Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
MIA
“Off duty,” Maverick says like a man unconvinced by his own words. He begrudgingly sits down next to me.
“You couldn’t look less thrilled if you tried,” I murmur, snuggling back against his shoulder, returning to my crocheting. He stiffens, holding his breath, but he doesn’t pull away. “Need I remind you, people pay thousands of dollars just to meet and snap a selfie with me?”
“Doesn’t make any of this right.”
I chuckle. “Maverick Holt. The newbie. The man who puts duty above all else. The man who gives gifts he maybe shouldn’t.”
He clears his throat, face tight. “That a threat?”
“No, just an observation. An acknowledgment that there’s more to you than you’re willing to let on.”
“Maybe.” His face looks torn.
“Never sat like this with a man before,” I confess—this close, this quiet.
He balks, eyes zinging electricity.
“I somehow have trouble believing that, Ms. Love. But if you’re feeling uncomfortable—”
He starts to rise. But I reach out, resting a hand on his muscular shoulder. “Please. Not yet. You make me feel safe. Safer than anybody ever has.”
He shifts away, but not so far that we stop touching. “That’s exactly why this shouldn’t be happening. I’m not here to take advantage of you.”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear.” My voice sounds raw, and my eyes sting again. “I’d ask for a hug, but something tells me you wouldn’t give it.”
“No.”
Cold. Resolved.
“So, I’ll take what you can give me. Off the clock, of course.”
His hands fist, and his face tightens. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but—”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I swear.”
His sigh comes out like a low hum, brows furrowing, eyes trying to read me.
“I need to feel safe. Just for a moment.”
“But I’m sweaty and hot. Probably smell terrible.”
“Your smell? That’s what you’re worried about?” I ask with a giggle.
“No,” he answers morosely, looking away. “I’m worried about my job. My future. Crossing a line I shouldn’t.”
The words take more from him than he’s willing to admit. His honesty, his vulnerability, make me want him even more. His shoulder is firm against my back, steady, like it could anchor me through any storm. My mind devolves, wondering what the rest of him would feel like against me.
“Just for the record, you smell like pine sap and something else … something darker, very masculine.”
He crosses his arms, grimacing. “Glad my deodorant’s to your liking.”
I snort. “If that’s what it is, then, yes.”
He inhales sharply. “We about done here?”
The words sting like rejection. But his eyes burn with something he won’t name, body stiff with restraint, not disinterest.
“Almost,” I say, smiling at the flare of his nostrils, the hunger in his gaze.
I loop the soft wool around the hook, pulling it through for another dainty stitch.
“Just thinking about another life and different circumstances. Maybe a man who’s not a bodyguard and a woman who’s free to choose.
They have a farm together somewhere. Land stretches in all directions as far as the eye can see.
Maybe toward snow-capped mountains on one side, an ancient fence line on another… ”
“A creek on the other,” he adds, face brooding. “And a forest.”
“Yes,” I say wistfully, closing my eyes for a moment, picturing it in my mind. “The woman has a wool shop. Rows upon rows of soft skeins, dyed in muted tones. Organic hues, because, you know…”
A grandfather clock ticks from the corner, the air conditioner firing back up with a lazy wheeze.
“So, maybe they have sheep?” he asks, concentrating on the empty hearth. Pity it’s summer. I can almost imagine the firelight dancing in those dark eyes.
“Maybe. Or how about Angora bunnies?”
“Bunnies? Seriously, woman? Next, you’ll be saying llamas … or alpacas—”
“Yes!” I set the crocheting down, clapping my hands together. “Alpacas are it.”
He shifts stiffly but doesn’t move away. Not one inch, though the heat between us boils. Climate control or not.
He quirks his mouth deep in thought. “A far cry from the stage and fame…”
“Far as you can get, I’d imagine.”
He eyes me, able to hide every emotion, though I can tell his thoughts are rolling again—with the force of a freight train. “That really what you want? Peace? Quiet?”
“With the right person, I think so.”
The air sizzles between us, thick enough to cut.
Without warning, he explodes to his feet, pacing toward the hearth and resting his hands on the mantle. “You’d like it for a few days, maybe weeks. But then you’d miss it.”
“Miss what?”
“The roar of the crowd. The fame. The people stomping their feet and chanting your name. Nothing like it in the world. It could haunt a person.”
He says it as if he understands. Like he’s speaking from experience rather than wisdom.
“Is that what you miss?” I ask.
He turns to face me, a dizzy sort of pain written in his features. And with it, anger. The realization hits me too late. I’ve asked something unforgivable.
Maverick slides past me slow and easily. But his face can’t hide the storm. “Back on duty. Permanently, just so we’re clear.”
His words are a slamming door.
“But—”
“Need to make some phone calls.”
I follow him with my eyes, breath hitching. I pushed too far. Now, I’m going to pay for it. Should’ve known better. Never met a person with steeper, thicker walls except for me. “You’re not leaving me. Are you?”
“Not yet.”
“But soon?” I knit my brow.
“We could both use a shift change.”
“Maybe you can take a break,” I reply, voice shaking. “But this is my life, and as far as I can tell, you’re the only person on this planet who I can trust right now. Please don’t forget it.”
He opens his mouth to lie to me. Maybe to tell me I’m wrong, or I’ve got other options. But then, our eyes meet, and he clenches his jaw. “I won’t forget.”
I can tell by the steel in his voice, the intensity in his gaze, that he means what he says. More than anyone ever has before.
And so I don’t say goodbye.
Because this doesn’t feel like an ending.