Chapter 23 Chloe
chloe
Through the trees, the sun finally creeps over the horizon, spilling a soft golden glow across the lake.
A few birds chirp excitedly in the distance, but otherwise, the campsite is dead quiet.
I’m bundled in every layer I brought with me, clutching a coffee that would have tasted better if I made it out of a tin can, and yet, I’m still cold.
Cold is an understatement, especially after the warmth I woke up in this morning.
Maverick was pressed up against my back with his corded arms holding me close, and his excitement for the morning pressed into my back.
I’d eased myself out from the warmth of his arms, being careful not to wake him, because I’d rather sit out here in the cold with the birds than get caught enjoying having him wrapped around me.
“How’s the coffee?” Silas steps up beside the picnic table I’m perched on, bringing his own mug to his lips.
“Tastes like dirt.”
He sputters around the cup, and I can’t tell if it’s from the heat or the flavor.
“The trick is to mix it with cold water first,” he says, taking the cup from me. I watch as he attempts to pour it out, but it slugs out in a grainy mess. After another shake and a rinse with some water, he pours some of his coffee into my cup, handing it back to me.
Hesitantly, I take a sip, confident that instant coffee just sucks, but I’m pleasantly surprised when the nutty flavor hits my tongue.
“What do you know? There’s something in the world I don’t excel at.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
I dip my head, hiding my smile as he hops up, taking a seat beside me.
“What are you doing up so early?” I ask. “Didn’t you win the tent to yourself?”
“I don’t know that I would really say I won it. We played pick a number one through one hundred, and Noah just called a number closest to whatever one I chose.”
The boys might not have matching sun and moon tattoos like Savannah and I do, but the more time I spend with them, the more I notice how similar our relationships are.
“What’s your excuse? Maverick snoring too loud?”
No. Just too much rubbing my ass against his morning wood.
“This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve found you with my girl in the morning, but it is the first time I’d care.”
Silas and I both look over our shoulders.
Outside the tent, Maverick stretches his arms over his head, and there’s not a lick of fabric covering his chest. Normally, I’d replay a comment like that a hundred times, trying to decipher what he meant, but I can’t focus when he’s standing there first thing in the morning looking like that.
His shoulders are broad and his abs are sculpted in ways I’ve only ever imagined.
My fingers tighten around my paper mug as I take in all the lines of him down to the V cut that dips just beneath his black sweatpants.
He runs a hand across his chest with a lazy yawn, then throws a hoodie on, breaking my trance over him.
“She’s all yours, Starshine,” Silas calls out. He turns his hat backward on his head before giving me a wink and hopping off the picnic table.
I watch as the boys exchange a fist bump and Silas pulls his phone from his pocket. He doesn’t go back to his tent, but rather past the site, out toward the parking lot.
“The first time I share a bed with someone and they sneak out on me.” Maverick pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and sits down on the bench by my feet. “So far, not impressed with the whole sleepover thing.”
“What do you mean that was the first time you’ve shared a bed with someone?”
“Exactly that.” He reaches for the drink in my hand, bringing it to his lips, and I don’t register his reaction because I’m too focused on the fact that he’s never slept with someone in the literal sense.
The lake stretches out down the hill from us and the trees on the far shore blend together in shades of amber and gold. I pull my hands into the sleeves of my sweater and rub them together between my knees.
Maverick leans back against the table, watching the sunrise over the still lake, and I wonder how long he’s been letting people think what they want about him.
For years, I’ve heard that he’s out of control, he has a temper, and he selfishly throws punches at the risk of getting suspended and hurting his team.
I’ve yet to see that version of him, and all it took was one conversation with him to cement the fact that he’s not that guy.
But what kind of person am I that I let the rumors about the way he is with women stick with me?
“Think you can sneak away from your studying for a bit?”
I blink, dropping my gaze to him. “What?”
He nods to the laptop sitting on the other side of me.
“Oh, I wasn’t studying. I brought it just in case inspiration hit, I guess.”
“No dice?”
I shrug my shoulders and look around. Anywhere but at the closed laptop that’s been mocking me all morning.
“Want me to take my shirt off?”
“Tempting. But I guess it’s less of an inspiration issue and more of a perfectionist issue.”
“Ahh. I got it. Performance anxiety?”
A soft chuckle takes me by surprise.
“Don’t feel bad. It happens to the best of us,” he says as he bumps his shoulder into my thigh. “I mean, not me. But I’ve heard horror stories for other people.”
I laugh again, and it’s easy. It’s always so fucking easy with him.
“Maybe a canoe trip will help release the nerves,” Maverick offers after a moment. “There’s a cool spot around the bend, where if you get there just as the sun comes over the trees, the water turns crystal clear.”
I pause, caught somewhere between my mess of thoughts and being in the present moment.
And whether Maverick is trying to deflect again or just better at letting things go than I am, I don’t know.
But when he stands, extending his hand to me, I take it without hesitation, hopping down from the table.
There’s no traction under my purple vans as I slide down the last bit of the hill to the canoe tied up at the water’s edge. If I thought it was quiet up on the hill, the dock at the bottom is near silent.
Maverick pulls two life jackets from a crate I hadn’t noticed was in the grass. He hands one to me, and I pretend not to pay attention to the way his fingers brush against mine. Before he slips his on, he gives me a quick once-over, then looks down, hiding the grin on his face.
“What?” I ask, holding up the life jacket, inspecting it.
“Nothing.”
His smile lingers, but it’s the way he avoids my eyes that tells me it’s obviously something.
“Tell me.”
“No, I just like your outfit.”
My cheeks flame when I remember I put his sweatshirt on for an extra layer this morning. “You want it back?” I reach for the hem but pause, because in this weather, I’m one hundred percent bluffing.
“Nah.” He shakes his head with a smile. “I like the way my clothes look on you.”
The life jacket slips from my hands, making a plopping sound when it hits the water.
Maverick lunges for it before it can drift away, and when he holds it up, freezing cold water drips from the straps.
With another grin, he flings it up the hill away from the lake, then peels off his own vest and holds it out to me.
“No.” I wave him off. “You keep it.”
“Take the vest, Chlo. I’ll let you Jack Dawson me if it comes to that.”
A laugh slips past me before I can stop it and I take the black vest from him, ignoring the hammering of my heart as I buckle it.
Maverick climbs into the canoe and holds his hand out for me. I take it, wobbling slightly, and he steadies me with his other hand cupping my waist. Even through all the layers, the contact still sends a familiar shiver down my spine.
“Good?” he asks, holding me with a firm grip.
I take a breath, which proves to be a mistake when all of my senses are invaded by his scent. He guides me to sit on the seat across from him, and I strum my bottom lip, pretending to focus on anything other than the way my heart constantly thrums when I’m around him.
The lake is surprisingly still as Maverick cuts through the water with the paddle in steady, effortless strokes.
Across from him, I try to seem concerned with his technique, but I’m just caught up in watching his every movement.
His muscles flex with each pass through the water, and fuck he’s hot.
I blame it on the way I woke up this morning, pressed against him, warm and heavy.
Pulling myself out from under him wasn’t in a panic like I told myself, it was a struggle.
I let myself lie there for a minute longer than I should have, thinking about all the other times those arms have held me in place.
Against a bookshelf, a wall, a counter, a patio railing.
And every time, if I had been capable of forming a coherent thought, it would have been, I hope this isn’t the last time.
“Is it working?”
I inhale, pulling my gaze from his arms, and up to his eyes. “Is what working?”
“The water. Are you feeling inspired?”
I look out over the water, taking in the view outside of the boat for the first time, and it takes my breath away.
He wasn’t lying. The sun spreads golden light over everything.
Shades of orange and soft pinks stretch across the horizon, bending into the curve of the now clear lake, and for a moment, it feels like we’re in the middle of a postcard.
Like time has thinned and the universe itself has paused just for us.
“It doesn’t seem real,” I whisper. “Beauty like this…it feels overwhelming, doesn’t it?”
“It is.”
Something in the way he says it makes my chest tighten. When I look back at him, he isn’t watching the sunrise on the water—he’s watching me.
Wings flap in my stomach, and my heart beat matches the rhythm as I stare back at him, every nerve ending on edge.
Keeping a tight hold on the paddle, Maverick leans in, and I still. I’m not sure if it's instinct, fear of the boat tipping, or just his closeness, but I hold my breath all the same.
He lifts his hand, his thumb brushing the top of my cheek, and the warmth of it settles deep in my bones.
“Make a wish.”
My heart is beating so violently, I can’t think straight. When I glance down, I realize he’s holding an eyelash between his fingers.
“Come on, Chlo,” he smiles around the words, “you’re not going to convince me that the girl who believes that stars mean something, believes fortune cookies hold some truth, and believes in love above everything else, doesn’t believe in wishes.”
It should make me feel exposed. Instead, it makes something inside me melt.
Maverick never teases me or brushes things off.
He says everything like it matters. Like they’re pieces of me worth keeping track of.
I know I’m a romantic, probably more than I should be.
But there’s something about being remembered that I wasn’t quite prepared for.
He didn’t have to listen, and more than that, he didn't need to remember.
But it mattered to me. And that was enough for him.