Chapter 11 Amelia
amelia
. . .
I’m perched at the kitchen island, cross-legged on one of his barstools with my planner cracked open, and my iPad glowing in front of me.
There’s a half-empty mug of cold coffee by my elbow and Rex curled up like a little naked croissant on the floor nearby, twitching in his sleep.
I stare at the ring on my finger, turning it with my thumb. It isn’t anything I would have ever wanted, a simple halo diamond, with a silver band.
Maggie picked it out.
Shaking my head, I jot down my appointments for tomorrow. The moment I land in LA, I have a full day scheduled.
Chest piece at ten.
Matching rib pieces for twins at two.
Flash design at four.
I switch apps and begin sketching, dragging my Apple Pencil across the screen as the lines take shape beneath my hand, and slowly, green lilies bloom across the blank canvas.
Lilies have always been my favorite. There’s no such thing as green lilies, not really, but in my world, they get to exist. I like bending reality like that, creating things that shouldn’t be, twisting the rules until they suit me.
My mind finally quiets in that way it only does when I’m creating.
Ah, serenity.
Until his goofy voice cuts through it. The deep baritone and semi-southern drawl suddenly too close.
“Whatcha workin’ on, dollface?”
I don’t answer as I keep sketching.
He takes the empty barstool beside me anyway, his big body radiating heat like I’m not actively trying to pretend he doesn’t exist right now.
“Okay, cool,” he says casually, “well, while you’re doing... whatever this is, figured I’d tell you, NFL season starts in a couple weeks.”
I pause, pencil hovering mid-stroke.
“And since you’re, y’know, my wife now,” he continues, “it’s better for my image if you’re at practices, games, and maybe some post-game interviews. Couple photo ops.”
I look up slowly, heat crawling at the nape of my neck.
“You want me at every game.”
“Yes.”
“You want me at practices.”
“Weren’t you listening to Maggie when we signed the papers?” he says in a teasing tone, reaching out to tickle my side.
I stare at him, pushing his finger away. “Maverick. My apartment. My rent. My clients. My actual, real-life job.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
I blink.
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll cover whatever needs covering. Your rent, your travel, your business expenses, I’ll book the flights—”
I push back from the stool so hard it screeches across the floor.
“I’m not some damsel you can just throw money at!”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You didn’t have to!”
I storm down the hall and fly up the stairs; my bare feet smacking against the hardwood, as my flannel pajama bottoms swish with every furious step. Rex scuttles after me in a blur of bald vengeance. I slam the bedroom door shut behind us so hard the frame rattles.
Five seconds later, literally five, the knob turns and Maverick pushes in—Shirtless as usual, grinning with his signature goofy smile.
“Get out.” My voice is flat.
“Nope.”
“Maverick—”
“I’m not gonna fight with you, Amelia.” He leans his tall frame against the doorframe. “But I also won’t let you spiral alone in here while I’m trying to make this easier.”
I spin around, heat burning in my chest. “Oh, this is easier? Hijacking my schedule, uprooting my job, and suddenly expecting me to play NFL trophy wife like this isn’t the stupidest, most unhinged plan you’ve ever had?”
He sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, and steps further into the room. “I’m coming with you to LA.”
The words freeze me mid-step.
I whip back toward him, my jaw slack. “You’re what?”
His mouth ticks up, like he’s proud of himself for casually detonating another bomb. “You heard me. You’ve got clients, a shop, a whole life there. You think I’m letting you run back by yourself like none of this matters? Not a chance.”
I stare at him, heart pounding. Rex hisses at Maverick from underneath the bed. “You can’t just… drop everything. You’re supposed—”
“Supposed to what?” he interrupts, eyes blazing. “Football can wait, and I’m not letting my wife travel back and forth alone. I took a vow to be your husband, and I’m not breaking that.”
The silence stretches, thick and pulsing. My throat feels raw, but I lift my chin anyway, refusing to let him see the crack in my armor. “You don’t get to fix this with one reckless promise.”
He pushes off the door, closing the distance in two quick strides, his shadow looming over me. His voice drops low, dangerous in a way that makes my pulse race.
“Baby,” he murmurs, “I don’t make promises I don’t plan on keeping.”
Two Days Later
The lock sticks, just like it always does when I’ve been away too long.
It takes a little force and a hip check, but then the door creaks open, and I step back into me.
Sort of.
It feels stuffy after being sealed for days. The cozy vanilla-vetiver scent I enjoy is faint now, buried beneath the sterility of stillness. A few plants are drooping, and Rex immediately bolts out of his carrier.
I don’t get to breathe before I feel it completely, Maverick behind me, invading the space I’ve protected for years.
I pretend not to care.
Candle wax has dripped down my bookshelf. My sketchbooks still lay spread out across my clear, acrylic desk. Dried ink caps are strewn on the tray by my velvet couch, next to the lopsided succulent pot from Mia.
Organized chaos. My chaos.
I head to the kitchen, grab Rex’s bowls from the cupboard, and fill them out of habit. He scuttles in, chirps once, and starts eating.
I feel Maverick move again.
A shuffle. A clink.
I glance over my shoulder and—Oh my God.
Maverick’s cleaning my apartment.
He’s completely rearranging my incense drawer, fluffing pillows, organizing my crystals, and straightening the crooked art print above the couch.
I blink. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Organizing.”
I stare at him, with no response, because what?
He crouches by my bookshelf, his head tilted as his hand reaches for the tray of crystals.
“Uh, dollface?” His voice was laced with laughter. “Why do you have so many rocks?”
I nearly choked on my saliva. “They’re not rocks,” I say, walking over before he could drop one. “They’re crystals.”
He picks up a chunk of amethyst, squinting at it. “Crystals,” he repeats slowly. “Looks like a driveway stone someone put in the wash.”
God, he’s insufferable. “That’s amethyst. It’s for calming and protection.”
His grin widens as his eyes flicker up to me. “Protection, huh? You keepin’ that one close in case I get outta hand?”
I fight the twitch of my mouth and snatch the amethyst away, replacing it with rose quartz. “This is rose quartz. It promotes love, self-love, compassion, and emotional healing.”
He rolls it in his palm, then tilts his head. “So you keepin’ this one around for me, fake wife?”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck as I force my expression flat. “Don’t flatter yourself, quarterback. That one’s for me.”
His laugh booms through my tiny apartment, echoing off the walls, making the place feel brighter and messier all at once. He set the stone down gently and shot me a smile that was entirely too pleased with himself.
“Yeah, well,” he says, standing to his full, impossible height. “You got a crystal for patience? Pretty sure you’re gonna need it with me.”
I roll my eyes.
Maverick moves over and hovers in front of another shelf with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His head tilts to the side, studying the group. “You got a thing for whale sharks?”
“They’re my favorite.” My voice is clipped, defensive.
His mouth quirks. “They’re not exactly cuddly.”
“Sharks in general are gentle, quiet, and misunderstood.”
His gaze flicks back to me, sharper than usual. “Sounds familiar.”
Excuse the fuck out of me?
I don’t look at him when I mutter, “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” His voice is lighter, teasing, but his eyes are steady.
“Psychoanalyze me in my own apartment.”
“I’m just saying.” He shrugs, but his shoulders are tight. “It makes sense.”
I finally turn, arms crossed over my chest. His eyes are locked on mine, the usual goofy smirk softened into something quieter, almost careful.
“You don’t know me,” I bite out.
“I’m trying to.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I always wanted to.”
The living room suddenly feels much smaller. I look at him—barefoot now (when did that happen?), golden hair falling in messy strands over his forehead. He’s standing in the middle of my messy, cozy, real life, and instead of seeming out of place, he fits in too perfectly.
“You’re not sleeping in my bed,” I quietly say, needing to break the moment before it consumes me.
“I figured.” His voice is easy, but his gaze doesn’t waver.
“There’s the couch.”
“You’re going to make your husband sleep on the couch?”
“Maverick.”
“I’m delicate, babe.”
I roll my eyes so hard it aches.
He smirks, reaches out, and straightens a pencil on my desk that was slightly off from the others.
My jaw drops. “What is wrong with you?”
He rocks back and forth on his heels, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to scrub the nerves out. “I’m a little bit of a clean freak.”
“A little?”
“Okay.” He exhales, shoulders slumping. “A lot.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing until I see stars. My sigh escapes long and frayed, but a corner of my mouth betrays me, twitching upward.
“Interesting.”
Little Tokyo is filled with rich scents sifting through the air: soy sauce, grilled yakitori, fried panko, and roasted sesame oil wafting from narrow kitchen vents. Sweet red bean paste emanates from the mochi stand on the corner.
Everything seems vibrant and lively, almost a bit overwhelming. Neon signs glow above in pinks and greens, with kanji softly reflecting off the glass.
Maverick walks beside me with too much ease, a soft grin tugging at his mouth every time he catches me looking at him. He’s in a plain white tee, his ball cap pulled low.
Not that it helps.
He’s six-eight, broad as hell, and built like a quarterback.
Of course, people are going to recognize him.