Chapter 8 Amelia
amelia
. . .
Ishouldn’t be thinking about the bass, the lights, and Maverick’s large hands at my waist.
It was supposed to be just a night out because I was bored and he insisted. The way he leaned in, his mouth so close to mine, and his laugh when I told him to bite me…
God. I pulled away, but my body hasn’t, and I hate how much I want to feel it again.
To make matters worse, I still don’t know why the hell I’m here.
No, actually, I’m about to spiral.
I’m sitting on Maverick’s stupid, massive, overpriced, emotionally compensating memory foam couch in the middle of Tennessee in my underwear.
A white cotton tank sticks to me so tightly it feels like a second skin, with the thin fabric revealing everything, no bra, of course.
I let out a groan, rubbing my hands down my face. It’s past midnight, and Maverick has been upstairs for an unusually long time. I grab my phone off my lap and message my girls because who the fuck else can I talk to?
Amelia
Still don’t know why I’m here
Amelia
Hasn’t said a fucking word
Layla
Interesting
Catalina
This is Carter
Catalina
She’s busy
Catalina
Stop texting
Amelia
I KNOW this man did not just—
Layla
Carter, get out of the group chat before I send Catalina more glitter bombs
Amelia
Where’s Catalina
Amelia
I’m having a crisis, asshole
Catalina
She’s fine, let me enjoy my wife.
Layla
JESUS
Amelia
Do you guys ever not fuck
Catalina
No
Layla
Do you even hydrate
Catalina
Yes, off her skin
Amelia
I AM CALLING THE POLICE.
Amelia
I NEED HELP U FUCKS
I throw my phone onto the couch in frustration. I let my head fall back against the cushions and exhale quickly.
Heavy footsteps creak on the upstairs floor as the sound reverberates down the wooden staircase.
I finally look up and find Maverick already staring at me.
He’s shirtless, wearing grey sweatpants that hang low, his sharp V-lines on display.
God, he’s so fit, I see a fucking eight-pack chiseled into his abs. His blonde hair’s wet and messy, as he combs his fingers through it.
He walks into the living room, throws himself onto the couch, and out of all the places to sit, he’s right next to me. So close, our shoulders are touching.
“Comfortable?” he asks, stretching his tattooed arm across the back of the couch, brushing my shoulder with a featherlight touch, giving me goosebumps.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, throwing his arm off of me. “Hard to say when I still don’t know why the fuck I’m here.”
He blinks.
“I told you,” he says casually, “I wanted to talk.”
I stare at him. “Talk about what, Hayes? The weather? Your skincare routine?
“It’s… complicated.”
“I flew across the country. You’d better uncomplicate it real fast.”
His mouth opens, probably for another dumb joke.
I shift, just slightly, throwing my leg over the other, with my arms crossed.
His eyes drop to the thin cotton around my chest, on the obvious outline of the barbells beneath my tank. He clenches his jaw as his cocky expression falters.
“Are you—” he starts, his deep voice cracking.
“Gonna finish that sentence?” I say, too sweet. “Or just stare?”
He blinks fast as he stands quickly.
“I’m gonna…uh…check on the pets.”
“They’re fine. Rex is probably hexing your pantry.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, backing toward the hallway. “I’ll just…yeah. Do that.”
He stands up quickly, running his fingers through his hair, and bolts into the kitchen with an unusual amount of speed.
Just poof, disappeared.
There’s no way I’m letting him walk away without giving me answers.
I storm into the kitchen with murder in my eyes.
The overhead lights spill a muted glow across the matte black and white quartz, the polished flecks catching just enough to shimmer under the brightness.
I lean against the doorframe, and my gaze collides with his bare back; broad, sun-kissed skin stretched tight over muscle that looks carved from hours on the field and the weight room.
His shoulders flex as he moves, every ridge and line shifting in a way that shouldn’t be legal. Water droplets trail along his spine, rolling down to the waistband of his sweats, and the sight makes heat pulse low in my belly before I can stop it.
Maverick’s standing in the kitchen like a fucking weirdo, shirtless and oblivious, and it makes my pussy throb just from looking at him. I shut my eyes, scowling.
Amelia, baby, control your body bitch.
He hasn’t noticed that I’m here.
His massive hands are braced on the counter, palms spread wide against the white quartz. Muscles ripple across his shoulders, veins running down his forearms, every line of him tense and restless. He’s just… standing there.
I can’t look away. Every line of his back flexes like he’s built to ruin me, and my thighs press tighter together without permission.
God help me, I want to bite his shoulder blades. Who even thinks like that?
His voice stutters, breaking my focus on oogling.
I only catch a glimpse of what he’s saying, like he’s talking to himself, but the words sharpen as he keeps pacing.
“...nipple piercings… Jesus Christ…” He drags a hand over his face, muscles flexing down his back, broad shoulders bunching with every movement.
“She’s got pierced—what the fuck is wrong with her… ”
I bite down hard on my lip to stop myself from laughing because Maverick is standing in his own kitchen, dripping with sweat and having a full-blown meltdown over my tits.
I scoff, loud enough to slice through his mumbling. His head jerks up, and I swear I see his shoulders become even more taut.
He whips his head around, blue eyes wide as they trail back down to, yup, my pierced tits.
“You’re not wearing a bra,” he blurts, voice cracking halfway between awe and panic. His eyes drop and linger a second too long before he jerks them back up to my face, cheeks flushed.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and lets out a shaky laugh. “Jesus… that’s, uh, yeah, that’s really hot.”
I arch a brow, crossing my arms over my chest just to make him squirm more. “Wow,” I deadpan, tilting my head at him. “Congratulations, Hayes, you’ve officially discovered boobs. Want a medal?”
He scrubs a hand through his damp hair, gripping the back of his neck like he needs the anchor, eyes wild when they land on me again. “You’re just walking around here like that, and I’m supposed to think clearly?”
“Why am I here, Maverick?”
“I—what?”
I cross my arms tightly under my chest, knowing damn well it just makes the tank stretch tighter, but I don’t care. My glare locks on him, but his eyes still trail down my body like he can’t help himself.
Heat coils low in my stomach, and I shift my weight to one hip, trying to look unaffected. My fingers drum against my arm, restless, betraying the way my skin hums under his stare.
“I don’t even know why I’m in Tennessee,” I snap, my voice low and sharp, though it comes out softer, sultrier than I mean it to. “And you’re standing here acting like I’m supposed to play house with you.”
He backs up a little, just enough to bump the counter again. His hand shoots out to brace against it, chest still heaving as his damp hair falls into his eyes. He mutters a curse under his breath, jaw flexing hard.
“You asked me to come here.” I jab a finger toward him, eyes narrowed. “You said you needed to talk.”
My arms fold tighter under my chest as I take a slow step closer, heat simmering under my skin.
“So far, all you’ve done is give me a tour, let me stew on your couch in my underwear, and stare at my tits.
” My mouth twists into a dangerous smirk as I tilt my head, daring him to deny it. “So what is it?”
He finally exhales, shoulders slumping as his gaze drops to the floor, streaks of his blonde hair falling into his eyes. His big hands rub over his thighs, and for once, he almost looks… serious.
“I’m in some PR trouble,” he whispers, “I need a fake marriage to clean up my image.”
He glances up through his lashes, and in the next second that dumb, lopsided grin stretches across his face. He lifts his hands in a helpless little shrug, blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Surprise.” He wiggles his brows and points finger guns at me, clearly way too pleased with himself for dropping a bomb like that.
Fake marriage?
“You’re fucking joking,” I say finally.
He shakes his head.
“Nope.”
“You flew me to Tennessee, didn’t say a damn word for hours, and now you’re standing in front of me, shirtless in your kitchen, asking me to fake marry you?”
Maverick has the nerve to look sheepish.
“It sounds worse when you say it like that.”
“Because it is.”
He rubs the back of his neck, and his voice drops a little. “My sponsors are breathing down my neck. The headlines don’t help, the last few events were a mess, and Maggie’s already threatened to drop me if I don’t show them I’m... settled, stable, and not partying with models and punching people.”
“What’s in it for me?” I ask, squeezing my arms tighter around my chest.
His mouth opens, then closes again as if it hadn’t occurred to him that I might need something, too.
Good. I want him fucking stunned.
He swallows once. “I mean... what do you want?”
“Don’t do that,” I snap. “Don’t act like I’m doing you a favor out of the goodness of my heart. And don’t think I didn’t notice the pictures being taken of us.”
The silence stretches between us.
“You’re right,” he says finally, as he stares at the floor.
I sure as fuck am right.
“I’m not asking you to carry this for free,” he says, “I’m offering everything I can.”
“Be specific.”
He steps closer, until there’s no space left between.
The heat rolling off his body wraps around me, and I forget how to breathe. His calloused hand comes up slow, until his palm cups my jaw. His thumb skims the edge of my cheekbone as he tilts my chin up, forcing my gaze to lock with the blaze of his blue eyes.