Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
STEVIE
M averick was tapping his fingers on the table when I arrived at Luna. His pint glass was nearly drained, only an inch of beer remaining at the bottom. His lips were pursed, and given the disheveled state of his brown hair, he’d run his fingers through it no less than ten times.
I was thirty-six minutes late.
My phone had chimed the entire drive to the restaurant, but I’d left it in my purse, knowing it was Mav. There were probably a dozen texts waiting, and I doubted any of them were particularly nice.
Well, too bad. I wasn’t feeling particularly nice either. He should have told Meredith no. Was it petty to punish him for being a coward? Yes. I’d even felt a little guilty on the drive over.
But the fact was, this was a waste of a Saturday night for us both.
I pulled out my chair, settling into the seat across from his. Then without a word or glance at Maverick, I pulled the book I’d brought along out of my purse, opening it to the page where I’d left off.
It was a spicy romance. The heroine had just overheard the hero jacking himself off in the shower and calling out her name. There was still fifty percent to go, but I already knew it was a five-star read.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
My gaze flicked up from the page to find Maverick’s light-blue eyes. If he didn’t glare so much, he’d have beautiful eyes.
“Yes?” I asked.
He leaned his elbows on the table, checking over his shoulder before he lowered his voice. “You’re late. And now you’re reading on our date?”
I lifted a shoulder and dropped my eyes back to the book. “It’s not a date.”
As far as I was concerned, this was a family obligation. It wasn’t the first time I’d ignored him by reading. I doubted it would be the last.
“Adair,” he snapped.
“Houston,” I drawled, not breaking from the page.
He huffed and leaned back in his chair, his knee knocking the underside of the table as he shifted. “Un-fucking-believable.”
“I haven’t gotten to read for fun lately. I’ve been busy with school and volleyball. Besides, don’t tell me you were actually looking forward to chatting tonight. We’ll suffer through this meal in silence and move on.”
He clenched his jaw so hard I heard his molars grind over the dull hum of restaurant conversation and clink of silverware on plates .
“What if I was looking forward to talking? What if I was taking this seriously?”
I arched my eyebrows, flipping a page. “You’re not.”
“Have you been playing volleyball?” he asked.
“Some.”
“With the team?”
Was he actually trying to have a conversation? I glanced up. A smirk sat on his lips.
Asshole .
I wouldn’t be able to read if he was talking to me. No matter how good this book was, it was hard to tune out his smooth voice. “A few times. Coach Quinn asked if I’d come in and practice with the incoming freshmen. Otherwise, I play every Sunday morning.”
My roommates, Jennsyn and Liz, had both been on the Wildcats team with me this year. We were all graduating this spring, and though our volleyball careers were over, we all still loved to play, me especially. So I’d found a rec league team that needed a few other players.
“Any other questions?”
Maverick’s smirk stretched wider. “You play center, right?”
“Setter.” The center position was called middle blocker, something I’d told Maverick a hundred times. Just like I’d told him I was a setter.
But explaining volleyball to this man was a waste of my time. Maverick didn’t give a shit about volleyball. Not because he didn’t like the sport. Maverick Houston loved all sports.
You couldn’t hardly tear him away from Monday Night Football. He talked ad nauseum with Dad about baseball teams. Maverick was in charge of the Adair-Houston March Madness bracket pool, and he’d even convinced his parents to host a party for the FIFA World Cup.
But volleyball? It might as well not exist. He’d dismissed it simply because volleyball was mine .
Which was why I’d refused to learn anything about football.
I returned my attention to my book, not that I could concentrate. Reading was almost impossible with the weight of Maverick’s stare on my face.
Another question was coming. I could feel it as clearly as I could feel the vibration from his knee bouncing beneath the table. But I refused to play into his antics. Maverick was a guy who was used to the spotlight. He loved attention.
Denying him mine was my favorite pastime. Yes, sometimes I couldn’t resist a snarky reply or comeback. But it irked Mav the most when I pretended like he didn’t exist.
Ignore him.
That had been my mom’s advice all those years ago. The day Maverick had gone from my best friend to that fartface who lived down the street.
Maybe in time, I’d forget that day. Maybe not. I remembered it as clearly as if it were yesterday.
I’d ridden my bike to the neighborhood park to meet Maverick. He’d already been there with a bunch of boys from around the block. Other than holidays when Mom had forced me into a dress, I’d lived in shorts and T-shirts. For the most part, Maverick and I used to dress the same. But that summer day, I’d decided to wear a pink tank top and matching shorts.
A couple of the other boys had commented on the color, teasing me for dressing like a girl.
That, I could have waved off.
Except then Maverick had made fun of my boobs. He’d called me A Cup. All of the other boys had chimed in, cupping their hands over their chests, pretending like they had cleavage.
I’d ridden my bike home in tears.
When I’d told Mom about it, she’d told me to ignore him. That boys our age were usually awful, and the best punishment for Maverick was my cold shoulder.
A Cup . Thinking about it still grated on my nerves.
Our parents knew how this rift had started, but they hadn’t counted on me holding a grudge for twelve years.
Maybe Meredith was right. Maybe it was time to let it go.
Maybe not.
I turned to the next page in my book.
Maverick let out a huff, then shifted in his chair, searching the restaurant for our waitress. He unrolled his silverware from his napkin, picking up his fork to twirl in his fingers. He scooted his chair in closer, bumping the table’s edge.
My water glass was too full, probably because the ice had been melting for over thirty-six minutes, and Maverick’s squirming sent a plop over the glass’s rim.
“Do you mind?” I took a drink, setting it down with too much force.
“This chair is uncomfortable.” He shifted it again.
“You’re such a baby. Try sitting still.”
“I have been sitting still.” He leaned forward with a sneer. “I sat still for the first thirty-something minutes of this date.”
“It’s not a date.” How many times was he going to say that word ?
“Could they have given me a smaller table?” He crossed his legs, a knee knocking underneath again. And again, my water sloshed.
“Maverick,” I hissed.
“Why is this table so fucking short?”
It was short. The tops of my thighs were just a few inches from the underside. If I wanted to cross my legs, I’d have to sit sideways.
Mav drained the last of his pint. “Where is our waiter?”
An excellent question. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud.
I’d been here for at least ten minutes. This was not the night for a dallying waiter. I wanted food, the check and a short goodbye.
A man in a long, black apron came walking down the aisle. The moment he made eye contact, I held up my hand.
“We’re ready to order.”
“You haven’t even looked at the menu,” Maverick said.
“Doesn’t matter.” I gave the waiter a bright smile when he stopped at the edge of this tiny table.
“Welcome.” The waiter took out a small notepad and flipped to a fresh page. “Can I get you anything to drink, miss?”
“I’m fine with water.” After this charade was over, I’d go home, treat myself to a glass of red wine and make a batch of my favorite chocolate chip cookies. “I’ll have a side salad. No sunflower seeds. No feta. No mushrooms. Extra walnuts. House vinaigrette on the side.”
He nodded, jotting it down. “Would you like that out before or after your meal?”
“That is my meal. The sooner you bring it out the better. ”
“Um... of course.” He looked to Maverick. “And for you, sir?”
Maverick was staring at me. Scowling, actually. “Anything that resembles a burger. Medium. Fries.”
“We have a gourmet bison burger with caramelized onions and a jalapeno relish.”
Damn. That sounded good. That’s what I wanted for dinner.
“Fantastic.” Maverick handed over his menu.
The waiter hesitated before he collected my menu, like he could see the indecision on my face. But I handed it over so he could leave to, hopefully, expedite our order so we could get the hell out of this restaurant.
“Way to make an effort,” Mav muttered.
“You could have made an effort to tell your mother this was pointless.”
“It’s one fucking dinner,” he whisper-yelled. “Would it kill you to be nice?”
I was nice. Well, to everyone but Maverick. Maybe it was purely habit, but throwing sass his direction had become a favorite pastime. Snide retorts and sarcastic censure came so naturally when he was in the room it was like breathing. And thankfully, the snarkier, the better. It usually meant we spent as little time together as possible.
Avoidance was easier, for everyone.
But he was right, this was just one dinner. For Meredith.
“Fine.” I closed my book with a slap, setting it aside. “How are you tonight, Maverick?”
“Annoyed as shit that you couldn’t be here on time.”
Fair. If I was in his chair, I’d be irked too. “I’m sorry for being late.”
“Liar. ”
I lifted a shoulder. “Can you really blame me for not wanting to be here? It’s not like we ever get along.”
“And that’s my fault?”
“Yes. Obviously.”
He rolled his eyes. “All because I was a shithead when we were ten? When are you going to get over it?”
“Get over it?” My voice was too loud, and the people at the tiny, short table beside ours gave us a sideways glance. Maybe, if I was lucky, they’d complain to the restaurant manager and ask us to leave. Banishment from Luna seemed like the best outcome tonight. “You act like this is all my fault. You started this, Maverick.”
“I. Was. Ten. And you said some shit when we were kids that was cruel too.”
He wasn’t wrong. I’d called him chubby once. Not my finest moment. And in middle school, my go-to insult was to call him Big Beak because of his nose—a nose he’d grown into over the years and was actually quite well-proportioned to the symmetry of his face.
We both had apologies to make.
If we truly started apologizing, we might never stop.
“Fine. I’ll ‘get over it’ when you apologize and mean it.” I crossed my arms over my chest. Not an A cup anymore. I was a C cup and had great boobs. So there.
Maverick had never given me a sincere apology for that day. He’d made excuses, saying it was the other boys who’d started it. Saying it was just a joke and I’d freaked out.
Meredith and Monty had forced him into a sorry for teasing you .
To which my parents had made me say sorry for calling him chubby and saying he had a big nose.
Neither of us had meant those apologies. Because neither of us had let the insults go. Instead, we’d let them drive us apart.
“I’m not apologizing for something I said a million years ago,” he said.
“Then we’ll never get along. Congratulations.” I tossed up a hand. “You’ve deprived your mother of her dying wish.”
He scoffed. “This is such bullshit.”
“Hence the reason I didn’t want to come and showed up thirty-six minutes late.” I picked up the book and returned to my page.
The hero in this story would never have teased the heroine for her boobs. In fact, he was obsessed with her breasts, as he should be.
“Fine, I apologize. I’m sorry I called you an A cup.” Okay, that had actually sounded sincere. Maverick was rarely sincere.
I glanced up, romance novel forgotten, and met Maverick’s gaze. “Apology accepted?”
It came out as a question. What was the catch?
“Good,” he said. “Now it’s your turn.”
“I’m sorry for all the things I said to you in the last twelve years that wasn’t the epitome of nice. For all the times I hurt your feelings, I apologize.” It was sincere too.
“Thank you. But when I said it was your turn, I didn’t mean for apologies.”
“Oh. You didn’t?” Why not? Weren’t we trying to let bygones be bygones here? “Then what do you mean?”
“I want you to admit that you told Leah McAllister that I kissed Heather Olson.”
There it was. That was the catch.
Damn it. Well played, Houston. Well played .
I’d been denying that for years, and I wasn’t going to stop today. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t.” He scoffed. “Who else could it have been?”
I set my book on the table. “Anyone on the football team? Or any of the cheerleaders? Because you did kiss Heather Olson. While Leah McAllister was your girlfriend. Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here. You were the cheater.”
“I was going to break up with her.”
“Sure you were,” I deadpanned.
His eyes narrowed. “So you admit you told Leah.”
“That’s not what I said.” I tossed my hands in the air.
My gestures were always a bit too wild when Maverick was around. Like speaking—and yelling—wasn’t quite enough to combat the absolute absurdity that came out of his mouth.
Was it me who’d told Leah? Yes. Because I had seen him kiss Heather, and Leah had been one of my closest friends in high school. My loyalty had been to her, not her cheating boyfriend.
Leah had dumped him, rightfully so. And as a bonus, Maverick had never been able to prove it was me who’d spotted him making out with Heather under the bleachers. It drove him nuts suspecting it was me but never having proof.
“You were friends with Leah,” he said.
“I was friends with all the girls in our class. That doesn’t mean I gave enough of a damn about who you were stringing along to get involved.”
Other than the one incident with Leah and Heather, where Maverick was concerned, I’d usually remained neutral .
We hadn’t gone to Mission High School like most kids in the area. Instead, Maverick and I had attended the Oaks.
It was a private school in Mission with a heavy focus on both academics and sports. We’d both been on traveling club teams, me for volleyball, him for soccer. And for a small school, their football program had been stellar. There was more than one player on the Wildcats football team who’d attended the Oaks.
Our graduating class had been a total of ninety-three. Half of that had been girls. I’d learned early on that there weren’t enough people to escape girl drama, so I’d always done my best to stay neutral—Mom and Meredith’s advice.
One of the most polarizing topics in our graduating class had been Maverick. At one point or another, every single girl at the Oaks had harbored a crush on him. Well, except me.
When girls found out our parents were friends, and I was forced to spend my weekends in his company, there were always questions. Expectations. Is he dating anyone? Does he like me? Can you give me his number?
The first and last time I’d given a friend his number, Leah, had ended in disaster.
“Can we move on to a different topic?” I asked.
He studied me for a long moment, and I fought the urge to squirm. Maybe someday I’d tell him the truth about Leah and Heather. Or maybe I’d take that truth to the grave.
“Your dad offered me a job.” He stared at me like he wasn’t sure if I knew that already.
“I’m aware.” The edge to my voice was sharper than a steak knife.
“And you hate that, don’t you?”
“More than mushrooms.”
Maverick smirked .
Where the hell was my salad? I was searching the restaurant for our waiter when a man appeared at the edge of our table.
“Maverick Houston?”
“Yes.” Maverick stood, taking the man’s proffered hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m a big Wildcat football fan. Just wanted to say hello. Wish you luck on your season next year.”
“Thank you.” Maverick gave him a kind smile. “I appreciate that. I think we’ll have a hell of a team.”
“I agree. It’ll be sad to see you seniors go. Any plans to pursue a professional career?”
Maverick chuckled. “No. I’ll leave that dream to Rush. He’s the best there is. I’m excited to cheer him on when he makes it big.”
Rush Ramsey was the star quarterback and Maverick’s roommate. For most of my life, Maverick had been the star athlete. The guy who thrived in the limelight. It was actually kind of strange to see him so comfortable giving the glory to someone else.
Though I guess I hadn’t really spent much time with Maverick in public since high school. Other than the random crossing of paths on campus, I only saw him at family functions. And that was, well... different.
Maverick wasn’t a Wildcat football player when we were sitting at my parents’ dining room table. He wasn’t the most eligible Treasure State University bachelor when he was dressed in ratty sweats, watching a movie with his sick mother.
He was just Maverick.
The boy who used to help me build tents in the basement. The kid who learned how to tie his shoes before me and would help if my laces came undone. The ten-year-old who’d made me feel self-conscious about my growing chest. The teenager who’d made out with almost every girl at the Oaks.
This Maverick was almost . . . gracious. Humble.
My head started to hurt, like my brain was physically protesting that it needed to process this vision.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your date.” The man shook Maverick’s hand again, then he gave me a small nod before escorting his companion to the door.
“What?” Mav’s glower was back as he took his chair.
“Nothing.” I picked up my book and tried my best to read.
How did he feel about his sports career ending?
I know I’d had a lot of feelings going into my last season at Treasure State. There’d been times when I’d been so ready to be done with grueling practice and travel schedules. Then there’d been times when I’d cried myself to sleep because volleyball had been a part of my entire life.
Sure, there were rec leagues and fun tournaments for adults. But in my heart, I’d played my last real volleyball game.
After we’d lost in the first round of the NCAA tournament to Oregon, and I’d locked myself in a bathroom stall to cry for ten minutes.
Was Maverick anxious for his last season? I closed my book, about to ask, when I looked up to see his phone pressed against his ear.
“Hey, baby.”
Hey, baby ?
No. No, he did not. He was not calling another woman while he was supposed to be on a not-real date with me .
I ripped open my book so hard I heard the spine crack.
He was still a fartface. That was never going to change, was it?
Maverick had deserved to get dumped by Leah McAllister. And later by Heather Olson.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asked, his voice quiet.
Was that his bedroom voice? Did women actually fall for that low, gravelly purr? I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.
He laughed at something she said. It wasn’t his condescending chuckle or the booming laugh he reserved for playtime with Bodhi. This was sultry and dark, and damn it, I hated that I kind of liked it.
“Want to meet up later?” He paused. “Yeah, I could be there in twenty.”
Twenty? We hadn’t gotten our food yet.
He ended the call and tucked the phone in his jeans pocket. “Is this date over?”
“Most definitely.”
He stood, digging out his wallet. He tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table, then without a word, strolled to the door.
The moment it closed behind him, the waiter appeared with my salad and Maverick’s burger.
I ate them both and finished reading my book.
It wasn’t a good date.
But I’d had worse.