Chapter 26 Amelia
amelia
. . .
Maverick has me wrapped in his arms like a giant teddy bear, his chest pressed flush against my back, as his thick thigh hooks over mine, locking me in place.
I should run away while I still can. It’d be easier to leave before he realizes I don’t belong here. Before he wakes up and sees me for what I am. But my body betrays me.
Instead of running, I curl myself tighter into his chest.
I tilt my head slightly to glance back at him.
He’s still deeply asleep, with a relaxed face I’ve never seen before.
The corners of his mouth hint at a smile even when he’s at rest. I let my eyes examine him, from his defined jaw softened by a faint shadow of stubble, to the little lines etched at the corners of his eyes from years of grinning too big and squinting into stadium lights.
Carefully, I inch away from his hold, untangling myself without waking him. My bare feet touch the cool wood floor as I quietly walk into the bathroom, softly closing the door behind me.
The sudden glare from the overhead light makes me wince, and I lift my hand to block my eyes. When they finally adjust, I freeze.
There’s a note taped to the mirror in messy handwriting I immediately recognize—slanted, hurried, like he couldn’t write it down fast enough.
Last night was fucking amazing, I think I’m pregnant. You’re amazing, baby, and so beautiful. Anywho, can I wear the Ghostface mask again?
I snort; he’s too fucking much. When did he even have time to write this? Before bed? This morning?
My chest tightens, and I hate how quickly my instincts kick in. The warning bells. The pullback. The voice in my head whispering that no man means it forever. I tug at the ends of my hair, trying to shake it off physically.
Maverick’s not like the rest.
He can’t be… right?
A scoff escapes me before I can stop it. I switch off the light and leave the bathroom, shoving those thoughts into the same box I shove everything else that scares me.
When I walk back into the bedroom, he’s awake, propped up on one elbow, and his smile spreads from ear to ear when he sees me. It’s blinding.
He’s devastatingly handsome.
“Morning, dollface,” he starts, voice still rough with sleep.
Before I can respond, his phone rings, breaking the moment. He looks at the screen and exhales. “Hold on, baby, it’s Maggie.”
I nod, watching him swing his legs over the side of the bed. He grabs the phone and steps out onto the balcony, the sliding door clicking shut behind him.
The room feels too empty without him. I sit on the edge of the mattress, twiddling my thumbs for a few seconds before finally grabbing my own phone.
My thumbs fly across the screen as I open the group chat with Catalina and Layla.
Amelia
Maverick and I just had mind-blowing sex again, and I’m freaking out.
Catalina
Oh no, you banged your husband.
Layla
At least you two are getting laid.
I bite my lip, glancing at the balcony where his tall figure is silhouetted against the morning light, pacing as he talks. My heart does that annoying little flip.
I’m still twiddling my thumbs on his bed, my phone buzzing every few seconds with unread texts from Catalina and Layla, when the sliding door clicks open. Maverick steps back inside, and one look at him makes my stomach sink.
His usual easy grin has disappeared. His hair’s a mess, but not in that cocky, I-just-rolled-out-of-bed way; it looks like he’s been running his hands through it too many times. His shoulders hang low as if they’re weighed down by the entire NFL, and his eyes... God, his eyes look tired.
Defeated.
“What’s wrong?” The words are out before I can stop them.
He exhales through his nose, avoiding my gaze. “Nothing.”
A moment passes.
His jaw tightens. “I need to make a public apology to your ex.”
That draws my attention up fast. “What?”
His fists tighten at his sides, knuckles turning white. “I didn’t like how he was speaking to you,” he says softly, almost as if he’s ashamed of it. “And now I have to apologize to him. Publicly. For defending you.”
I sit up straighter, heat prickling at the back of my neck. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I don’t know how much more of this public image shit I can take,” he mutters, looking away toward the window. “I’m starting to forget who I even am outside of it.”
I toss my phone onto the bed without a second thought, and the screen goes black as it hits the comforter.
Standing on my tippy toes, I reach out, cupping his face in my hands, guiding his gaze back to mine.
His skin is warm beneath my palms, rough from faint stubble, and when his eyes finally meet mine, they’re glassy and teetering on the edge of something raw.
“Maverick…” I don’t know if it’s meant to be comfort or a plea. Maybe both.
He swallows, shaking his head, changing the conversation. “Let’s play hooky today. You down?”
The question hangs in the air between us, a quiet rebellion wrapped in a boyish smile he’s fighting to find.
I hesitate. “Where to?”
A glimmer of mischief finally sparks in those blue eyes. “I know the perfect place.”
We pull up to the cliffs overlooking Moss Cove, and my chest feels so tight I can’t hide how much this place means to me.
The tide is low, and the sand is dotted with families and couples, but the cove itself—my cove—waits just beyond the curve of the shore.
We walk barefoot, shoes in hand, with the cold Pacific foam licking at our toes. Maverick stops every few steps to pick up a seashell and holds it out to me.
“Look at this one,” he says, palm open to reveal a spiral shell, soft blush pink with white ridges. “Matches your lips.”
I roll my eyes but take it anyway, tucking it into my pocket. “You’re too much.”
“And yet, you’re smiling.”
Damn him, I am.
Maverick plops onto the sand, his bucket hat pulled down so low it nearly shadows his eyes. His massive hands pat at a mound of wet sand with exaggerated precision.
“Needs a moat,” he mutters to himself, scooping more sand with both palms. He leans back on his heels, tongue poking out in concentration, as he begins carving a lopsided moat with the edge of his hand.
I settle on the towel, arms crossed, acting like I’m not watching him like an idiot. He’s six-foot-eight, broad as a house, a quarterback capable of tearing through a defense in seconds, yet here he is, crafting a sandcastle.
And somehow, it’s… cute, which is dangerous.
We continue collecting shells until our hands are full, then he leads me toward the rocks that frame the far edge of the cove. The climb is slow and slippery, with sea spray, but Maverick keeps a hand out for me, steadying me every time I slip.
Finally, we find a flat stretch high enough to stay above the waves but close enough to hear them crash beneath us.
I sit cross-legged, brushing sand off my calves as I watch the sunlight turn the water into molten gold. For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
I glance over at him, breaking the silence. “Tell me about your mom.”
His smile is small, not his usual cocky smirk.
“She was everything.” He leans back on his palms, eyes fixed on the horizon.
“She loved hard and loud. Always had music playing in the house, always had a million things going on, but somehow, she made time for all of us like we were the only people in the world. I think that’s why Carter is so serious; he felt like he had to carry the weight she left behind.
Reed… Reed just got quieter. And me?” He huffs out a laugh, but it’s thin.
“I turned into the class clown. Figured if I could make everyone laugh, maybe they wouldn’t feel the hole as much. ”
He pauses as his thumb absentmindedly brushes over his tattoo.
“She loved roses. We would always bring her a fresh bouquet. Had them in the yard, always in a vase in the kitchen. After she died, the three of us got them tattooed—different designs, but all roses. Felt like we were carrying a piece of her with us.”
The wind shifts, carrying the scent of saltwater and kelp. He blinks toward the horizon again, his voice softer. “We all deal with it differently.”
His gaze flickers to mine; there’s a glassy edge, like he’s only one memory from breaking. Before I can say anything, he shifts, reaching across the space between us to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Tell me about you,” he says quietly. “I wanna know more.”
I look down at my hands, tracing a grain of sand across my palm. “There’s not much to tell.”
“Try me.”
The sincerity in his tone makes my chest ache, so I start small. I tell him about growing up in a house where silence meant safety, about learning to read people’s moods before they spoke a word. It was through tattooing that I first felt I could turn something ugly into something beautiful.
His eyes remain fixed on mine the entire time, never wavering. No interruptions, no jokes. Just listening.
And somehow, sitting there with the sun setting behind us and the waves crashing below, I feel something shift—like maybe, for the first time in years, it’s safe to let someone in again.
I let my eyes drift toward the horizon instead of his face, because if I look at him while I say this, I might not be able to get it out.
“My dad wasn’t really in the picture,” I start, my voice low, almost lost beneath the ocean’s rhythm. “And my mom… she did what she could, but we weren’t close, not until recently.” I quickly learned that the easiest way to survive was to stay out of the way. Keep quiet, and don’t rely on anyone.”
Maverick doesn’t move, as he waits, listening to me intently.
“I think that’s why tattooing worked for me,” I continue. “It allowed me to rewrite things and turn scars, real or not, into something worth looking at.”
There’s a tightness in my throat I try to swallow down. The waves crash harder against the rocks below, white foam spraying up.
“The marriage I was in,” I choke out, and the words taste metallic on my tongue. “It wasn’t… good. He knew how to tear me down without leaving bruises. Knew how to make me believe I was the problem. And I stayed longer than I should have because I didn’t want to admit I’d been wrong about him.”
I finally risk a glance at Maverick, expecting pity—or worse, judgment. But all I see is his steady, unwavering focus. His jaw is tight, but not in anger at me.
“Amelia…” His voice is low, gravelly. “I’ll beat his ass ag—”
I shake my head quickly. “Don’t, he’s not worth your time.”
“Dollface, anyone who’s made you feel like you had to be less than you are?
They’re worth my time.” He leans forward, his forearms resting on his knees, so close I can see the tiny saltwater droplets clinging to his lashes.
“You’re the most… unapologetic, stubborn, gorgeous woman I’ve ever met.
And if someone didn’t see that, that’s on them. ”
I’m not sure how to handle the way my chest tightens when he says that. I’ve heard compliments before, empty, half-hearted, but nothing about the way he looks at me feels fake.
I let out a shaky laugh and nudge his knee with mine. “You acting all serious? I’m shocked.”
His grin finally cracks through. “What can I say? You bring out my serious side.”
Of course. The big, cocky quarterback has a serious side. And of course, that’s the part making me fall for him. Figures.
We sit there for a little longer, letting the conversation flow naturally. I tell him about the first tattoo I ever did on myself, talk about the time Catalina and I accidentally triggered a fire alarm in a hotel, and mention my cat Rex’s obsession with shredded cheese.
In return, he shares stories about learning to drive on the ranch, sneaking out with Carter and Reed to swim in the creek, and the first time he threw a football and realized he was good at it.
It’s… easy, which is terrifying.
When the wind picks up and the sun dips lower, he looks at me with that spark in his eye. “C’mon, dollface. Let’s go home.”
The word lingers between us.
Home.
It causes a strange flutter in my chest that I can’t quite name yet.
My eyes drift to his outstretched hand. The safe choice is to pull back. To remind him, remind myself, that this isn’t real.
That it can’t be.
But my fingers move before my brain can stop them. I slip my hand into his anyway, holding on even as a voice in my head whispers I shouldn’t.