Chapter 20 Maverick
Maverick
A knock at her door startles me.
Don’t know why—it’s not like I’ve never heard a knock on a door before. But something about the way it cuts through her hushed voice in the bedroom—as I do my best to eavesdrop while she hurriedly explains about whatever the hell this situation is—puts me on edge.
I glance at the door, then back down at the half-zipped suitcase on her couch. Her place is small. Tiny, even. One of those shoebox apartments with more knickknacks than space.
I open the door.
And come face-to-face with the human embodiment of your stereotypical dork; someone who looks as if he ought to be on the East Coast strutting around a dock in his boat shoes, sweater vest, and falling grin.
And two takeaway cups of coffee.
He blinks up at me like I’ve answered the door to his house, little prick.
“Uh,” he says. “Is Annabelle here?”
I narrow my eyes. “Who’s asking?”
“Tim.” He straightens like that’s supposed to mean something. “Her boyfriend.”
Ahh, Tim. The ex she dumped before her staycation—and clearly one of those dudes who cannot take a fucking hint when a woman dumps him.
I stare at him.
He stares at me.
I lean against the doorframe. “Who are you again?”
“Tim.”
I knew that. Just want to hear him repeat it.
“Is she here?”
I nod, still holding up the door. Not budging. “Yup.”
Tim blinks at me, ears turning a delightful shade of red.
God, this is so fun!
“She’s . . . Is she busy?”
“On the phone with Lucy,” I say.
He clears his throat. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
“Right. So what are you? Here to fix the sink?”
Ha. “That’s hilarious—I don’t know a goddamn thing about plumbing.” Not that kind of plumbing anyway . . .
“Her new boyfriend?”
I let that hang a beat.
“Nope,” I say levelly. Calmly. “I’m her husband.”
“Her what?”
I have to give the guy credit—his eyes don’t bug out of his skull the way I was hoping they would.
He shakes his head, thinking surely he’d misheard me. “I’m sorry, I just hallucinated. I thought you said you were her husband.”
“I did.”
“You can’t be—she dumped me two weeks ago.”
Jackpot. I squint down at him. “How can you be her boyfriend if she dumped you two weeks ago?”
Tim’s eye twitches as he flounders for a response, jaw opening and closing like a fish out of water. “W-we . . . I thought she needed space.”
I smirk. “She needed something, all right.”
My big ol’ Scottish dick.
When his ears go redder, I resist the urge to fist pump. Score!
Then a feminine throat clears behind me and Annabelle steps up, nudging me aside so she can take my place in the doorway. “Tim, what are you doing here?”
He thrusts the coffee at her like it’s some sort of olive branch, eyeballing me the entire time. “I thought we could talk.”
“We already did,” she replies with a chill icy enough to have little Timmy Ding Dong stepping back, but she still takes his peace offering or whatever the fuck the coffee is meant to represent.
He snorts. “I didn’t think you’d rebound so fast.”
“She didn’t,” I cut in, smiling like a lion surrounded by his domain. “We eloped. That’s not a rebound, that’s a commitment.”
Boom! Mic drop!
Annabelle rolls her eyes. “Technically it’s not legal, but . . .”
“Hey!” I’m personally affronted by her truth. “Don’t go raining on my parade in front of your ex-boyfriend. That’s bad marriage etiquette.”
Tim’s jaw drops again. “You guys seriously got married?”
Annabelle shrugs one shoulder. “It was more of a spontaneous vow exchange, officiated by someone named Pastor Dan, officially the other bride’s cousin.”
The other bride. I snicker. Ahh, the memories . . .
“Real classy, Annabelle,” Tim deadpans as if disgusted.
I nod. “Thank you.”
Annabelle smothers a laugh before fixing Tim with a look. “I think we’re done here.”
“But I—”
“She said we’re done,” I repeat with authority, stepping in to make my presence a wall between them. I am husband. I am not Tim.
“I just don’t think it’s fair that—”
“Oh my God, dude, she broke up with you,” I say slowly—like I’m explaining gravity to a toddler. “You don’t get to do the whole grand gesture thing after you’ve already blown your shot.”
And probably your load.
Tim wants to argue—mouth opening again, fingers twitching around the poor, neglected coffee in his weak hand—but then he clocks the way I’m standing.
Solid.
Immovable.
Blocking his view of her like it’s my damn job.
Because it is.
“You don’t even know her,” he tries again, more desperate this time because clearly, Timmy doesn’t like losing.
I shrug. “No, but I’m married to her. So.”
I smile. Goddamn, this is satisfying . . .
Tim stares at me like he’s trying to summon the confidence of a man twice his size.
“Annabelle,” he pleads pathetically. “We were good together. There was a time you said I made you feel safe.”
“She said you made her feel bored,” I toss back to twist the knife.
Annabelle coughs beside me—possibly a laugh—but doesn’t correct me.
Tim’s face reddens all the way to his hairline. “You’re just, what, some rebound jock with a hero complex?”
“Totally.” I laugh. “Technically a married rebound jock with a hero complex.” I hold up my ring finger.
He lets out an exasperated noise and turns to her one last time. “You’re seriously choosing him?”
She doesn’t say anything for several moments. Just regards me as if looking for that same support my friends and teammates rely on—that one that’s steady and calm.
Then she nods. “Yeah. I am choosing him.”
I pat Tim on the arm, giving him a double tap of sympathy. “Tough break, bud.”
He hates me. Detests me in that instant and probably wants to plant me a facer but knows I’d crush him. Not that I blame him; I wouldn’t confront me either.
He stares like he wants to throw the coffee at my chest and run, but instead he swallows his pride—and probably a little bile—and slinks off down the hallway with the saddest coffee in the tristate area.
I watch him toss it into the trash can near the parking structure, waiting until he’s disappeared around the corner before I close the door with a soft, satisfying click.
I give it a beat. Two. Then turn toward her with a lazy grin. “So that went well.”
She huffs out a breath that might be a laugh or a sigh or both. “You are the most aggravating man I’ve ever met.”
“Married to me, though,” I point out.
“Stop saying that.”
“You chose me.” I remind her dramatically.
She rolls her eyes but laughs at the same time. “So annoying.”
“Want me to gloat a little more? I have a whole speech prepared about how he peaked in high school and then I peaked in Star Lake. Inside you.”
She narrows her eyes, but I catch the twitch at the corner of her mouth. She wants to giggle.
“You think this is funny?” she asks. “That poor man was heartbroken.”
My snort is loud. “Please—at any point this week that poor man could have come out to the lake and begged you to take him back. It’s not like you flew to the fucking moon,” I point out. “You were an hour away.”
She opens her mouth, probably to protest and scold me for being an asshole, but I lift a brow.
“You gonna defend him now?” I dare. “Timmy Two Weeks Ago?”
Jeez, it’s so easy to make fun of him. Am I being a dick about this? Yes.
Do I care? No.
Annabelle is my fake wife, and Tim can fuck right off. Let him find his own damn wife; this one is mine.
“No, I’m not gonna defend him. This is just a lot.”
I nod. “Yeah. For him.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re insufferable.”
I grin. “But married.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Married,” I repeat, walking toward her with deliberate, heavy steps. “Husband. Groom. Newlywed.”
She spins around. “‘Newlywed’ implies we’re going on a honeymoon.”
Does it? “My complex has a pool on the roof.”
Annabelle arches a brow, unimpressed. “Wow. Fancy. Shall I pack a sarong?”
“You own a sarong?”
“No.”
In that case, “Pack whatever you want so I can stare at you for hours, preferably wearing nothing.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts again. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Only because you keep feeding me reasons to be.”
She rolls her eyes and turns away, saying something under her breath that sounds like “so unbelievable,” as she fusses around her room, tidying up and moving things so the place will be clean when she returns.
I follow her to the suitcase, watching as she smooths down a stack of clothes she’s already folded twice. Her hands are busy, but her brain is spinning. I can see it.
“You okay?” I ask, quieter now.
“Of course,” she allows. “But like I said—this is a lot.”
I step closer, voice low. “If you want to stay—”
“No.” She turns, meeting my eyes. “I want to go.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” she says. “I just wasn’t expecting Tim to show up and try to win me back with a stupid latte.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you were still in love with him.” I say it with a downtrodden inflection in my tone to amuse her.
Annabelle barks out a laugh. “Shut up.”
I relax, relieved to see the tension crack. The last thing I want is her aborting the mission and deciding to stay home because I have a big mouth and piss her off.
“I’m just saying . . . you two had a history. Probably swapped toothbrushes.”
She pulls a face. “That’s disgusting.”
“Agree. Which is why I’m the obvious upgrade choice.”
She side-eyes me as she continues putzing with her clothes. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
I scoff. “Of Timmy Two Lattes?”
She lifts a brow. “Yes, Timmy Two Times.”
“I guess. Maybe a little.” I’m not too shy to admit I have an insecurity when it comes to relationships, or women cheating, or knowing what a woman wants. The only thing I’ve ever been able to control is myself, so getting inside someone’s head is pointless.
So I say what I mean and mean what I say.
Always.
She tilts her head, smiling now. “Why?”
“Don’t know. The thought of you looking at some other guy—even that nerd who wears boat shoes, Tim—like you looked at me last night? When we’re not technically married?”
“You do realize we’re practically still strangers, who happen to have spent a shit ton on rings when we were drunk, right?”
I pull her in for a hug, wrapping my arms around her. “Most drunk fun I’ve had in ages.”