Chapter 27 #2
“Gee, I wonder who that could be?” he asks, walking out of my bathroom.
Reaching over in a long, elegant stretch, he grabs my phone and hands it to me.
I’ve got five texts, two from Joni.
Five hundred plus friend requests.
And a DM from Ralph Lauren’s account.
“What the fuck did you just do?”
Mav’s phone buzzes, something it only does for family, and he checks the screen.
Laughing, he shows me the text from Hopper.
Hopper: Why are you defiling my son?
I’m so glad he can laugh about that.
Another text comes in on my phone, also from Hopper. It’s a selfie of him covering Angela Lansbury’s eyes.
Before I can laugh or…I don’t know what…my phone buzzes again.
Another DM from a French-sounding company.
Mav looks over my shoulder. “Oof. Don’t work with them. They’re assholes.”
A new DM comes in, and his eyes light up. “Oh, you should totally go with her. New designer, totally got fucked over by one of the big houses, started her own brand, and now she’s really doing it.”
“I…”
“Seriously. Her menswear is—” He kisses his fingers.
“I…” I shake my head, reality setting in very, very quickly. “Maverick, I’m a detective. I have active cases, and…”
My words trail off as both of our phones begin to blow up.
Maverick grimaces. “Shit. I didn’t even think about that.”
“Can you take it down?”
“Right away.”
His thumbs fly across his phone screen, and seconds later, the post disappears.
Messages keep flying in.
“If you want, I can have Rami and Truett post a barbershop selfie to distract people.”
“Will that work?” I ask, chewing on a hangnail.
“People have the attention span of a goldfish, Booney,” he says, supremely confident. “Of course it’ll work.”
If anyone would know, he would.
Another text comes in from Joni. I hesitate, then open my messages.
Joni: Holy. Shit. How did I not know you were dating the Maverick?
Joni: How long have you two been seeing each other?
Joni: Also…hawt. Why are you on the force when you could be pulling in money hand over fist?
Maverick looks over my shoulder. “She’s got a point.”
I pull my phone away. “I cannot believe you just did that.”
“Doesn’t look like you got in trouble.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he’s right.
And suddenly, it occurs to me that I’m the one who’s been living in a bubble. Maverick was this annoying kid, then this annoyingly handsome young man, then the guy I couldn’t stop thinking about, and now he’s the naked man in my bed.
He’s more than that, actually. Much, much more.
Maverick’s phone is blowing up with more family notifications, his expression shuttering with each new message. He bites his bottom lip, looks around, looks at me, worry marking his beautiful features.
“I really fucked things up for you, didn’t I?”
He hasn’t even shown me the messages, but there’s real fear in his voice. I’m reminded, once again, that he’s had feelings for me for a very, very long time. And he’s far more vulnerable than he’d ever let on.
Before he can spin out, I put up my hands. “Hey, what’s this look? And what’s your family saying that’s got you so concerned?”
“Please don’t tell me I fucked this up before we even really got started,” he begs, looking for all the world like he’s about to cry. “Holmes says he’s worried you might lose your job.”
I join him in bed, lying back on my pillow, pulling him against me. Not unlike the image I painted.
“You didn’t fuck up. This is who you are, and I forgot that for half a minute.” I shrug. “Also? Joni is completely on board, and if she still thinks I have a job, then I probably still have a job.”
“Wait. You forgot who I am?” he asks, almost like it’s a good thing.
I place my palm over Maverick’s heart. “In here? Never. I just forgot the small, insignificant detail that you are, in fact, world famous.”
“Yeah,” he says with a dramatic eye roll, “famous for being famous.”
Oof. I don’t like this self-deprecation, even if it mirrors some of the less-than-flattering thoughts I’d once had about him.
“You’re also probably the most misunderstood human on the planet,” I assure him, skating my fingertips along his jawline.
The hope in Maverick’s eyes breaks my heart.
“You really think so?”
“How many of the people who saw your post know about the Brazilian jiu-jitsu? How many of them know the daily grind of living with an impossible language processing disorder? How many of them just think you’re hot?”
“None and all.”
He looks down as he says this, and I tap under his chin till he meets my gaze.
“Exactly. And I’m lucky enough to know you in here,” I say with another tap over his heart, “well enough that I forgot about all the rest of it.”
I hear how that sounds, and I’m quick to correct myself.
“Not that the rest of it isn’t important.
You take your fame and do amazing things with it, even more than I realized.
Even more than anyone’s realized.” I gesture my head exploding.
“I’m reeling because you got more eyes on that post in thirty seconds—at five o’clock in the morning—than I have in all my social media posts combined. ”
He gives my shoulder a love bite. “What social media? Your profile picture looks like an out-of-focus passport photo, and the only three posts I was able to find were pseudo-artistic angles of your massive cat.”
“Stalker.”
“Digital voyeur,” he tosses back, even as his deep brown eyes shine with worry. “Still, I’m sorry if I made things harder for you.”
I press a kiss to his lips, then take a beat, so he knows I’m taking his words seriously.
“You did not make things harder for me.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I hold up my hand. “We need to put our heads together and figure out how to handle the social media of it all, and we will. That’s not exactly a hardship.”
His expression shifts from one of disagreement to one of calculation.
“Bring it on,” I say, laughing. Happy. “What’s this look?”
“If it’s no hardship for you to adjust to my social media presence, and if I am perfectly happy, hidden away in your tiny little apartment…
” He shrugs, milking the moment. “Then maybe you can stop comparing our lifestyles and accept that I like you and everything about you, including where you live.”
Tricky.
“I can try,” I mutter, even as I carefully parse his words. “You really don’t hate my little apartment?”
“I love it. It’s so—” He looks around, smiling. “You.”
If it’s possible for me to see him, then maybe he can see me.
I run my fingers up and down his sternum, admiring his impressive pecs.
“And do you really think your friend, the fashion designer, would want me to walk in her show?”
Maverick scrunches his nose. “You should actually do print media for her.”
“Why?”
“Because you have a terrible walk.”
I look down at myself. “How do I have a terrible walk?”
“You walk like a cop. And you dress like one too,” he says, capturing my hand to run his nose up my palm.
“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, wondering if every place on my body is just as sensitive to his touch.
“Not only do you look like you shop at thrift stores, which—”
I scoff. “Not all of us have multi-million-dollar trust funds.”
“Let me finish,” he says, giving me that Maverick look of his.
I gesture for him to continue.
“Which would be completely fine if it didn’t look like you put your wardrobe together with your eyes closed.”
I’d take offense, but I do struggle to make things look interesting.
“Oh, and I suppose you could make me look better,” I say, keeping up the banter while throwing down a challenge I know he won’t be able to resist.
“Naked? Not a chance in hell.” He sends me a salacious wink. “Clothed? Please.”
“Fine. Maybe I’ll let you help me up my fashion game.”
“Fine. Maybe I’ll let you fuck me again before we go to sleep.”
We share goofy smiles, and I kiss him softly. “Been a while since I’ve stayed up all night.”
“Me too.”
“I wonder if I can convince you to hang with me today. Maybe stay with me tonight as well,” I whisper.
He winks. “My plan is coming together perfectly.”