Chapter 30 Maverick/Amelia #2
He stands, brushing sand from his palms. “Stand still for a second.”
Suspicious, I stop moving.
He pulls out his camera, squinting at the glare off the water. “Perfect lighting. Don’t move. You’ll thank me later when this becomes my lock screen.”
Shot after shot, he’s muttering things like, “Damn, you look good,” and “Okay, tilt your head a little, dollfacee,” until my cheeks feel warm for reasons that have nothing to do with the sun.
When he’s satisfied, we continue further down the shoreline. The sand squeaks softly beneath our feet, and our shadows stretch out in front of us. His arm brushes against mine intentionally enough to show he’s doing it on purpose.
He’s barefoot too, with grey sweatpants slouched low on his hips, a plain white tee stretched across his chest, and a baseball cap pulled low so I can only see the curve of his grin when he looks at me.
“I knew you thought I was pretty,” he says casually.
I roll my eyes, shoving him lightly in the ribs. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Mm, maybe. But I’m still your favorite.”
“Sureeeeee.”
He stops walking and stares at me until I’m fighting a laugh. “Go on, tell me who’s better looking.”
I tilt my head up to meet his gaze. “You’re fishing for compliments now?”
“Only from you.” He smirks. “You ready for Georgia?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good.” His mouth quirks up, that boyish charm impossible to ignore. “Ready to be my cheerleader, Mrs. Hayes?”
I smirk back. “Yes, Mr. Hayes, I’m ready.”
He grins, staring at me with this twinkle in his eye. “Knew you couldn’t resist the title.”
Before I can roll my eyes again, he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close. The ocean roars in the background, gulls crying overhead.
We stop walking, and he leans down, caressing my jaw with a featherlight touch that sends goosebumps across my skin. His mouth finds mine as his thumb brushes the corner of my jaw, and his other hand rests on my hip.
The kiss unfolds slowly, gently, filled with that quiet, confident heat he always carries in everything he does. His lips press against mine at a relaxed pace, tasting me and allowing the moment to linger until I feel myself melting into him.
Still, somewhere deep in my chest, that familiar splinter twists. The part of me that’s always waiting for the too-good-to-be-true to fall apart. That whisper that says all men are the same—narcissists, liars, manipulators in prettier packaging.
He pulls back just enough to smile against my lips. “You’re blushing,” he teases softly.
“Shut up,” I murmur, but I’m smiling too.
Right now, he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the world. And for this moment, I want to believe that’s enough.
We continue walking along the curve of the cove, the waves kissing at our ankles.
Our hands brush once, twice, then his fingers slip between mine. He doesn’t look at me when he does it, keeping his gaze on the horizon, his thumb idly sweeping over my knuckles.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a stretch of listening to nothing but surf and seabirds.
“Maybe I’m enjoying the view.”
He glances down at me, all faux modesty. “Of me or the ocean?”
I bump my shoulder into his. “The ocean.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t push it. “You ever think about life? What you want it actually to feel like?”
I slow my pace, the question sinking heavier than the wet sand under my feet. “Yeah. All the time.”
“And?”
I shrug, my eyes on the spot where sea foam disappears back into glassy blue. “I’d want my life to always feel at peace. I want to always be happy in what I do, and if it doesn’t serve a purpose for me anymore, then I’ll find something else.”
He’s quiet for a beat, his grip on my hand tightening. “What if you can’t find something else other than tattooing?”
“Then, I’d find something else that brings me happiness; it wouldn’t be the end of the world,” I answer back.
We keep walking, his hand stays intertwined with mine.
“I think about it too,” he admits finally. His voice is lower now, stripped of that easy confidence. “Sometimes I wonder who I’d be if I weren’t this guy everyone expects. If I weren’t Maverick Hayes, quarterback. If I could just… be a man with his girl, walking on a beach.”
“You can be,” I say softly, surprised by how badly I want that for him.
He glances at me then, his blue eyes swimming with certainty. “Maybe I already am.”
The tide rushes in again, curling around our calves before sliding away. He pulls me to a stop, the brim of his cap shadowing his face as he looks down at me. “You know, if I could bottle up this exact moment, I would. Keep it for when everything feels too loud.”
My chest tightens as I ask, “Why?”
“Because this—” he gestures between us, the stretch of beach, the whole damn day “—feels real. No cameras, no headlines. Just… you.”
I don’t know what to say, so I squeeze his hand instead. He takes it as a response because his thumb keeps moving over the back of my hand.
We settle into the sand, Maverick kicking his legs out. I dig through my tote, searching for the bottle of sunscreen I know I threw in there this morning.
“What do you even carry in that big bag of yours?” he asks, leaning over just enough to peek inside. “Cold brews? A backup cold brew for your cold brew?”
I snort and push his shoulder. “No, it’s my markers and notepad, thank you very much.”
His brows lift. “Markers?”
“Yeah, I used to come here all the time and just draw, color. Whatever I felt like. Guess it’s my version of peace.”
He observes me for a moment, that gentle, silent awe in his eyes making my skin feel too warm. “You feel like drawing now?”
I shake my head, a teasing smile tugging at my lips. “Don’t have the inspiration for it, Maverick.”
He hums like he’s thinking. “Okay. Then, how about this? You sit on my lap, baby, and color my tattoos instead. Bet you’ve got inspiration for that.”
My cheeks heat immediately. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re not denying it,” he says, reaching over to hook his hands around my waist. Before I can protest, he’s pulling me into his lap, settling me so I’m straddling him with the ocean at my back and his chest solid against mine.
He reaches into my tote, pulls out my markers, and hands me the red one. “Go on. Make ‘em pretty.”
I roll my eyes but uncap the marker, lowering my head to shade the roses inked across his forearm. My hair falls over my shoulder, brushing against his skin as I work in the petals, layering depth and shadow.
His eyes track every movement like I’m doing something far more intimate than coloring.
I focus on the lines of his tattoos as his mouth finds my jaw. A slow kiss, then another just under my ear. His breath is warm when he whispers, “You could sit here forever and I’d never get tired of it.”
I keep shading, trying not to let the way his lips graze my skin make my hand tremble.
“I like you here,” he says between kisses, trailing another kiss along my neck. “I like knowing you’re mine.”
The marker stills in my fingers, but I don’t say anything. I can’t. The tide flows past us, while his voice weaves through the sound of the waves—gentle promises I’m not sure I’m ready to hold, but I let them sink in anyway.