Chapter 2 Maverick
Maverick
Someone is in my hammock.
Not sitting in it—sleeping in it. Fully, shamelessly sprawled out in the hammock that’s been hung between two trees.
There’s a pink hoodie bunched up like a pillow under her head, one leg kicked out and dangling, a little snore coming out of her mouth that—if I wasn’t so goddamn confused—I might actually find kind of cute.
But I am confused.
And it isn’t cute.
I stare down at her, debating my options: Wake her up gently and calmly like a normal human being. Make a ton of noise. Or. Go back inside, pretend this isn’t happening, and let her get eaten by a bear.
She lets out another tiny snore and rolls to her side, one hand flopping off the hammock to join her leg. She’s still deep in it as I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on her wrist—four delicate stars. Simple. Black. For some reason, that makes this whole thing feel weirder. Like she belongs here.
Which she fucking doesn’t.
This is my hammock. My rental.
My solitude.
I sigh through my nose. Long. Irritated. She doesn’t stir. Of course she doesn’t . . . Looks like she doesn’t have a damn care in the world, the trespasser!
I could leave her here until she wakes up. I really could.
I could go back inside and wait patiently, crack open another cold pack for my knee, ignore the fact that a fully grown woman is trespassing on my recovery getaway, and hope she dissolves into thin air. Or goes back into the woods from where she came.
But my knee aches, and I’m not in the mood to share.
So I clear my throat. Loudly. Impatiently.
Her eyes blink open wide, hazy and suspicious, and then immediately lock onto me—damp, shirtless, and very much scowling down at her.
“Who the hell are you?” she croaks, voice raspy with sleep and attitude. “Did you wander over from the resort?”
I blink back. “No.”
She squints harder, like that’s the least convincing answer I could’ve given. “Are you drunk?”
“What?” Why would she think I was drunk—is she out of her mind? “Are you drunk?” I return, peppering her with questions. “Did you wander over from the resort?”
“Please stop repeating everything I say.”
I am not repeating everything she says, but she’s asking some valid questions.
“This is my place,” I inform her, pointing at my bare chest. “I rented the cottage for the week.”
“No,” she snaps, sitting up straighter, voice rising. “I rented this cottage. From LakeStay. With a confirmation email and everything.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “StayCation. Different site. Same cottage.”
Fuck.
“Wait. Why aren’t you wearing clothes?” she demands, still lying in the hammock, not making the slightest effort to get up. “You could’ve at least put on a shirt before you came charging over here to accost me.”
Accost her? The fuck!
I stare down at my torso; wearing only swim trunks and a towel wrapped around my waist, I’ve spent the past two hours at the spa next door.
“You’re in my hammock. Eating my air. Breathing my peace.”
Who the hell does this chick think she is?
She finally moves. Pulls herself upright with a dramatic-sized groan and sits on the edge of the canvas, legs swinging, face pinched in concentration like she’s about to start an argument. “This can probably be resolved by calling the property owner, mmm? There’s no need for theatrics.”
Theatrics? Me?
Is she fucking serious? If I wanted to be theatrical, I’d toss her out on her ass, not stand here gaping at her like the lazy chickenshit I am. Turns out, I’m exhausted from my massage and could use a nap myself.
I huff, stalking past her and into the house, shirtless, damp from the spa next door, and standing in my living room—correction, our living room, apparently—staring at a duffel bag that does not belong to me. Or my rental.
Sneakers with red stars are by the door.
A pink water bottle sits on the kitchen counter.
Laptop bag.
The interloper marches in behind me like she wasn’t the one caught napping in my hammock five minutes ago. Humming. Humming, for fuck’s sake, as if she is Snow White in a goddamn Disney movie and woodland creatures are going to show up and fold her hoodie.
She tosses it onto a stool. “I’ll show you the confirmation,” she mumbles, finger swiping on her cell. She holds it up, presenting me with Exhibit A: “Here’s the info. All week. See?”
I pull out my own phone, thumb through my emails, and boom—same shit, different app.
Of course this is happening to me.
She nibbles her lower lip. “Well, shit. We’re both actually booked here?”
I inhale slowly. Count to five. Try very hard not to be a dick. “Guess so. Which is perfect, because I came up here for peace and quiet. And now we have to track down the owner and get you moved out of here.”
Her head jerks back like I slapped her with a fish. “Me? Why do I have to be the one to move out?”
Oh, she’s serious.
Genuinely serious.
I blink at her, slowly, deliberately. “Because you just got here. I’ve already been here two days. Unpacked. Settled in. Claimed the good pillow. This is not a time-share—it’s a bloodbath, and I’m winning.”
Get the Fuck Out!
She crosses her arms, clearly not planning on going anywhere. “I brought groceries.”
“So? What’s your point?” I run a hand over my face. I don’t want to be mean. I really don’t. But every nerve in my body is screaming Get the hell out, and I’m one second away from losing it.
“I’m not saying I don’t sympathize,” I tell her. “But I’ve already peed here, so—”
“Wow.”
“Technically makes it mine.”
She glares.
I glare back.
We’re officially in a silent, rage-fueled standoff. Two strangers. One cottage. A single bathroom.
This will end in murder—or marriage—and I’m not sure I’m equipped for either.
“Okay,” I bite out, arms crossed. “Fine. You know what? Go stay at the resort next door. They’ve got rooms. Robes. Probably fresh-baked cookies in the lobby. Sounds like your vibe.”
Her mouth drops open. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Oh my gawd.” She snorts. “If I could afford that place, don’t you think I would’ve booked it to begin with? You think I chose a cottage because I hate massages and getting pampered?”
“If you stay, you’d be squatting in my cottage like a raccoon.”
“I paid for this week.”
“So did I!”
“Then maybe we should call the host and let them figure it out!” she snaps, waving her phone in the air like it’s a sword and this is a duel.
“By all means.” I point at the couch. “Feel free to call. But do it outside. I don’t want your bad-decision energy in my living space.”
She blinks. “Your living space?”
“Yes.”
“You mean the space I’m currently occupying because my groceries are in that fridge and my shampoo is in the shower?”
My eyes go wide at her audacity. “Lady, did you not see my shit on the counter? The gym bag? The knee brace on the table? The man-sized shoes by the damn door?”
She flails an arm, sputtering. “Okay! I don’t know—thought maybe the last guest left in a hurry or something! Like, for an emergency? I assumed the cleaning crew—”
“The cleaning crew?”
“Yeah! Maybe they forgot to toss your giant dude stuff!”
Dude stuff? I stare at her.
She waves her phone again. “Calling the host.”
“Great.” Fantastic.
She rolls her eyes at me, phone pressed to her ear. “Hope they tell you to pack your eucalyptus shampoo and hit the road.”
“Hope they tell you to go back to wherever you learned to trespass.”
When she smirks, I realize she’s enjoying this far too much. Which is infuriating.
Because unfortunately for me?
I’m enjoying it too. Leaning against the counter, I cross my arms and watch intently to make sure she knows I’m listening.
“Hello, my name is Annabelle Franklin, and I booked a rental on your website last minute,” she says, voice dripping with sweetness, like she’s standing on their porch with homemade pie.
“I’m currently booked at”—she pauses, walks to the counter, and grabs the printed information sheet—“Pine Hollow Road, cabin twelve. And I have a few concerns.”
I arch a brow. Concerns?
This oughta be good.
I settle in to listen.
“First of all”—she goes on and begins pacing—“the property appears to be double-booked. I arrived this afternoon, entered the door code sent to me via your app, and was greeted by someone else’s belongings—duffel bag, man-sized shoes, and an alarming amount of protein powder.”
She shoots me a glare and mouths alarming again.
“He claims he booked through StayCation,” she continues.
“Which may be true, but that doesn’t make this situation any less infuriating.
Also, he’s shirtless and wrapped in a towel.
And while I would love to relocate to the resort next door, as he so kindly suggested, I unfortunately did not bring my black Amex card.
So unless you’d like to comp me a room with a lake view, I’m going to need someone to sort this mess out. ”
I laugh.
She holds up a finger, telling me to hush. Like she’s in charge here. “Anyway. We’d appreciate if someone could call us back immediately. This is urgent, I cannot stay with this man.” She ends the message with a polite “Um, thanks so much” and hangs up.
Then she turns to me. “Well?”
“Well what?”
She tosses her phone onto the coffee table and nudges mine. “Aren’t you going to call your booking company?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because now I’m emotionally invested in your meltdown, Annabelle Franklin. This is urgent,” I mock under my breath. “I cannot stay with this man. You make it sound like I’m a wanted felon.”
Her hands go to her hips. “I don’t know that you’re not.”
Arms still crossed, I study her face. “Look at me. Do I not look familiar to you?”
She squints, eyes narrowing. “Should I know you? Are you, like, TikTok famous? Oh God—please tell me you’re not one of those bodybuilding influencers.”
“What? No. Jesus.” As if.
“Because honestly, that would explain the delusional confidence.”
I sigh and drop onto the arm of the couch, elbow resting on my knee. “I’m on the football team.”
She raises a brow.
“The one staying across the lake.”
Still nothing.