Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Come Home To You
Cheyenne
Living with Maverick was easy. Astonishingly easy.
Especially considering that we couldn’t communicate.
Correction—talk. We communicated easily enough even if he refused to text and make things easier.
But we made it work. He was an expressive person despite his quiet nature.
His eyes told a lot. They were easy to read.
I’d feared it would be hard to live with him and learn about him, but if I’d learned anything from Maverick, it was that actions spoke louder than words.
Maverick was meticulous, a complete and total perfectionist. He thrived off order and routine and familiarity.
He was the type of person who could do the same thing every single day and be perfectly content.
I still couldn’t figure out how he didn’t get bored.
But I guess that’s why he had his hobbies.
If he wasn’t working horses, mending fences or moving cattle, he was doing something.
Working on the truck in his garage, fixing things in the barn, strumming on his old guitar on the back porch, fishing out by the pond, whittling.
If it needed the use of his hands he was doing it.
Including…pleasing me. Apparently, his love language was touch, and fuck if he wasn’t excellent at it.
We hadn’t slept together. Not yet, but I knew, just knew, he was going to wreck me when we did.
It was always the quiet ones who surprised you the most. And in my short time with Maverick, I’d learned he was full of surprises.
But his favorite hobby of all, it seemed, was to cook.
And my God, was he a damn good one. I’d been all across the U.S.
growing up. I’d eaten lots of amazing food, but sweet baby Jesus, the boy could cook.
If he didn’t already have a job, I’d urge him to go to culinary school or start up a restaurant or something.
I sat on the countertop of the center island in the kitchen, sneaking fingerfuls of homemade chocolate cake batter when he wasn’t looking, singing a George Strait song on the station that played through the speakers.
Another thing I’d learned—he wasn’t a fan of newer country music.
Anything mid 2000’s and later that I tried to play earned a scowl or a headshake.
He liked the songs I grew up on, the ones my daddy used to listen to.
He popped the cake pans into the oven, his back turned to me, his muscles bunching and rippling beneath his impeccably ironed black shirt with every movement. I snuck another lick of leftover cake batter just as he turned around.
A scowl formed on his brutally handsome face, his scarred eyebrow quirking up.
“Oh, come on!” I cried. “This is the best part!” I swiped another fingerful for emphasis and took my time licking it off. His gaze darkened, desire brewing like storm clouds in his eyes as he watched me. His lips quirked up into a wry grin even as he shook his head and pointed at the bowl.
No more.
“Um, speak for yourself,” I scoffed. “I’ll eat all the cake batter I want, thank you very much. It’s delicious, by the way.”
Maverick’s lips pulled up further, a full-fledged smile lighting up his face. Butterflies danced against my ribcage at the sight. Goddamn, he was gorgeous.
“You know, if I didn’t have physical proof that you were real, I’d think you were fictional.”
His face scrunched up, a question burning in his gaze.
“It’s true. You clean, you cook, you bake! You’re good with animals, with kids. You’re respectful, and hot as fuck. Prince Charming ain’t got nothin’ on you.”
He opened his mouth as if he’d respond, and my heart leapt.
Yes! Please, please talk.
I bit back the disappointment creeping into my heart as he offered me a bashful smile instead. He shook his head and pressed a kiss to my lips, a silent distraction in hopes of changing the subject, no doubt.
He did that a lot. Poor guy didn’t know how to take a compliment. But I knew how to take a hint.
“Chocolate cake’s always been my favorite. I don’t remember a whole lot about my mama, but I remember on my fourth birthday she made this amazin’ chocolate cake and homemade frosting.”
He moved to the countertop beside me and pulled out a cutting board, knife, and an onion. So, we’ve moved on from dessert to dinner for the moment. He glanced up at me, interest simmering in his eyes. I didn’t talk about my mama. Ever. And yet, here I was bringing her up on my own.
I sighed, a torrent of conflicting emotions welling to life within me like a tidal wave pulling back from the shore. Building. Building. Building. Emotions I hadn’t let myself feel in years—sadness, anger, confusion. Tears pricked in my eyes, but I blinked them away. No. I wouldn’t cry for her.
Not ever again.
I blew out a breath, one of my curls blowing up from the air. “I’m still convinced that she made it so good only so I’d be too distracted stuffing my face full of it that I wouldn’t notice her leavin’.”
Maverick stilled for a long moment before glancing at me, his brows knit together.
I nodded, dropping my gaze to my hands as I fidgeted with them. “Yep. She was a…a real peach, that woman.”
He turned to me fully, his face a mask of concern. Tell me? I could practically see the words in his eyes.
The stubborn part of me wanted to rebel, to drop it, anything to not talk about the woman who’d birthed me and left me, but I’d been the one to bring it up in the first place. I couldn’t just go and say that then get all defensive. No matter how much it hurt talking about her.
Maybe I needed to, though. I sure as hell wasn’t gonna talk to Daddy about her.
“Like I said, I don’t remember her much.
She left on my fourth birthday. What kind of horrible fuckin’ person does that?
” I huffed a bitter laugh. “My mama, that’s who.
She uh…” I bit my lip. I didn’t even know what to say about her.
It’d been so long since I’d seen her. “She never called or sought me out. Never even sent a letter explainin’ why she left.
And Daddy never liked to talk about her.
But I do know she was a…well, she was a whore. ”
Maverick rocked back, his brows rising so high they disappeared beneath his cowboy hat.
“I’m serious,” I replied. “She was a hooker. Daddy swears he met her off the clock, but who the hell knows. He always told me growin’ up that I looked like her…
he was right.” I blew out a loud breath, my head falling back as I stared unseeingly up at the ceiling.
“I looked her up on Facebook a while back. Took me ten seconds and she just…popped right up. That’s how easy it was to find her.
She wasn’t even hidin’ from me…she just didn’t care.
In all that time she could have reached out, found me just as easily… but she. Just. Didn’t. Care.”
I glanced over at Maverick. He watched me intently, sadness and understanding etched plainly on his face. He reached a hand over and gripped my thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
I let out a sad laugh, shaking my head back and forth.
“Why did I even bring her up again?” I looked over at the oven.
“Oh yeah, the cake.” I nodded, meeting his gaze once more.
“For a long time, I refused to eat chocolate cake. It made me think of her. Out of sight out of mind, right? But then on my eighteenth birthday I decided…fuck it. I wasn’t gonna let her dictate what I would and wouldn’t eat.
She wasn’t even in my life anymore. I wouldn’t give her that control.
So, I’ve been on the hunt ever since to find a chocolate cake better than the one she made me. ”
I scraped my finger along the bowl again before licking it up. “I haven’t tasted your frosting yet, but if it’s even half as good as this batter, I think I’ve found the one that’ll knock her out of the number one spot.”
A small smile drew on Maverick lips, the harsh lines on his face and the worried expression in his gaze softening.
He leaned over and kissed me, slow, steady, soft, but no less intense.
His affection was usually like that, filled with a smooth surety and quiet confidence.
I pulled him to me, snaking my arms up over the planes of his hard chest and around his neck as I caged him to me with my legs.
A little hum of approval rumbled in his chest. It was the only sound he’d made at this point, but dear Lord it did something to me every time he did.
I deepened the kiss, reveling in the warmth and taste of him—hints of tobacco mixed with the sweetness of the cake batter.
He’d been smoking earlier. He smelled of it too, though I didn’t mind one bit.
Flicking his tongue against mine, one of his hands slid up my torso before his fingers brushed against the bottom of my breast.
A rush of heat went through me, desire pooling low in my belly. My head fell back, a moan escaping me. Fuck dinner. I wanted him.
And just like that, the moment was over. He pulled away, a sadistic smirk drawing on his mouth.
“Maverick!” I growled, glaring daggers at him from my perch.
That smirk bloomed wider. He pointed to the food. Funny how now it was so important to cook dinner, but a moment ago he’d been teasing me with his touch and kisses. “Fuck the food. You cannot just start something like that with no intent on finishing it.”
He shrugged, picking up the knife and pointing it toward the front door. The others.
Oh, yeah.
Family dinners were something I didn’t know I’d ever get used to.
Every day I’d been here, we’d had some sort of communal dinner.
Sunday was funday dinner and cornhole. Monday was at the Mooneys.
Then we had Taco Tuesday at Cash’s for margaritas and tacos—Cash provided the alcohol, Maverick did everything else.
Then, last night had been spaghetti at Charlie and Ryder’s.
Tonight, Cash had dubbed Thirsty Thursdays, and they’d be over in less than an hour for drinks and board games.