Defensive Hearts (Ruby Ridge #2)

Prologue

Maverick

The bass is thumping so hard it rattles my damn spine. VYCE is packed wall to wall with drunk bodies, bad decisions, and I’m right in the middle of it; laughing too loud, shirt halfway unbuttoned, and a woman I don’t even know hanging off my arm like I’m her boyfriend for the night.

She keeps calling me “QB Daddy,” which should be a red flag, but I’m a little too far gone to care. The strobe lights are catching every movement, and the paparazzi outside are eating it up like they’ve been starving.

Camera flashes cut through the tinted windows of the VIP section, every shot probably destined for some shitty tabloid with a headline that reads NFL’s Favorite Trainwreck Parties with Mystery Blonde.

I tip my head back and knock back a shot of something blue. No fucking clue what it is, but it burns like regret and goes down like trouble.

My phone starts buzzing in my pocket, the vibration sharp against my hip. I pull it out, still laughing, until I see the name on the screen.

Maggie.

I groan like I’ve just been told I’m getting benched for the season.

“Shit,” I mutter, stumbling toward the nearest hallway where the music isn’t drowning out my thoughts.

The blonde girl clings to me, kissing my neck like she thinks she’s about to end up on my holiday card. I shoo her off with a half-hearted, “Hold on, babe,” and answer the call.

“What?” I grumble. “I’m busy.”

Maggie’s voice slices through the speaker. “Busy doing what? Making a goddamn ass of yourself? Your image is fucking tanking, Hayes. We spent millions of dollars polishing it, and you’re out here playing wannabe Hugh Hefner at clubs with bottle girls in your lap.”

I scrub a hand down my face, suddenly aware that my pants are unbuttoned and I’ve got glitter on my chest. “It’s not that bad,” I mumble, “I have family values. I have brothers.”

“Family values,” she snaps, “means you having a family, dipshit. Not just a couple of shirtless hayseed siblings and a pet goat or whatever the fuck lives on your brother’s ranch.”

I wince, leaning against the wall as the blonde girl continues trying to grind on me. “Mags, I swear, I know how to make a family. Like—”

“If you don’t clean up your image, you’ll be signing autographs at a car wash in two months,” she barks. “Do you hear me? I don’t care if it’s a fake wife, or a damn imaginary friend who bakes cookies for the PTA. But clean up your fucking act or I’m done cleaning up after your mess.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at my phone.

What the fuck?

The blonde tries to tug me back toward the VIP table, but I shake her off.

“Yeah, no. I gotta go.”

She pouts. “Seriously?”

“Go find another quarterback, sweetheart.”

She scoffs and walks back into the club.

I sneak out the side exit and slip into the driver’s seat of my truck, slamming the door shut. I don’t turn the engine on as I just sit there, blinking at the blur of neon and watching drunk girls stumble in and out of the venue.

My chest tightens with a familiar ache that I usually drown with my humor and partying.

How the fuck am I going to fake having a wife? I could call the one woman who hates my guts and looks like she could kill me with her eyes and a tattoo needle. The only woman who makes my heart do that stupid thing it’s not supposed to do when she walks into a room.

I rub the heel of my hand into my eyes, my throat tightens as everything hits me all at once—Maggie’s threats, the cameras, the flashing headlines, the ghost of who I thought I was supposed to be.

Before I let myself delve into the dark parts of my mind, I pull out my phone again and scroll to the one number I call when it’s too much.

Reed.

It rings twice before he answers.

“Mav,” he answers, sleep woven into his voice.

I exhale hard, dragging a shaky hand down my face. “I don’t know when I became such a fuckup, man.”

Silence, only Reed’s steady breathing on the line, listening as he always does.

I rest my head against the steering wheel. “I know Mama’s been gone for over ten years, but... fuck, Reed. I need her. I need her so bad right now, and she’s just... not here.”

It’s quiet for a beat, then, softly, Reed says,

“Me too.”

I sniff, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “I thought I had it all figured out. Football, fame, whatever, but I don’t know who I am anymore. Everything feels fucking fake, like I’m pretending to be this version of me I never asked for.”

“You’re not pretending,” Reed says, “You’re just lost right now. But you’re still you.”

I close my eyes, trying to breathe past the lump in my throat. “I just... I need someone to believe in me.”

“I do.”

I swallow hard, blinking fast. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he says, “and you know who else would’ve? Mama.”

That does it.

A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. I wipe it away with the back of my hand, laughing bitterly.

“Jesus, I’m crying in a fucking parking lot.”

“You always were the sensitive one.”

“Fuck off.”

Reed chuckles softly. “Let me know when you get home.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Yeah, okay, thanks, bro.”

“Always.”

The call ends, and I sit there for a second, staring at the steering wheel with blurry eyes and a gut full of ache.

And then, just like that, her name cuts through the fog, and an idea pops into my head—a dumb one.

Amelia Hamilton.

She’s grumpy, inked, and way too smart to fall for my bullshit; she’s fucking perfect.

Which makes this the worst idea I’ve ever had.

I can’t stop thinking about her. The way she rolled her eyes at me like I was the dumbest thing she’d ever seen. The way she glared at me at my brother’s bar, like I wasn’t the infamous Maverick Hayes. I felt like I was finally fucking breathing when she looked at me.

I don’t need a PR stunt.

I need her.

Fake wife, real feelings.

What could possibly go wrong?