Chapter 5 Annabelle
Annabelle
Captain’s log: This couch sucks.
It’s lumpy. It’s scratchy. The cushions are flat in all the wrong places and somehow still manage to puff up where my spine is supposed to go. There’s a spring that keeps poking me in the ass, and the blanket I borrowed is thin enough to qualify as a napkin.
Also I’m cold. And awake.
I’ve flipped the pillow, flipped it again, shoved it under my head, shoved it under my butt, thrown it across the room, retrieved it, and then threatened it with violence.
Still not comfy.
I toss. I turn. I sigh dramatically into the quiet house, hoping maybe the universe will take pity on me and knock me unconscious. It doesn’t.
“Oh my God, this is so annoying.” I’m supposed to be relaxing, dammit!
That was the whole point of coming here—a peaceful week, with no devices, to clear my head, detox from social media, sleep in late, walk around in no bra, and answer to no one.
Instead, I’m stuck with a roommate. A hot, grumpy, on-the-mend roommate with a defined jawline and cleft chin and abs that need to be covered up so I stop staring at them.
My stomach grumbles.
“Fine, you win,” I tell myself, flinging the thin throw blanket off my legs and swinging upright. “Midnight snack. Whatever.”
My oversize T-shirt slides halfway down my thighs and my fuzzy socks pad softly over the hardwood as I tiptoe to the kitchen, trying to keep the creaky floorboards quiet. The last thing I want to do is wake Captain Limpy.
The fridge hums as I tug it open, squinting against the light. I am a gremlin crawling out of a cave, foraging for sustenance. Cold air wafts over my bare legs, and I do a little shiver dance on the spot, peering into the shelves.
What am I in the mood for . . .
“Hmm.” I need fuel. Something salty or cheesy or carb loaded? Ice cream? Ugh, I don’t have any. Chips? Don’t have those either. “Lord, I sure could go for some tortilla chips.”
The problem? Now that I’m staring at everything, I realize: Everything I want to eat is Maverick’s.
The rules were clear: No eating each other’s snacks.
I bite my lip, eye twitching. The man drinks protein shakes and looks like he eats raw spinach. What is he doing with streusel-frosted cupcakes—and wait—are those caramel clusters?
I hesitate.
No eating each other’s snacks, no eating each other’s snacks, no eating each other’s snacks . . .
Then I justify.
He has abs. He’ll survive without one of his chocolate desserts.
He Won’t Even Know!
“This moment will be between myself and the universe.” No witnesses.
I peel back the seal on the half-empty package and slide out a nut-covered cluster, popping the entire thing into my mouth, eyes already rolling to the back of my head.
My God, is this good.
I slump against the counter in the dark kitchen with all the grace of a raccoon in a trash bin, chewing dramatically and sighing and moaning.
“So good.” I groan, using my finger to wipe some of the drool escaping my mouth. “Oh my God, he does not deserve these. He’ll never kn—”
“Are you seriously eating my chocolate right now?”
Startled, I scream. Drop the second cluster I had waiting in the palm of my hand, and spin around on my heels, hands going up in mock defense.
Maverick stands in the kitchen, fridge light illuminating him, looking every inch like a serial killer with abs, arms crossed.
No shirt. Chest, skin, pecs.
“Jesus Christ,” I sputter, clutching my chest. “Are you trying to scare the shit out of me?” I huff. “You can’t sneak up on people like that!”
He blinks. “I live here.”
“I thought you were sleeping!” I accuse, eyeballing the fallen cluster, sad that its short life ended on my watch.
“I was,” Maverick says, leaning his big, annoyingly broad frame against the doorframe like he’s posing for a lumberjack calendar. “Until I heard moaning. I always wake up for that.”
“I’m sleep deprived and emotionally fragile,” I reply, standing tall and unapologetic in my fuzzy socks and T-shirt.
He lifts a brow. “But why is my chocolate in your mouth?”
Maverick reaches around me to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and his arm brushes against my boobs—just briefly, but enough to make me remember I’m not wearing a bra and maybe standing in the middle of the kitchen in this oversize tee isn’t the brightest idea.
“I was under a blanket, trying to sleep,” I huff. “But someone snores like a dying bear, and one thing led to another . . .”
“I do not snore.”
“You absolutely do. Like a chainsaw.”
He laughs, low and gravelly, and I hate how much I like the sound. Then he reaches past me to grab a second package of clusters from the top shelf—hidden behind a container of plain Greek yogurt—and an English muffin. A super-secret backup stash? How Dare He!
I gasp. “You have more?”
Maverick pulls the bag out of my reach, grinning. “You want these too?”
I nod, eyes wide and hopeful. Yes, please.
“Say you’re sorry.”
I purse my lips. “For what?”
He waves the bag tauntingly. “For eating my snacks without asking first, per the rules.”
I mean, he’s not wrong. Still. I love digging my heels in. “Wow. Are you going to hold that over my head?”
He waits.
“Fine,” I murmur. “I’m sorry.”
“For . . . ?”
“For accidentally eating your chocolate. And moaning. And traumatizing you with my not wearing a bra.”
“Obviously you’re not wearing a bra—it’s two in the morning.” Spoken like a guy who was probably raised with sisters.
The second he says it, the kitchen gets warmer. Or maybe that’s my skin combusting? Warm. So hot.
I’m so very well aware of my braless boobs, aware of the way the soft cotton of my oversize shirt caresses my chest. Aware of the slight chill in the air brushing against my thighs.
Aware of the fact that Maverick is very shirtless, very close, adding an intimacy to this entire encounter that makes my breath catch in my throat.
My nipples tighten under my shirt, traitorously.
I cross my arms. Silence stretches between us, taut and weirdly electric.
“You want?” he asks, holding up the chocolate cluster between his fingers.
When I reach out, he doesn’t let go right away. Our hands touch—his warm, rough fingers linger over mine a second too long as a zing! shoots through my arm. I instantly hate having nerve endings . . .
I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
“Don’t say I never share.”
“I won’t—because you’re doing it reluctantly.”
“Sharing is sharing.”
He leans in enough that I smell his body spray and the faintest trace of soap, doing all sorts of crazy shit to my lower half. I take a giant step sideways, practically vaulting toward the fridge.
Is it hot in here? “I need water,” I mumble.
“No—you need pants,” he says, biting back a grin.
I swallow. Hard. “So,” I say, desperate to fill the silence. “Do you have any siblings?”
“Why?”
I shrug. “Just wondering.” The fact that you’re not fazed by my lack of clothing . . . Some would say: immune.
“Two older brothers. Married. Both live in North Carolina.”
“Ah.” I nod like that tells me anything.
“You?”
“None. My mom always said I was enough of a handful on my own.”
“No arguments here.”
I make a face. “You’re so rude.”
“You call it ‘rude,’ I call it ‘honesty.’”
I narrow my eyes. “You know what your problem is?”
“Please,” he says, gesturing magnanimously. “Enlighten me.”
“You think just because you look sexy when you limp and have the bone structure of a Greek god that you can get away with saying anything.”
He looks genuinely confused. “Sexy limp?”
My face flames. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
Silence drapes over us again, not awkward this time—just quiet and full of unsaid things. The fridge hums. Outside the cottage, the wind whistles, and pine trees bend from the gusts.
Then: “You’re kind of weird,” he tells me.
“Excuse me?” That is not at all what I thought he was going to say.
“I meant it as a compliment.”
A compliment? “How is that a compliment?”
“Don’t be offended—I find you so entertaining, I’ve considered letting you stay.”
Letting? Letting Me Stay? “How many times do I have to remind you, I paid to be here. Quit acting like you’re doing me a favor.”
He shrugs, leaning against the counter like he’s got all night. “I mean, technically I am. I was here first.”
I sigh and lean back against the fridge, watching him in the dim kitchen light. “You’re kind of grumpy, you know that?”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You are absolutely grumpy.”
He doesn’t argue. Just crosses his arms over his chest and waits.
I tilt my head. “What happened to you?”
That earns me a flicker of something I can’t read. “What do you mean?” he asks.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, “That’s a personal question for two a.m.”
I shrug. “You woke me up. I think I’ve earned the right to poke a little.”
“You woke me up,” he parrots. “I heard you digging through the fridge.”
How? I was super quiet.
Another pause. Then he says, “I don’t like wasting time on things that don’t matter. That’s not being grumpy; that’s being efficient.” He slurps from his water glass. “I came to recover, not make friends.”
“Clearly.”
“I have friends,” he adds, like it’s important I know this. “Plenty of them.”
I do not doubt that—knowing he is a professional athlete, I can imagine that despite his sour mood, people—women—clamber to surround him.
“Do you scowl this much when you’re hanging out with your buds? Or is that a perk for sharing your cabin?”
He levels me with a look. “I’m here to rehab. Rest. Be alone. Not entertain a parade of small talk.”
I hold my hands up. “Hey, I just wanted a snack.”
Maverick scowls. “And you ate mine.”
Lame. “Are you ever going to let that go?”
His wide shoulders shrug. “Probably not.”
I narrow my eyes. “You really don’t do casual conversation.”
“I don’t see the point in talking for the sake of it.” He shakes his head, rinsing his cup in the sink and setting it aside to dry. “So what do you do? You didn’t actually tell me.”
“Do? What, like, for work?”
“No, for fun,” he deadpans. “Yes, for work.”
Jeez, he’s grumpy in the middle of the night. I blink. “I am a wedding planner, actually. And I plan events.”
“A wedding planner?” He quirks a brow. “Do you plan the whole thing? Dresses, flowers, seating charts?”
I snort. “No, I’m not a magician. I coordinate vendors, manage schedules, deal with venues. Sometimes I mediate cake tastings and bridal party meltdowns. It’s basically babysitting with clipboards.”
He hums like he’s impressed despite himself. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” I sigh dramatically. “But also kind of amazing when it all comes together. Especially if there’s a dog in a tuxedo involved.”
He makes a face like he wants to protest but then nods slowly. “I’d show up for a dog in a tux.”
“Wouldn’t we all?”
Maverick pulls the fridge open and stares into it, the same way I had when I first woke up hungry. “There’s a wedding at the resort this weekend. Bridal party started arriving yesterday.”
Oh? That’s a fun tidbit. I slide onto a stool at the island. “Did you speak to anyone over there, or did you stalk around scowling?”
Maverick snorts, grabbing a yogurt and a spoon. “I nodded at a few of the groomsmen who recognized me.”
“Gracious me,” I murmur. “Did they jizz their pants from joy?”
He ignores me. “One of the groomsmen was bragging about the private chef they hired for the rehearsal dinner. Wagyu sliders, lobster tacos. They’re going all out.”
“Lobster tacos sound incredible.” My stomach agrees. “Maybe if I wander close enough to the lot line, I’ll be mistaken for a cousin and invited to the reception.”
“Anyway,” he continues, spoon halfway to his mouth, “I overheard someone say the bride’s a social media influencer or something. So everything’s being documented. Drones. Photographers. Bridesmaids with ring lights.”
“Ugh,” I groan. “One of those weddings.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s less about getting married and more about the aesthetic. People like that don’t care if the cake tastes good—they care that it photographs well.”
He nods thoughtfully, swallowing his yogurt. “Sounds like you hate those kinds of weddings?”
“I don’t hate them,” I say. “Influencer weddings are like hosting a Broadway show where all the actors are drunk and in heels and the director keeps changing her mind.” And doing random TikTok dances in random places throughout the day.
Maverick chuckles—low and warm, the sound curling around me like a blanket I didn’t know I wanted. “Well, I hope it rains.”
“What?” I gape, appalled.
“On the day of the wedding,” he says, licking his spoon clean. “Just a light drizzle. Nothing dangerous but enough to fuck up their footage.”
I gasp. “Maverick—that’s such a mean thing to say!”
He shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “I said ‘drizzle.’ I’m not summoning a hurricane. Calm down, jeez.”
“You might as well be,” I scold. “Do you have any idea how much chaos a little mist can cause to a hairstyle?”
“Nope. Nor do I give a shit.”
“You’re so rude.”
He leans one hip against the counter, drying his hands on a towel. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I glance at the clock. It’s way too late—or too early—for whatever this weird little moment is. A part of me knows I should turn in, escape back to the couch and try for some sleep.
I linger anyway. There’s a long beat where neither of us says anything. The kitchen’s quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you aware of every heartbeat, every breath.
Then, softly: “You gonna be okay out here?”
It’s not flirtatious. Not teasing. A little too genuine for a guy who claims he came here to avoid people.
I nod, suddenly more tired than I was five minutes ago. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
He nods back. “All right. Well. Try not to rob me again.”
“No promises.”
We part ways—me to the couch, him down the hall—and just before he disappears, he glances over his shoulder. “Hey, Annabelle?”
“Yeah?”
“If it does rain this weekend . . .”
I wait.
“We’re crashing that wedding.”
Or, even if it doesn’t, I add silently.