Chapter 9 Maverick
maverick
. . .
A week later
Am I crazy for already securing a studio for Amelia? The answer is no, I’m not crazy, I’m committed.
My eyes focus back into reality, shit, I zoned out. This might be the most serious meeting of my career, and I’m wearing joggers and a backwards hat.
Amelia’s perched next to me on the edge of my leather couch with her legs crossed, hair in a messy ponytail, a silver ring glinting in her nose. She’s wearing her sexy little tights, an oversized grunge Ghostface tee, and knee-high boots. She could stomp on my neck right now, and I’d thank her.
Jesus Maverick.
Maggie, my PR agent and long-time personal tyrant, clicks her pen and flips the next page in the stack of documents.
“This,” she says briskly, tapping the contract with the end of her pen, “is the official agreement. It outlines the timeline of the fake marriage, key public appearances, joint sponsorship deals, and expectations from both parties.” She flips a page, eyes cutting up at me with a pointed look.
“You’ll also find a detailed behavioral clause, which, let’s be honest, is mostly aimed at you, Hayes. ”
I nod slowly. “Love that for me.”
Amelia doesn’t even glance my way.
She’s flipping through the NDA, utterly unfazed by the fact that this entire thing hinges on both of us pretending to be hopelessly in love.
Joke’s on her.
I’m already there.
Maggie clears her throat. “Now, you’ll both sign the NDAs first. When you’re seen in public, you’ll act like the perfect couple—utterly and hopelessly in love.”
I lean forward to grab a pen, as Amelia slides the papers toward herself, her rings clinking against the polished table, her expression hardens into something unreadable.
“Any stipulations you want added?” Maggie asks without looking up. “Any personal clauses?”
Amelia pauses.
“I choose my own clothes, no coordinated outfits.”
I cough, half-choking on the air in my lungs.
Maggie doesn’t even blink. “Noted.”
“And,” Amelia adds, voice like honey laced with threat, “if he fucks this up and embarrasses me, I will go on record about it. NDA or not.”
Now Maggie looks up. “You planning to embarrass her, Hayes?”
“No.”
Amelia finally turns to look at me, her green eyes hard to read.
God help me, I grin.
She glares.
Maggie sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “If you two are done with the sexual eye contact, we can proceed.”
Amelia signs her name with a graceful flourish, her long fingers steady, unbothered. I follow suit with a scribble, and then we swap, signing each other’s copies.
Maggie slides over the next set of documents as she straightens her blazer, flipping the page over with a snap of her wrist. “This is your public relationship contract.” She taps the header with the pen, sharp enough to leave a dent in the paper.
“It states the entirety of the NFL season, which is four months. You will attend required events together, maintain a consistent social presence, and participate in all photo ops.” Her eyes lift briefly, cutting me a look over the rim of her glasses before dropping back to the page.
“You will not date other people, you will not disappear without notifying me, and you will not hook up with your exes, trash each other online, or get arrested.” She pauses to underline the last point, the pen squeaking against the paper like a warning siren.
“That last one feels personal,” I mutter.
“It is personal.”
I chuckle.
Amelia doesn’t.
She signs the last page, calm as ever, like this doesn’t change everything.
Like this isn’t the moment I realize I’ve officially handed my heart to a woman who might break it without blinking.
Maggie gathers the papers, tapping them into a neat pile. “Congratulations. You’re now legally fake married.”
Amelia gets up from the couch, already heading toward the stairs.
“Amelia, wait,” Maggie calls after her.
She turns her neck quickly, facing Maggie as she crosses her arms over her chest, her glare daring Maggie to keep going.
Maggie pats the cushion beside her, a silent summons. “Come sit.”
Amelia stalks back and sinks onto the couch. Maggie clasps her hands together, shoulders dipping as she exhales.
“The paperwork’s done,” Maggie says at last, eyes steady.
“But the wedding has to happen fast. The press needs to catch wind, see photos, spin the story the way we want.” She draws in another breath.
“And by fast, I mean a day or two. Small chapel in town, just the two of you. Let them believe you wanted something sweet, private, intimate.”
Amelia stiffens beside me.
My hand quickly moves to cover my mouth, trying to smother the grin breaking free, but it’s useless. I shift in my chair, elbows braced on my knees, pretending I’m studying the papers when really I’m watching her.
Amelia looks at Maggie and nods in agreement as she walks toward the stairs, again.
“Dollface, want your wedding present now?” I call after her.
She’s already walking away, hips swaying, completely ignoring me on purpose. My grin widens as I lean back against the chair, spreading my legs wide in a shameless invitation. My hand drops lazily to my thigh as my fingers drum against my joggers, but my eyes stay locked on her.
“Bet you’d love it,” I add with a wink, shifting just enough to make the insinuation crystal clear.
Her shoulders stiffen for a beat before she flips me off without looking back, and I can’t help the laugh that rumbles out of me.
Maggie finally leaves, and I do what any reasonable man does.
I text my brothers.
Maverick
HELP
Reed
What
Carter
I don’t have time for your bullshit today.
Maverick
Amelia is making me spiral, how can a woman be so goddamn gorgeous
Reed
No comment
Carter
K.
Maverick
Chill daddy Hayes
I’m still grinning at my phone as I walk up the stairs and push the door open to my room, expecting it to be empty.
It is not.
It is, in fact, very much not.
Amelia is in the middle of putting on a pair of jet black leggings, one leg already in. Her shirt is off, leaving her in a black lace bra, her bare back arched as she adjusts the leggings, revealing every inch of skin covered in ink.
Her left arm was shrouded in shadow, completely black from her shoulder to wrist, a bold, unapologetic sweep of ink that made her seem lethal and untouchable.
My eyes traced across her back, where her other arm told a different story. A mixture of detail, florals, and monarch butterflies intertwined, inked with such precision. The petals curved along her shoulder blade, trailing softly and dangerously down to her wrist.
One side darkness, the other a garden.
Fuck.
My gaze trailed back up to the curvature of her back, snagging on the lines of ink carved into her skin. A black snake slithered down her spine, the body shaded in black against the pale tone. Stars flickered along its length, tiny bursts of silver light that made it look alive.
Let me just jump off a cliff.
Her hips shift, slowly, giving me a peek of the tattoos hidden beneath her waistband. Her shoulder blades flex, and for one glorious, horrifying second, she slightly turns, giving me a glimpse of the pierced rods glinting beneath the lace.
She lets out a loud scream as she meets my gaze.
“JESUS CHRIST, MAVERICK, GET OUT!”
I immediately slap my hand over my eyes, but like a bozo, I don’t stop talking, moving, or existing in the same oxygen zone as her.
“Shit, sorry, fuck, I didn’t realize you were in here!”
“Why wouldn’t you knock?!”
“I live here!”
“I’M LITERALLY HALF NAKED.”
“I’M NOT LOOKING!” I scream, staggering back, my lower back colliding with my dresser hard enough to rattle the lamp.
I’m absolutely looking, or at least, my dick is.
Even with my eyes squeezed shut, my body is very much aware that Amelia, a woman who’s eight years younger than me, is practically naked within five feet of me.
And the kicker?
She sounds so hot when she yells at me.
“Are you still in here?” she hisses.
“I can’t see!” I say, my hand still over my eyes, while my dick kicks against my joggers.
Shit, she better not look down, because I know for a fact you can see the outline.
Help.
“You have functioning ears, don’t you?”
“Too well,” I muster under my breath. “For what it’s worth, your tattoos are… artistically devastating.”
“Get. Out.”
I start backing toward the door, hands still covering my eyes, my dick still not getting the fucking memo as it throbs against my joggers.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat as I bump into the archway. “I didn’t mean to—well, I did mean to come in here, but not while you were—undressing—Jesus Christ, I’m going.”
I glance sideways at Amelia for maybe the fifth time in five minutes, hoping she’ll say something.
Anything.
Call me an idiot, or ask why I walked in on her while she was changing, and then kept talking.
But nooooo, she’s stiff.
She’s slouched in the passenger seat, with her tattooed arms crossed over her chest, legs tucked up, aviators on even though the sun dipped half an hour ago.
A distressed T-shirt—one that says ‘immediately no’—hangs off one shoulder, with a loose collar to show a glimpse of ink and skin.
Her ponytail’s messy yet perfect, with strands falling around her face.
I clear my throat.
“So a wedding, huh?”
Nothing.
“Wanna stop for coffee?”
Silence.
“We could hit Maple an—”
“I’m good,” she says, tilting her sunglasses down, shooting me a piercing glare.
Fuck me, right?
I tighten my grip on the wheel, jaw ticking. The silence feels like punishment, and fuck if I don’t deserve it after barging in on her like that.
Still, the quiet eats me alive.
I downshift and pull to the curb, the rumble of the engine softening as my Bronco eases to a stop in front of the bookstore.
Catalina’s pride and joy, warm wood tones catching the late afternoon light, fairy lights twinkling against the glass.
I throw my SUV into park, the shift clicking louder than it should, and for a second, I sit there with my hands on the wheel, staring at her profile.