Chapter 4 Maverick
Maverick
I’m going to stay out of her way, she’s going to stay out of mine.
Easier said than done . . .
And it’s obvious we need rules because it’s been twenty-four hours since this whole double-booked-cottage disaster kicked off.
Hours of frosty silences, aggressive door slamming, and the sounds of her scrolling through her phone from the couch—in a volume loud enough for me to hear everything—waiting for the callbacks from the housing company.
Calls that are undoubtably never going to come.
Not from my rental company. Not from hers.
It’s obvious: No one is coming to fix this mess.
Not anytime soon.
So yeah—we need some goddamn rules.
And I love rules.
Rules are boundaries. Rules keep you from losing your goddamn mind when a woman with big eyes and bigger opinions takes over half your house and acts as if you’re the inconvenience.
“I’m putting some ground rules on the fridge,” I announce, scribbling them onto the back of a flyer I found in a drawer. “So we don’t kill each other.”
She stares back at me through the patio screen, sitting with a paperback, pretending to read. “Excuse me?” she barks, snapping the book shut. “You’re making rules now?”
I don’t look up from the counter. “Ground rules.”
“Without me?”
“Pretty sure dictatorships operate faster than committees.” I smirk to myself and mutter, “Good one, Mav—you’re hilarious.”
Suddenly she’s up and out of the chair, the sliding door screeching on its rusty rail, and standing with her arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “This isn’t a dorm, Maverick. You don’t get to slap a passive-aggressive list on the fridge and call it diplomacy.”
No one said anything about being diplomatic. Literally no one.
I calmly tape the list to the fridge with a strip of painter’s tape I found in the junk drawer. “It’s not passive aggressive. It’s straight-up aggressive aggressive.”
She bumps into me so she can scan the list. “‘Rule one: No threats of homicide before coffee’?” she reads. “You wrote this with crayon.”
“It was the only writing instrument I could find.”
Her nose scrunches as she continues reading. “‘Rule two: Shared spaces are for quiet activities only’? So now you’re dictating the volume of my voice?”
“And your phone. And the TV.” I nod. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
Glad she understands.
Then I watch as she rips the list off the fridge and crumples it up like a drunk dude at a bar crushing a beer can.
Rude!
Then—of course—she pivots to face me, hands on her hips like she’s the sheriff of this rental cottage. “If we’re doing rules”—she notches her chin up—“we’re doing them together.”
“You just threw away the list,” I gasp.
“Because it was unfairly biased.”
“Yes? And?”
We’re in a standoff over rules. This is my nightmare.
“I’m serious,” she says, marching over to the counter and dragging a notepad toward her. Manages to find an actual pen. “We need to establish mutual expectations.”
I roll my eyes, pulling out a stool and sitting. “That’s what I was doing.”
“No,” she says, uncapping the pen with a flourish like she’s about to sign a declaration of war. “What you were doing was dictating terms like a cranky landlord.”
I notch my chin up, too, uttering the words I know are going to piss her off. “You are a guest in this cabin.”
“I’m a co-renter,” she fires back. “Equal stake. Equal say.”
I lean against the counter. “Fine. But just so we’re clear, if you start labeling the fridge shelves, I’m walking into the lake.”
“No need. I already licked the hummus.” She doesn’t look up, just casually tosses that out like we’re not in the middle of a territorial standoff.
I blink. “You what?”
“Relax, Yeti. I’m joking.”
Yeti? Is she talking to me?
She scribbles across the top of the page Cabin Rules and Regulations in bold, blue letters.
“You’re giving it a name?”
“All treaties need a name.”
I try not to smile at her. “Nerd.”
“Rule one,” she says, tapping the pen against her lip. “We respect shared spaces.”
No-brainer. “No loud music, please don’t take calls on speaker. If you have to, do it outside.”
She nods along, making the notations on the paper. “Agree. I can’t stand loud noises.” Same. I almost say it, but she beats me to it and says, “I also can’t stand chewing. Or slurping. Or mouth breathing.”
“Now I feel attacked.”
Her eyes flick up. “Do you slurp?”
“No.” Yes—soup and coffee.
“Do you chew with your mouth open?”
“Absolutely not.” Sometimes, depending on what it is.
She taps her pen twice. “We’ll let you stick around, I guess—for now.”
I huff out a laugh and lean forward, elbows on the counter. “Rule two: bathroom courtesy. If you take longer than twenty minutes, I’m picking the lock.”
“Oh please,” she scoffs. “You were in there at least a half hour last night.”
“I was icing my knee!”
Annabelle snorts. “You can do that here, in the kitchen. Or outside.”
Is she micromanaging me? “Rule three: no horror movies after dark. I heard you watching one last night, and I swear it sounded like someone getting murdered in the living room.”
“That was The Bachelorette.”
I shrug. “I don’t see the difference.”
She gawks at me. “If you insult my shows, I’m changing the Wi-Fi password.”
“You don’t know the Wi-Fi password.” It’s printed on a sheet of paper, folded in a drawer next to the oven, but my lips are sealed.
“I’ll find it eventually. I’m crafty.”
I point my pen at her. “Rule four: If you have a problem with something, say it to my face. Don’t get buckie about it and sulk around the place like a child.”
Annabelle rears back, hands going up. “Whoa—tell me how you really feel.”
Okay. “I value honesty—even if it’s brutal.” Better still.
She narrows her eyes. “Great. No leaving your beard trimmings in the sink, it’s disgusting.”
I blink. “That happened once, and it was this morning.”
Her nose goes into the air, and she tilts her chin. “No beard trimmings in the sink.”
“Fine.” I scrawl it down. “Rule five: We don’t eat each other’s groceries without permission. I know my protein bars are tempting, but keep your hands off.”
“Puh-leaze. You think I want your stupid little sand bricks?” She feigns a gag, tongue and all. “Not a problem. I’d rather have my Double Stuf OREOs.”
I scrawl Oreos Are Off Limits in capital letters just to make her roll her eyes. She does.
“No barging into the bathroom without knocking.”
As if I would do that? Do I look like a fucking idiot? “Are you planning to leave the door unlocked?”
“I live alone. I’m used to doing whatever I want—I might forget!”
“Unacceptable,” I tell her, thumping my hand onto the counter. “If I see something I can’t unsee, that’s on you.”
“Oh please,” she sputters. “Like you’d be traumatized.”
She’s not wrong. The thought of accidentally catching her naked, with her tits out, doesn’t fill me with dread.
“That’s not the point.” I clear my throat. “No surprise boobs.”
She laughs, full and bright, leaning over the counter to jot it down. Smart-ass.
“Fine,” she concedes. “Then you can’t walk around in just a towel. Surprise abs are just as offensive as surprise boobs.”
“Offensive?” I echo, taking offense at that.
“No nudity. No partial nudity. Full pants and full shirts required in common areas.”
I clear my throat. “You know this only works if we’re both abiding by it.”
She pauses mid-scribble, cheeks pinking. “Obviously.”
“So what I hear you saying is, no skinny-dipping?”
“Obviously,” she repeats.
I lean back on the stool, folding my arms. “Good to know. I’ll keep my cannonballs fully clothed.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “Do not cannonball.”
“That’s not a rule.”
“It is now.” She scribbles it onto the page, underlines it twice, tongue peeking out as she concentrates. “There.”
I squint at her. “What do you have against jumping into water?”
“Nothing,” she scoffs.
“So you’re only making that a rule to be difficult?”
“I . . .” She hesitates. “No.”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the counter. “So if I told you to go jump in the lake right now, fully clothed . . . you’d have no problem with that?”
“Is that a dare? What are we, five?” Her pretty blue eyes roll. “If I wanted to swim, I’d swim. I don’t need a man giving me permission.”
Damn, she’s feisty! “Who said anything about permission? I’m just wondering how far you’ll go to prove a point.”
She stands, chin raised. “You think I won’t do it?”
I gesture toward the sliding door. “Water’s right there, Annabelle. Show me I’m wrong.”
My reluctant house guest doesn’t hesitate. Spins on her heel and stomps toward the door like she’s been waiting for an excuse to throw herself off a long pier and into a lake.
I watch her go, amused. “Wait,” I shout out after her, dragging myself upright off the stool with a groan. “You can’t take anything off! No nudity in shared spaces.”
My knee twinges in protest, but I limp along after her, hobbling like a toddler who just learned how to run.
“Blah blah blah, I know what the rules are.”
I point at her as she goes stomping onto the deck. “Keep every thread on your body exactly where it is.” I sound like a prude, hardly recognizing myself.
“Relax, Grandpa. I’m not taking anything off. God forbid you see a flash of my skin.”
She stalks straight to the edge of the dock, arms loose at her sides, head tilted back like she’s soaking in the sun, and suddenly I have a thought: “You know how to swim, right?” Because if she doesn’t and something happens, I’m not sure my leg is strong enough . . .
She spreads her arms like she’s preparing for flight. “News flash, old man: I was a lifeguard in high school.”
“Perfect. So you can rescue yourself when you inevitably smack your head on a rock.”
“There are no rocks!”
“You don’t know that!”
Annabelle shakes her head, laughing, then shouts, “Try not to miss me too much!” before launching herself into the air.
I groan as she disappears into the bubbly blue with a splash that soaks the lower half of my sweatpants.
She surfaces with a triumphant whoop, slick hair plastered to her head and water streaming down her cheeks like she’s in a commercial for a lakeside resort.
Annabelle flips onto her back, arms stretched out, sun hitting the water just right, turning everything golden and making her look like some carefree water nymph goddess.
Ugh.
Annoying.
“Ahhh,” she sing-songs. “So relaxing. You should join me.”
Her hair floats, creating a halo around her head.
Then she stands suddenly, water cascading off her as her grin turns downright wicked; she plants her feet and cups both hands, scooping up lake water.
Oh no.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, backing up a step—too slow.
She launches a splash.
Cold water smacks me square in the chest, soaking my shirt and dragging an annoyed grunt from my throat. “Knock it off!”
“Oops,” she says, entirely unapologetic, gathering more ammunition. “No whining like a baby.”
Another splash hits my shins, and she laughs—loud and carefree, droplets flying as she spins and flings another wave my way.
“Seriously,” I sputter, holding my hands up like that’s going to stop her. “I’m literally injured!”
“That sounds like a you problem,” she sings.
I liked it better when we were making up rules and I was the one roasting her—not the other way around.
“Okay, nymph, that’s enough,” I call out, retreating a step before I end up fully soaked. “Fun’s over.”
Annabelle rolls her eyes, then kicks her legs and swims back toward the dock; climbs out slowly, water sluicing down her body, dripping from her hair, her clothes. Soaked to the bone.
“You’re no fun,” she says. “Grump.”
Wordlessly, I grab a towel off the chair and toss it to her. “I’m not trying to be fun. Just wanted to see if you were impulsive enough to jump in a lake—and you are.”
“I’m not impulsive, but I love a good dare.”
As she towels off, I limp my way over to the Adirondack chairs at the edge of the pier, lowering myself with a wince and a grunt.
She follows, plopping down beside me, water still dripping from her legs and pooling at her ankles.
The sun’s starting to dip now, the lake catching fire with that golden-hour glow that makes everything feel poetic and serene.
She sighs, content, then peeks over at me. Down at my leg. Up at me. “You gonna tell me what happened to your leg—specifically?”
I glance at her, surprised she asked. “Torn ACL. Surgery last month.” On the mend.
“Ouch.” She leans back, gaze on the horizon. “I’m sorry—I hear that’s tough.”
It is. “I’m at the part where I do physical therapy, obviously have to be careful, but there’s no reason I can’t go back to training when the season starts.”
Annabelle nods. “Right, football. Almost forgot.” Nibbles on her bottom lip. “Is there any reason you’re here alone? Anyone missing you at home?”
Is she asking if I have a girlfriend? Or a wife?
I hold up my left hand and flash my fourth finger. “Not a soul.”
Annabelle arches a brow. “That’s not exactly proof. For all I know, you’ve got a whole wife, three kids, and a minivan.”
I would never own a fucking minivan. “What about you? Anyone coming to check in? Maybe a boyfriend who might drive out here looking to throw hands?”
“Throw hands?” Eye roll. “Stop. I hate it when men fight.”
That doesn’t answer the question, but I don’t press her.
She pulls her towel tighter, adjusting herself in the chair. “I broke up with someone recently,” she offers. “He was a drip, and I realized it was a waste of time.”
“Waste of time?” I ask. “How?”
Annabelle twists the edge of her towel in her hands, gaze fixed on the lake. “You ever date someone who felt like wallpaper?”
I blink. “I have no idea what that means.”
She lifts one shoulder. “He was there. Bland. Safe. Said the right things. Liked the right shows. Kissed the right way. But it was all so . . . beige. I kept waiting for some kind of spark.” Her hand waves through the air. “But it never showed up.”
I consider that. “So you dumped him because he was boring?”
“I dumped him because I was boring when I was with him,” she says. “I didn’t like the version of myself that showed up for that relationship. She was agreeable. Predictable. That’s not me.”
I smirk. “No shit.”
She bumps my arm. “Shut up.”
“Is that why you’re here this weekend?”
“Probably.” Annabelle sighs. “As you know, my best friend Lucy found Harris and she’s jetting off to Arizona and going on fancy dates and getting laid and they’re screwing constantly and I’m so happy for her—but also jealous?” She laughs. “I needed a reset . . .”
We fall into silence again, but this time, it’s charged. The kind that makes you hyperaware of how close someone’s shoulder is to yours. The way their hair smells faintly of lake water and vanilla shampoo. The fact that even though this whole day has been a fucked-up, chaotic accident—
Somewhere on the lake, a loon calls. Boat engines echo against the trees. The wind blows.
“This place is magic, isn’t it?” Annabelle says at last.
I raise a brow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”