Chapter 11 #2
Bev laughed as I leaned down and stretched out my hand, helping her to stand.
Before I could take a step back and apologize again for my behavior, she put her hands on my shoulders and pulled me in for a tight hug.
For a second, I froze, my arms hanging by my sides and my fists clenched.
But as Bev pulled me tighter, the numbness loosened in my chest, and I grasped onto her like she was my lifeline.
Perhaps, in that moment, she was.
A shadow loomed over the kitchen as the sliding glass door leading to the backyard opened with a click. I stiffened in her arms, and she squeezed me once more before leaning to the side and turning to look over her shoulder.
“Well, Maverick. What’s the verdict?” she said, reaching around to pick up my Bloody Mary and pushing it into my hands.
I can’t catch a flipping break.
I pursed my lips and shut my eyes, desperately trying to regulate my breathing as Port and Tito ran between Maverick and Bev, trying to determine who would give them the most attention.
Doesn’t this guy have a house of his own?
“You were right, Mom.”
“Of course. That goes without saying,” Bev said, still resting her hand on my shoulder.
I met her eyes, and she searched my face, hopefully deciding that my current emotional breakdown could be swept under the rug and never mentioned again.
If only I could be that lucky.
Still, after tilting her head, she nodded, and I returned the gesture, pressing one hand to my chest to regulate my breaths.
“Anyway,” Maverick said as my thoughts immediately went to when he barged into my bathroom. “The bottom two porch steps need to be replaced. Probably would be a good idea to do the handrails while I’m at it.”
“While you’re at it? There’s a reason I pay an astronomical amount in HOA fees each month. They’ll handle it.”
“Only if you want them to do a half-assed job and then have Mark and me replace them in six months. Plus, if we can’t find the same shade of wood, everything will need a fresh coat of paint.”
She groaned and rubbed her eyes, then sat at the dining room table and pulled her drink closer. I kept my eyes on the puppies, scooping Tito into my arms and wishing I could disappear with no one noticing.
“So, Summer, as I’m sure you’ve figured out, my boys are over all the time because of some misplaced guilt they feel about my wellbeing.”
I chuckled as Maverick rubbed the back of his neck, shifting from foot to foot.
“Stop it, Mom. You know that’s not true.”
Tito wriggled until I set him down, then ran into the kitchen, closely followed by Port. I took a step back as Bev stood and moved closer to Maverick, poking one manicured finger into his chest.
“Nope. I don’t think I will. The HOA can fix the steps. Just because I mentioned one felt loose yesterday didn’t mean I expected you to show up first thing on a Saturday morning to fix it. The girls will be here soon, and I’m sure you don’t want to be the subject of their scrutiny.”
“You can’t scare me away that easily. I refuse to allow what happened to the old house to happen to this one. Plus, Mark has a sick baby so I’m here to puppy sit.”
“Allow? You better sit your ass down and have a biscuit before you say something you’ll regret. Not to mention you haven’t even said hi to Summer.”
I did my best to suppress a smile, but my shoulders shook as Bev ripped into him. I understood both sides—Bev wanting to keep her independence, and Maverick wanting to ensure she never went without.
“Right. Hi, Summer. Why are you here?”
“Gah,” Bev cried, throwing her hands in the air and stomping into the kitchen. Plates clattered and the fridge opened as Maverick winced and we listened to her mutter about manners and ungrateful children.
Great job, douche, I thought, rolling my eyes.
Awkward silence filled the dining room, broken by the occasional curse word from Bev and Maverick’s sighs.
As the silence dragged on, I took a moment to watch him.
His shoulders bunched with tension and the crease deepened between his brows.
For a fleeting moment, I imagined running my fingers through his dark hair and massaging his temples.
“Are you wearing slippers?”
My head jerked to his, and I nodded, feeling my cheeks heat. “Yeah. I was a little scatterbrained this morning.”
“Another cold shower could help. Sharpens the mind, you know? Awakens the senses.” His lips twitched like he was suppressing a smirk, and I returned the gesture before bumping his shoulder with mine.
“The only sense that needs awakening is my sense of urgency to escape this mortifying situation.”
Port and Tito whined for attention, and I slid ungracefully back to the floor as they mauled me with rough tongues and puppy slobber.
“Why’s that?” he asked, pushing the dining room chair back underneath the table and sitting down beside me. His knee—or maybe back—cracked with the movement, and he groaned, rubbing his kneecap.
“Who knows. Old injury?” I gestured to his left knee, watching his thighs bunch as he stretched his legs out. The way those muscles moved beneath the denim of his jeans had me shivering, wondering if he could pick me up and toss me around the room like a rag doll.
Down, girl.
Leave it to me to form some sort of weird, unhealthy obsession with a guy who answers in grunts and insults. My libido and I needed to have a serious discussion about what was acceptable and what was not, especially with the way Bev kept glancing at us from the kitchen.
“More like old age,” he answered, plucking Tito from my lap and scratching behind his ears. “I’m too old to be sitting on the floor like a freaking child throwing a tantrum.”
“Wow. Great analogy, Cinnamon Roll. Always a pleasure talking to you.”
“Don’t call me that,” he growled, but the bite normally present in his words wasn’t there. Not that things were warm and fuzzy between us, but the undercurrent of anger had dissipated.
Perhaps a delayed benefit of seeing me practically naked.
“Then you’ll have to stop being so sweet.”
His head jerked as he turned to face me, then shook his head as I batted my eyelashes. His mouth opened—likely to make another passive-aggressive comment—but Bev cut him off, knocking her sandal against his shin.
“Here we go,” she said, holding a large platter of freshly made biscuits. “Get up and come sit at the table, you two. Let’s chat.”
“Oh, no. I don’t think so, Mom,” Maverick said, holding his hands up. “I will not be bribed with food.” He playfully bumped my shoulder. “And you’d do well to stay away from those biscuits, Summer.”
I fought to keep myself still, because the irrational part of my mind wanted nothing more than to rest my body against him. I met Maverick’s eyes, noticing how they sparkled in the bright light, then bit the inside of my cheek—hard.
The momentary pain grounded me enough to drag my thoughts from the gutter and back to the drama that was my life.
“Why? They look delicious,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. My stomach chose that moment to make a very unsexy noise, reminding me I’d been depending on cold coffee and crackers for too many meals.
“Those are highly powerful and shockingly efficient Emotional Manipulation Biscuits that contain some form of truth serum or hallucinogenic element. With every bite you take, more emotional nonsense will spew out until you’ve confessed your deepest secrets.”
Bev raised one eyebrow and held back a grin as she centered the plate on the table, then added several dishes with butter and jelly. The smell had my mouth watering, and I pulled my legs to my chest, ready to stand and dig in. Emotional manipulation or not, this woman could cook.
“How charming, Son. Don’t say things like that. You’ll scare Summer off. There are enough twatwaffles in the world already. Let’s do without your snarky attitude. Plus, no one makes better biscuits than me. With or without the truth serum.”
“Really, Mom? Twatwaffle?” Maverick laughed, and this low, gruff sound came from deep within his stomach. The noise was like someone attempting to growl with a smile on their face, and I laughed at the mental image of Maverick growling with an ear-to-ear grin stretched across his handsome features.
“Yes. Twatwaffle. Unless you’d prefer twatapottamus.
” Bev motioned for us both to stand up, and he stood first, then bent down, offering me a hand.
His large, warm palm engulfed mine as I stared at his long fingers and the dark smattering of hair across his knuckles.
I felt his hard calluses under my fingertips as I grasped on, noticing several of his fingers had small silver scars, like he’d spent a lifetime working with his hands.
“Twatapottamus. That’s a good one, Bev. And an apt name for my ex, I think.”
“Sure seems to be a lot of animosity between you two. What’s that about?” Maverick asked as my eyes darted to his and he pushed the biscuits toward me.
I hummed, grabbing the top one and slathering it with honey butter. Maverick reluctantly grabbed one as well, breaking it up into small pieces and pushing them around his plate.
“Nothing worth talking about except poor life decisions, I guess.”
“We’ve all made a few of those,” Bev said, slicing her biscuit in half. One side she covered with strawberry jelly and the other with orange marmalade. The combination looked delicious.
“Some of us have made more than others,” Maverick added, still not eating anything.
I scoffed and took a bite. “I promised myself I’d never settle, but the prospect of being single and thirty terrified me. So, I convinced myself how perfect the guy I was dating was. It took years for me to see the writing on that wall. That and him knocking up his secretary.”
“Jesus. Twatapottamus is too nice of a word for him,” Maverick said, pushing his uneaten biscuit away.
“There’s that sweetness you’re known for,” I joked, focusing on my plate.
“I was never meant for marriage, but I did it anyway. Stupid mistake cost me so much.”
If I hadn’t been listening, I would have missed his quiet words. There was much more to the story—that much was clear—but Maverick seemed about as likely to open up as I would be to do a Mexican Hat Dance on Bev’s table.
“Dammit. Stupid manipulation biscuits.” Maverick groaned and crossed his arms, making his biceps strain against his polo.
“Your marriage was not a mistake.” Bev’s tone was sharp as she pointed a butter knife at him, leaving no room for argument.
Maverick simply shrugged and continued to demolish his biscuit. “Well, it wasn’t a fairy-tale ending, either.”
The need to say something overwhelmed me. To show this angry man some morsel of comfort while he relived what had to be painful memories.
“I don’t know what to say to that, but if my divorce taught me anything, it was that you can’t spend all your time regretting your choices. The only thing it will accomplish is making you forget to live.” I chewed on my lip, waiting for someone else to break the pause in conversation.
“Well said, Summer. To no regrets.” Bev lifted her glass, and I did the same, clinking them together and taking a sip. Maverick leaned forward to grab a coffee cup and raised it slightly before drinking.
“Now, back to more pleasant topics. I need a new phrase for my rage knitting class. How do we feel about a tea towel that says, ‘Don’t make me poison you?’”
“Really, Mom? Is it too much to just do ones with lemons or flowers or some simple shit?”
“I happen to think it’s a great saying, Cinnamon Roll. That’s why, in a world full of twatwaffles, I strive to be French toast.”
Bev cracked first, slapping the table and laughing before I joined in, my shoulders shaking as I giggled. Chancing a glance at Maverick, I saw he wasn’t laughing, but his grin was big enough to show straight, white teeth.
“Oh, no. You are not French toast,” he said, standing and shoving his hands in his pockets after Bev and I calmed down.
He rocked back on his heels and waited for me to look at him. When I did, he smiled. Not a half-assed grin or a smirk, but a full-wattage, panty-melting smile. I gulped, my mouth going dry and my pulse racing.
“And why is that?” I asked, wiping my damp palm on my pants. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear his answer. The confusing swirl of thoughts I had about this man did not need to be any more complicated than they already were, but some greater power kept me from breaking eye contact.
“Because you, Summer, are a Belgian waffle. One with fresh strawberries and homemade whipped cream, topped with powdered sugar and drizzled with syrup. You’re a breakfast to be savored and enjoyed.”
I sat at the dining room table in stunned silence, watching the sunlight reflect off the dust in the air. What could I say to that? Was it one of the nicest compliments I’d ever received? Yes. Did it confuse and scare the hell out of me? Also, yes.
I needed to speak—to say anything—to ease the tension I felt creeping between my shoulder blades.
“So, diabetes? I’m diabetes?”
Bev pursed her lips and snorted as the oven timer beeped. The noise startled me, and I pushed my chair out, wanting to help, but stopped when she shook her head and winked before disappearing back into the kitchen.
“Fuck, woman. Can’t you take a compliment?”
“Apparently not,” I said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Then that’s my cue.” He gave me a half-hearted wave before bending down to scoop up the puppies. He and Bev spoke whispered words, but I couldn’t make them out.
Later, when I replayed this conversation in my head, I’d come up with twenty clever remarks I should have said, but for now, I stayed seated, silent, and regretting my words.
His footsteps echoed on the floor as I blinked several times and bowed my head. “Hey, Maverick?”
I couldn’t leave things like this.
“Yeah?” He turned in the front hall, tilting his head and clenching his fists, waiting.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I listened as the screen door opened then closed, glad I spoke, but knowing it wasn’t the right thing to say.