Chapter 15
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY COMPETITION
Maverick
I’ve been avoiding Hackett Street for the most part, but today I’m on autopilot as I take my morning run. Instead of bypassing the street, I make a right onto it. I’m about to adjust course when I spot a black BMW parked in front of Clover’s place with an out-of-state license plate.
I slow to a stroll as I approach her driveway and notice a man standing in the middle of it. Another two steps and Clover appears. She’s dressed in a pair of black pants, a white blouse, and the mint-green cardigan she’s so fond of. Her hair still hangs loose around her shoulders.
In her signature move, she’s gripping both sides of her cardigan and lapping them over each other.
I wave uncertainly and stop at the end of the driveway, trying to figure out the dynamic and her posture. “Hey, Professor, how’s it going this morning? Everything okay?”
She startles and offers me a tight-lipped grin as I look between her and the man with his back to me. “Oh, hi, Maverick.” Her hand flutters up to her throat and then back down to clutch her cardigan. “Everything’s fine.”
I take a couple of steps toward her, in part because I’m not entirely sure I believe her and because I want to get a closer look at this guy. “I noticed your garbage isn’t out yet. You need a hand getting it to the curb?”
“It’s okay. I’m about to put it out.” Her smile is stiff, her expression remote. Indifferent.
“It’s no problem for me to do it, if you’re busy.” I take another step closer.
The man standing in front of her turns around.
I hold out a hand and try to keep my expression open and friendly. It’s the one I use when I’m at the gym, meeting a new group of women who’ve signed up for self-defense. Relaxed. Welcoming. “Hey, I’m Maverick, I live down the street.” I thumb over my shoulder.
“Nice to meet you, Maverick.” His smile mirrors mine, but his gaze is shrewd and assessing as he takes me in.
“Gabriel Lockwood.” His grip is firm, and he returns his attention to Clover.
“I’m so glad my wife has the kind of neighbors who look out for her.
Makes me feel a little bit better about the neighborhood she’s living in.
” He stresses the word wife, and I doubt I imagine it when his grip tightens around mine for a moment.
I try to keep myself from reacting, but I’m pretty sure my eyebrows pop. Well, shit. When she said an ex sent her the basket, I figured she meant an ex-boyfriend, not that she was married, and apparently still is.
“Ex-wife,” she counters. “And you really don’t need to worry about the neighborhood. It’s not as though I’m living next to a methadone clinic.” She’s definitely throwing out a hostile vibe.
“There’s a lot of student housing around here, though. You should be on the other side of the university.” He tucks a hand in his pocket and gives her a mischievous grin. “And I haven’t signed the divorce papers yet, so I still have a chance at winning you back.”
He winks at her, and I barely resist the urge to punch him in his smug face.
She returns his smile with a saccharine one of her own. “On a cold day in hell.”
Gabriel’s grin widens, and he turns back to me. “You can see why I’m trying my best to get her to give me another chance, can’t you? Life is boring without this kind of sass on a daily basis. You said you live down the street? Are you a student of my wife’s?”
I tuck a hand in the pocket of my hoodie, wishing I was dressed differently and hadn’t called her professor. I glance at Clover, who’s still holding the sides of her cardigan.
This guy is older, probably in his mid-to-late thirties.
He’s wearing name-brand everything, and not in a trying-too-hard kind of way, but in an I-make-a-lot-of-money way.
There’s an air about him, too, like he’s used to getting what he wants.
He’s charming and established. Not a twenty-one-year-old with most of a degree and a part-time job at a gym.
“Yeah. Until the end of the semester anyway. Then I’m just her neighbor.” I rock back on my heels.
His expression reflects amusement. “And which course is my wife teaching you?”
“Creative writing.”
“Ah, yes, my wife is an excellent storyteller, aren’t you, darling?”
That sounds like a shot if I ever heard one.
“Ex-wife, Gabriel,” Clover reminds him, lips pursed, arms crossed.
“Not until the papers are signed, my love. And we need to schedule a dinner to talk about that.” He gives me a conspiratorial smile. “Wish me luck getting her to agree to give me another chance.”
“Professor Sweet seems pretty adamant about the ex part, so I guess you’re gonna need all the luck you can get, huh?” He has to be the one sending her the baskets.
“Seems that way. It was nice to meet you—Maverick, was it?”
“That’s right.”
“Is that a nickname or your given name?”
“Given.”
“Interesting. Well, Maverick, I appreciate you helping out Clover, but now that I’m in town, that probably won’t be necessary.”
“Right. Okay.” I’ve got no less than a million burning questions, none of which I can ask. Like, since when did he move to town? “It was nice to meet you, Gabe. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” I turn to Clover. “See you on campus, Professor.”
“Of course. Thank you for popping by.”
“No problem. Anytime.”
I walk backwards a few steps before I turn and head down the street, but at the end of the block, I go right instead of heading for the park and circle back toward my house. I don’t mind a little friendly competition, but a husband who’s trying to win her back is a whole different level.
And it makes me realize exactly where I am when it comes to Clover.
This isn’t a game I’m playing.
I walk back through the front door of my house to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. This could be a good or a bad thing. Good, because it means I’m not responsible for making it; bad, because I have no idea who’s in the kitchen.
If it’s Kody and Lavender doing their morning dance—Lavender wearing a smirk and Kody blushing like a twelve-year-old with his first boner—I’m probably going to punch someone. And that someone would be Kody.
Which wouldn’t be fair, because it’s not his fault I’m in a mood and can’t deal with happy couples.
Not to mention that I’m over here pining away like an asshole for my professor who’s still married—to a guy who has a career and a life and isn’t still in university.
In a handful of months, I’ll be in a better position, but there’s a good chance I’ll also be in a different state.
Or possibly out of the country, depending on how ready they think I am.
Needless to say, my headspace isn’t good.
There’s no way to get back up to my bedroom without going through the kitchen, which seems to be a design flaw in this house.
So I’m relieved when I find my cousin BJ sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee.
He has one of Lavender’s mugs, and it reads You’re Awesome, Keep that Shit Up.
Except it’s a pretty, floral design, so you don’t register what it actually says until you’re close.
BJ glances up from the newspaper sitting in front of him and makes a circle motion around his face.
I stare at him a moment, waiting for him to say something in follow up. “Morning?” I offer when he doesn’t.
“That it is.” His eyes flick to the clock and back to me. “That was an exceptionally short run, and you’re not really sweating.”
“How do you know how long I’ve been gone?”
“I heard you when you left, less than half an hour ago.” He leans back in his chair, crossing one impossibly long leg over the other.
He’s a year younger than me, but his full-sleeve tattoo, man bun, and beard make him look a lot older.
“And now you’re back and looking all . . . angry. What’s the deal?”
“There is no deal.”
“If you say so.” He makes a hmm sound and sips his coffee.
I give him my back and go in search of my favorite coffee mug.
It’s not in the cupboard, though, which means it’s in the dishwasher.
I check that, too, but it hasn’t been run yet, so I go back to the cupboard and pick my second-favorite mug.
It used to be my mom’s, but I stole it. It reads Mrs. Waters, but the letters are made of penises.
She doesn’t know I have it, and I always keep it in the back of the cupboard, so they don’t find it when they come visit.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, add enough sugar to cut the bitterness and some cream to turn it tan, and set it on the table.
Then I go back and grab two bowls, the gallon of milk that’s half-empty, and three different boxes of cereal.
I don’t bother with the Lucky Charms since Lavender’s hands have been in every single freaking box.
She picks out all the fucking marshmallows.
It drives me up the damn wall, especially since there are several boxes of cereal marshmallows sitting on the shelf right next to them.
I slide a bowl in front of BJ and keep the slightly bigger one for myself.
Most of the time I make myself a real breakfast—eggs, bacon, whole grain toast, that kind of thing.
But not today. Still, I start with the healthier cereal option.
This morning I’m going with Frosted Mini-Wheats as course number one.
I dump half the box into my bowl and pour milk over it, letting it sit for a minute before I dig in.
Mini-Wheats are a particular favorite because they do such a good job of soaking up the milk.
“How are you handling things?” BJ asks conversationally, bypassing healthy options in lieu of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
“Handling what things?” I shovel Mini-Wheats into my mouth.
He points to the ceiling.
I shrug.
“So, not well, then.”
BJ doesn’t pour any milk on his cereal. Instead, he picks at it like it’s a bowl of chips.
“There’s nothing to handle. They’re together, like we all knew they would be eventually.”