangerous. Virile.
“On whether I’m on or off the clock.”
He says it too fast, like he has to force out the words before his brain can catch up. Then, takes a chug of lemonade like a desert-bound man who hasn’t drunk in days.
The empty sound of the glass thuds on the counter as he sets it down, refusing to make eye contact. “Just so you know, Mia. Your value isn’t in concert tour dates, performance bookings, merch sales. You could give up singing tomorrow, and you’d still be wanted. Needed.”
It’s like the last part steals something from him, his face hardening. Before I can react, he grabs a sack from the counter, tossing it in my direction. His face says it all. He doesn’t trust himself to stay.
“What’s this?”
“Nothing,” he says, stormy-voiced, heading for the front door. He pauses halfway through, calls over his shoulder without looking back, “Just so we’re straight. Next time you decide to leave, ask for a ride. You’re no prisoner here.”
Then, he disappears. No doubt on one of his perimeter searches. Invisible but never far away.
Plastic rustles as I open the bag. Lavender, mint, and ivory. Three skeins of the softest yarn and a floral tin filled with colorful metal crochet hooks in varying sizes. My fingers slide over the familiar smooth metal, the backs of my eyes stinging dangerously.
“Grandma.”
I press the lavender yarn to my face, marveling at its velvety texture. Closing my eyes, I’m transported back to the quiet time between words when gentle hands seamed with wrinkles guided my work and taught me how to craft little turtles and foxes, owls and kittens from string.
But how did he know?
My eyes snap to the door, waiting, breathless, to understand the meaning of this gift and the man behind it. Even more afraid to embody this silence—what I’ve wanted for so long but don’t know how to fill.
“Maverick Holt,” I whisper, fingertips glancing over the mint-colored wool. Marveling, unraveling, re-finding myself in the quiet of the room. “You are a mystery.”
Warm streams flood my cheeks as it finally hits me all at once. The arena. The stalker. The—
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Playing through my mind, making my body tremble and shake at each remembered sound.
I can still feel the heat of a Texas night on my skin. Smell the fear. See death—close enough to taste. My shoulders shake with each sob, memories flooding my head. Of the little girl with the crocheted animals. And the woman she became.
No, the brand.
A face that can sell a million copies but not enjoy a single moment of freedom. Do I even know what that means?
On the counter next to me, the phone buzzes, and my spine snaps straight. With shaking hands, I open the screen. One missed call and a fresh string of texts from Edwin.
This is exactly why the guardianship exists.
You’re clearly not well.
Have you stopped taking your medication?
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I can’t do this on my own. Maybe I’m being stupid or selfish or spiraling into another psychiatric episode.
Or maybe … just for once, I’m taking accountability for myself. Making my own choices. Choosing my own path.
As scary as the last thought is, it breaks something loose that bound me for as long as I can remember. With trembling hands, I go into Edwin’s contact information and block him.
Done.
Over.
For a few moments, I stare at the white tile kitchen countertop. It stares back, a blank slate. Like my future.
What do I feel? I catalog my senses. The ache in my throat, the sting in my eyes. The pumping of my heart and fast-paced breaths. Fear, excitement, anxiety. I feel them all at once, like some great wave of emotion.
But what I don’t feel? Loss, grief, impending insanity.
I may not know what comes next. But one thing is true. I feel no regret about letting go.
Of Edwin. Of fame. Of the career I never wanted.
Admitting it feels like a sin. Embracing it, a foreign country. And yet I know, for change to happen, it must start with me.