Chapter 12 Maverick
Maverick
Sometime in the middle of the night, the storm stopped raging and the power went back on.
This morning I have no idea what to say to Annabelle, so it’s a good thing she’s in the bathroom. Door shut. Water running.
But I hear her humming. A soft, melodic little thing I’ve noticed she does. Cute. Adorable. It drifts out through the door like a thread, tugging at something behind my rib cage. Something unfamiliar.
How fucking inconvenient.
I’m standing in the middle of the hallway, listening to Annabelle brushing her teeth, hands on my hips like some idiot linebacker who just fumbled the game-winning play. I should probably sit down. Or lie down. Or dunk my head in the lake.
Instead, I pivot toward the kitchen. Coffee. Yeah. That’s what we need, because nothing about last night was normal.
The storm. The power outage.
Her mouth on mine.
My hands and lips on her skin.
Her hips grinding into my face like she’d been waiting her whole damn life for me to eat her out.
I yank open a cabinet. Mugs clink. Something crashes to the floor and bounces twice.
“Shit,” I hiss under my breath, crouching to pick up a rogue measuring cup that’s somehow managed to find its way into the cabinet. I find the drawer where it belongs, before starting two cups of coffee in the Keurig.
There’s a creak behind me, hardwood floors shifting. I glance up.
Annabelle stands in the doorway, hair in a messy bun atop her head, sleeves of a forest green hoodie pulled halfway down her hands. She’s swallowed up by it—bare legged, sleep shorts peeking beneath the hem as she eyes me up.
We stare at each other.
Neither one of us speaks.
At least, not right away.
“Coffee?” I offer, brandishing a mug like a peace treaty.
She nods slowly. “Sure.”
Cool. Casual. No mention of her orgasm that nearly caused a power surge.
I hand her a mug that says Namaste Bitches, and she doesn’t even smile at it. Just takes a sip and leans her hip against the counter like we’ve done this exactly zero times before.
“Sleep okay?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Eventually.”
My jaw tightens. “Yeah. Same.”
A beat passes. Then another. The tension is stupid—sticky and slow like syrup—and I hate it, because I’m rarely in situations that make me uncomfortable.
I rake a hand through my hair. “So . . .”
“So,” she echoes, eyes darting to the floor.
Fuck, this is awkward.
We stand there in the kitchen like two people who’ve absolutely, undeniably seen each other naked but have now decided to pretend we’re distant cousins at a family reunion.
I clear my throat. “Want to sit outside?”
She nods, seemingly grateful for the change in scenery. “Sure. Fresh air. Vitamin D. Loon surveillance.”
I grab the second mug—mine says Espresso Yourself, because apparently the owner of this cottage has a boner for Pinterest—and we head out the screen door to the porch, careful not to look at each other too long.
Or at all.
Outside, the air is cool and damp. The storm is over, but the lake is still and gray; the day hasn’t decided what kind of weather it wants. Mist hovers just above the surface, curling around the wooden dock and the two kayaks bobbing in the water.
A loon calls out across the lake. Another one answers, as Annabelle and I take the two deck chairs, settling into them, both of us facing the horizon and not each other.
I chuckle. “You think those birds argue?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Probably. Bet the male forgot to pick up minnows on the way home and now she’s threatening to fly south early.”
I grin into my coffee. “You’re a nightmare to date, aren’t you?”
“Not in the least.” She sips. “I’m a goddamn delight.”
She smirks, and for the first time this morning, she doesn’t look like she wants to hide from me. She takes another long sip of her coffee, then sighs. “Okay, listen. About last night . . .”
Last night = one long orgasm.
For her, not me. But that’s fine—I don’t care. Listening to her moan as she came was the sexiest sound I’ve heard in a seriously long fucking time, and I don’t regret it, so neither should she. Two consenting adults.
Panic immediately surges in my chest. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
“Good,” she says quickly. “Great. Because I wasn’t going to.”
“Awesome. Perfect.” Great.
Cool.
Another loon cries out.
Annabelle tilts her head. “Do you think they do it in the water?”
Do it? Like—fuck? “Probably. Less cleanup.”
“I wonder if they have a special call for that. Like a horny warble.”
I laugh at her cheesy comment. “Better than a sad honk. That’s what ducks do.” As if I would know.
“Wow. Okay.” She laughs back and lifts her coffee mug. “So this is what we’re doing now. Talking about bird sex lives to avoid discussing ours.”
I nod. “Yup. Classic misdirection.”
We both sip at the same time, and for a second the silence is bearable. The kind that means neither of us knows what to say but we’re both pretending we feel relaxed.
Lies.
All lies . . .
She sets her mug down on the porch rail, tapping a fingernail against the ceramic. “So what’s the plan for today?”
I stretch my legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “Supposed to check in with my coach. Do some therapy. Maybe take the kayak out later. You wanna come?”
She tilts her head. “We’re kayaking together now?”
“Sure. You can sit in the front and yell at ducks for honking wrong.”
She chuckles. “I do love me a power trip.”
We both laugh, hers low and throaty, and I have to glance away before I do something stupid like lean over and kiss her again.
Instead, I say, “So what were you actually planning on doing today? Besides giving me shit?”
“Nothing? Nothing was my goal before I booked the cabin, so—no need to rearrange my plans.”
I glance down the yard toward the kayaks, no doubt full of rainwater from last night’s storm. “Well, I hate to pull you from your rigorous schedule of horizontal excellence, but if we’re going to go floating in those, we’ll need to dump the water before we do anything.”
Annabelle sighs, all exaggerated and dramatic, as if I asked her to run a marathon in heels. “Ugh. Fine. But if I’m doing physical labor before ten, I require pants. And a sports bra. Possibly shoes.”
When she stands to go inside and change, I stand with her, heading to the pier.
Several minutes later, water is cascading out the side of the first kayak like a busted dam, splashing my legs and drenching the dock. I curse, more wet than I intended to be this early.
The kayak thunks down upright with a slap. I wipe my hands on my shorts just as Annabelle steps back outside. Her hair’s pulled into a ponytail, her sunglasses are perched on her head, and she’s wearing bike shorts and a cropped tee.
“Well, don’t you look sporty,” I say, wiping the back of my hand across my forehead. “Should I be worried you’re gonna show me up?”
“Oh please.” She rolls her eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Wanna share?”
One of the two kayaks is a double, and Annabelle eyes it skeptically. “I guess we can share. If we go down, I want someone to blame in real time.”
I gesture at the kayaks. “Your chariot awaits.”
She eyes it, one brow lifted. “You sure you don’t want to do a safety demo first? You know, in case of emergency. Where the snacks are hidden. How to scream for help if we tip over.”
“I scream in a very manly way, thank you.”
Annabelle snorts and steps toward the kayak. “I’ll sit in the front. Less responsibility.”
She slides into the front seat, already adjusting her sunglasses and making herself comfortable. “Just so we’re clear, I expect hydration, and an apology in advance for whatever stupid thing you’re going to say out there.”
Shit. Hydration? “I have to run up to the house. Sit tight for a few.”
She lifts a hand like a queen granting permission. “Take your time, peasant. I’ll just be here soaking up the sun.”
Jogging back toward the house, I mutter under my breath. “Hydration. Snacks. Towel.”
Inside, I grab two bottles of water from the fridge, snag a bag of trail mix off the counter, and debate whether or not she’s the type who likes fruit snacks. I throw them in anyway.
“No one is mad about fruit snacks.”
The towel situation takes longer. One is damp from yesterday, one smells like lake, and the third is from my shower but looks clean enough. Whatever—she’s not actually royalty.
Back on the dock, I find her reclining on her seat in the kayak, one leg dangling over the side, toes skimming the water.
“Took you long enough,” she drawls, not even opening her eyes. “Did you also knit us a picnic blanket?”
Her and her sarcasm . . . “Funny. I brought water. Trail mix. And fruit snacks. So you can save the attitude unless you want to swim back.”
She humphs. “Fruit snacks, you say?”
The kayak rocks as I climb in behind her and settle into place. The lake is calm, glassy, and still. Peaceful. The exact reason I chose this place.
Annabelle twists halfway around to look back at me. “So, Captain, which way are we heading?”
I point with my paddle toward a tiny patch of green in the distance. “Island. Straight ahead. Should only take about a half hour if you don’t slack off.”
She scoffs. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know I once won a sixth-grade paddleboat race.”
A paddleboat race in sixth grade? You don’t say! “Was it against actual boats or rubber duckies?”
Her hand slaps the water beside the kayak, splashing me. “Rude!”
The kayak glides smoothly over the water, each stroke sending gentle ripples outward. A breeze rustles through the tall pines along the shoreline, the sun breaking through cloud cover to shimmer off the lake like someone tossed a handful of glitter at it.
Dragonflies flit above the surface. The scents of damp cedar and clean lake air linger on the breeze. Ahhh . . .
Ahead, the island grows larger, its outline sharpened by the morning sun.
Annabelle sighs dreamily. “Okay, I’ll admit it. This was a good idea.”
I smirk. “Try not to sound too shocked.”
She leans back against the curve of the seat, lifting her sunglasses to rest on top of her head. “It’s so calm. I could meditate.”