Chapter 12 Maverick #2
“Fixing that,” I say, nodding toward the empty fridge she opened earlier when she went to grab water. “Your fridge is damn near empty.”
Amelia snorts but doesn’t argue as she walks into the bathroom.
I order everything, okay, not everything.
Ground beef, beans, jalapenos, tomato paste, onions, and cornbread mix. I could make it from scratch, but I’m not here to show off, not right now anyway.
I set my phone down and exhale through my nose, surveying her apartment.
Every part of me itches to fix it, to align everything, wipe it down, and put it back where it belongs.
I like control; ever since my mama died, it’s something I crave. When I’m anxious, order feels like it digs its claws into my skin.
And right now, Amelia’s cozy type of chaos feels like it’s crawling over me.
So I start cleaning like a psycho.
The coffee table is a war zone of receipts, ink caps, and cans of cold brew.
I sort them into piles, toss out what’s trash, and stack what looks important.
I rinse three coffee mugs from the counter and load the dishwasher.
Her fridge is a wasteland—one half-full bottle of milk, a rotting lemon, and two questionable eggs.
Her spice rack makes my eye twitch, so I alphabetize it quietly and methodically—chili powder, cinnamon, and coriander.
It satisfies the itch.
The groceries arrive ten minutes later, and I start cooking like I’ve done this a thousand times.
Because, duh, I have.
The chili starts on the stove. The beef begins to brown, the garlic sizzles in the pan, and the onion softens and melts down.
I dice the jalapenos small, just like Mama used to, so the heat sneaks up on you slowly.
Next, add the beans, followed by the tomato paste, cumin, and a splash of beef broth.
I stir, taste, and adjust, knowing exactly when it’s perfect.
I put the cornbread in the oven, the aroma of sweet honey glaze already permeating the air. Taking one last look around the kitchen, I wipe down the counters with a damp cloth, catching every last bit of flour and chili splatter because I can’t stand leaving a mess.
Changing into black sweatpants once I’m done, and tossing my shirt in my bag, I throw myself on the couch and turn the TV on, which was paused on Scream.
Of courseeeee.
Rex glares at me from the corner of the room and hisses at me.
“Relax, dude,” I tell him, propping my arm behind my head.
The bathroom door creaks open.
Amelia steps out, steam drifting behind her. Her long black hair’s damp and curling at the ends. She’s barefoot, wrapped in an oversized dark gray T-shirt full of worn-in holes, the collar slouching off her shoulder, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
She blinks, analyzing the room as her brows lift slightly.
“Did you clean?”
I pretend not to hear her as I fiddle with my fingernails like I didn’t just deep-clean her entire apartment because I needed something, anything, to keep my hands busy.
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” she mutters, strolling toward the couch.
“I know,” I say, sitting up straighter. “You didn’t have to.”
“Thank you,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You’re welcome, dollface.”
She sinks into the cushion beside me, tucking one leg under the other, and glances at the TV. “Ugh, I love this movie.”
“Can you hold me? I’m scared.”
She rolls her eyes. “No.”
“It’s terrifying, his mask freaks me out.”
A smile gently forms at the corner of her mouth, subtle and fleeting.
We sit in silence for a while.
The glow from the TV flickers across her face, accentuating her high cheekbones, thick lashes, and the faint red mark on her shoulder from where she had leaned her arm while tattooing earlier.
She doesn’t sit exactly close, but she doesn’t keep her distance either.
A jumpsacare hits, and I swear I shit my pants.
I jerk back against the cushions.
“Shit!” I yell, half-splashing my drink and throwing a hand toward Rex, who startles and hisses.
A soft laugh escapes her, so quick and unguarded I almost miss it.
I look at her.
Her hand is over her mouth, trying to contain the smile threatening to escape.
“You laughed.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You laughed or farted, take your pick.”
She pushes at my chest playfully. “You screamed.”
“I didn’t scream, that was Rex!”
The giggle that was threatening to escape her comes free, real this time.
Sweet music to my ears.
“Chili’s ready!” I blurt out, getting nervous just by sitting next to her on the couch.
She snorts behind me, amused but tries to hide it, and walks into the kitchen behind me, her damp hair still clinging to the back of her oversized T-shirt.
The smell of cumin, jalapeno, and slow-cooked beef hits her in the face, and her eyes flick toward the pot, skeptical.
I grab two ceramic bowls from her cabinet and serve up two hearty portions. Hers gets more cornbread, and I pass it to her like it’s the crown jewel of the South.
“Enjoy, dollface,” I say, putting a little extra cocky into my grin. “Maverick Hayes’ specialty.”
She lifts a brow, accepting the bowl with both hands. “Yeah, sure, if my stomach hurts later, it’s on you.”
We sit side by side on her tiny couch, our knees brushing now and then, with the sound of Scream filling the room.
She doesn’t compliment my chili, but she goes back for seconds, and that’s enough to make my chest puff up like an idiot.
When she finally leans back, full and quiet, her fingers still faintly stained with cornbread crumbs, I glance at her out of the corner of my eye.
She catches me looking, but doesn’t say anything as she nudges my foot with hers under the blanket.
In this quiet, peaceful moment, with Rex watching me from the armchair and her head leaning back against the cushion, I realize something I have been longing for.
I don’t want to fake this, not even a little.