Chapter 2 Maverick #2
I can’t tell if she’s this unimpressed or has zero clue what I’m talking about. Either way I find it incredibly annoying.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “I play for Arizona. Defensive line. You might’ve heard of Harris Bennett?”
That gets her attention. “Harris? As in Lucy’s Harris?”
Bingo.
“That Harris.” I clear my throat. “Technically this is a recovery week. Harris and the rest of the team were here for the preseason retreat—and when they were all raving about the solitude, well . . . my knee is jacked up, and I needed somewhere to recuperate.”
She lifts both brows. “And instead you got me.”
“I got you,” I agree, deadpan.
We stare at each other for a beat too long. One of her earrings is twisted backward. Her hair looks like it was attacked by the hammock gods. And she’s annoyingly cute as hell.
“Well,” she says after a beat, “I too was promised tranquility and good Wi-Fi, and so far, I’ve got neither.”
Is she trying to one-up me? Can’t decide.
“We’re stuck here until someone decides to call you back—if they call you back. Which is probably never.”
Annabelle huffs. “There’s only one bed, so one of us has to leave.”
I gesture toward the door, relishing the way her eyes linger on my bicep. “Feel free.”
“Look, sir—I’m not thrilled about the idea either. But we’re both here. Neither of us is moving. And unless we want to alternate nights in the world’s worst futon, we should probably act like adults and—God, I don’t know—create a chart or something.”
A chart? So we know who gets the bed and when?
I don’t fucking think so.
“Absolutely not. I’m literally six-five and one bad night’s sleep away from permanent physical therapy.”
She hums, pretending to consider. “Rock paper scissors?”
“No.”
“Arm wrestle?”
I deadpan. “What part of jacked up from a torn ligament are you not understanding?”
“So that’s it?” Annabelle throws her arms up. “You’re claiming the bed?”
“Correct.”
“Rude! You can’t do that!”
“Says who?” I glance around. “Last time I checked, we were the only two here.”
“You, sir, are no gentleman!”
“No shit.” I laugh. “What gave it away?”
Her eyes trail down my neck and land on my chest, nostrils flaring. “Would you go put a freaking shirt on?”
I smirk. “Why? Is it distracting you?”
“No,” she says way too quickly. “It’s disrespectful to air out your nipples during a housing crisis.”
I glance down. “My nipples are literally minding their own business—they’re not even hard.”
“Well, they’re making me uncomfortable.”
I laugh again, heading toward the bedroom to find a T-shirt, hobbling most of the way there ’cause my leg has begun to throb.
Behind me, Annabelle mutters, “Oh fantastic. He’s limping. His pain and suffering keeps getting better.”
“Speak for yourself,” I grunt, grabbing a soft tee from my bag and yanking it over my head with a wince. The knee flares again, hot and sharp, and for a brief second, I have to pause to catch my breath, gripping the bedpost.
God, I hate this part. The postsurgery throbbing. The slowed-down version of myself I barely recognize. The way my body feels like it’s constantly two steps behind my pride.
But I shake it off and walk back out like nothing happened. Can’t let her see that.
Annabelle’s curled up on the couch now, blanket wrapped around her, like a burrito of indignation, scrolling something on her phone with exaggerated aggression.
“You look cozy,” I say, settling into the armchair nearby. “Don’t get too relaxed. You could be out on your ass at a moment’s notice.”
She narrows her eyes. “Ha ha.”
I grin. “Just saying. You should probably sleep with one shoe on. Makes it easier to run when the rental company inevitably realizes you’re the clerical error.”
“Oh my God.” She shudders. “Why did Lucy never warn me that Harris’s teammates were—”
“Hot?” I offer helpfully.
“I was going to say ‘unbearably full of themselves,’ but sure, let’s go with ‘hot.’”
“Hey,” I say, quieter now. “I wasn’t totally kidding. If they don’t call back by tomorrow, I’ll help you sort it out. Worst case, I contact the resort and borrow a cot for you to sleep on. I’m sure they have the nice kind the size of a twin bed.”
She folds her arms, lips twitching. “Wow. I’m too stunned at your horrible offer to be offended you’re offering me a bed with wheels. What’s next? You gonna warm up some tea and ask me about my feelings?”
“Absolutely not.” Gross.
“Would you offer me the bed if I sprained my ankle?”
“No,” I deadpan. “Because I have a busted knee. I’d put a Band-Aid around yours and tell you to walk it off.”
If I were romantically interested in her, I might even kiss it . . .
She laughs, soft and surprised, and I hate how much I like the sound of it.
“Hmm,” she hums, shifting to tuck the blanket tighter around her legs. “I guess I could do worse than a smart-ass with a bum knee and a healthy protein addiction.”
Aww. “That’s literally the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Not.
She smirks, eyes drifting toward the window, where light spills onto the rug. “I still hate you a little.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want to lose the foundation of our relationship.”
She shifts, adjusting the throw pillow behind her like she’s trying to get comfortable in a nest of spite and throw blankets. “You know what would help this relationship? You offering me the bed.”
Not a fucking chance. I was here first. “Too bad we’re both selfish and stubborn.”
“Are you calling me selfish?”
I nod, leaning to grab a grape. Pop it into my mouth. She must have brought them, because I sure as shit didn’t.
Annabelle pulls them out of my reach. “Don’t touch my grapes.”
“See?” I smirk knowingly. “Selfish.” I lean across the counter again, closer this time. “Just give me one grape, Annabelle. One. I’ve had a long day of being massaged, and now I’m being denied basic fruit access in my own damn rental.”
“Co-rental,” she corrects, and pops a grape into her mouth without breaking eye contact.
“Are you taunting me?”
Her shoulders lift. “Probably.”
I reach for the bowl again.
She yanks it back. “Dude. You’re like a squirrel hoarding snacks before winter.”
Truthfully, I couldn’t give a shit about the grapes. It’s the principle of the matter, denying me food in my own place, which she’s trying to take over. The principle of being denied basic nourishment in the very cottage I booked with my own credit card.
My knee throbs.
“Did you know,” I say slowly. “In some cultures, refusing to share food is considered a declaration of war. ’Cause I knew.”
“In this culture,” she says, smacking on another grape. “It’s called ‘setting boundaries.’”
“Agree to disagree.”
She clutches the bowl protectively to her chest. “You didn’t buy these.”
“You didn’t book this place,” I fire back. “Not first, anyway.”
Annabelle slides one solitary grape across the counter. Slowly. Like it’s hush money. Or a bribe.
I eye it skeptically.
Then I eyeball her.
Then the grape.
“You’re giving me a pity grape?” I don’t want it.
“It’s a peace grape.”
“There is nothing peaceful about this moment.”
She raises a brow. “Take it or leave it.”
I lean back, leaving the grape. I would rather hold a grudge and limp through the week by myself than accept her olive branch.
War is way more fun.
She watches me, expecting I’ll cave. When I don’t—no one likes grapes that much—her smile deepens like I’ve played directly into her hand. Please. Give me a damn break.
“Suit yourself,” she says, popping my grape into her mouth. Slowly. Eyes locked on mine like it’s a power move.
Oh, it’s on.
I stand up and limp to the fridge, then yank the door open with a little more force than necessary. My knee protests. My ego does not.
She can sit there nibbling grapes while I eat the steak and asparagus that were my leftovers from the resort. I ate at the restaurant for dinner yesterday, too lazy to cook for myself.
“Make yourself comfortable while you wait for LakeLand to call.”
“LakeStay.” She corrects me in a patronizing tone.
I grab the container from the top shelf, flip the lid, stab a piece of steak with my fork without warming it first, and pop it into my mouth.
“Delicious,” I groan, chewing loudly and with my mouth open on purpose. “Tastes like priority booking.” So tasty.
“You’re gonna weaponize your dinner now?”
“Did you want some?” I hold the loaded fork in her direction. “You said you went grocery shopping. You will not starve while you’re waiting for your marching orders.”
“My marching papers,” she revises. Meanwhile, she’s still standing barefoot in my kitchen, breathing my oxygen.
“Yes,” I say, stabbing another cold bite of steak and shoving it into my mouth. “You’ll be honorably discharged the moment LakeStay gets their shit together.”
She rolls her eyes. “You talk like you’ve claimed this house with your testosterone.”
“’Cause I did.”
“We’ll see.”
Did we not already determine that I got the bed and she would suffer on the couch while she waited for a return phone call?
“I’m not giving up the mattress,” I remind her.
“I never said you had to—but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep trying to change your mind.”
Good luck with that, sweetheart.
I’ve won Super Bowls, and you do not get this far in life by being a quitter.