Chapter 14 Maverick
Maverick
“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”
The towel is wrapped around her head like a turban, and she’s wrapped in a robe that came with the cabin. The robe’s two sizes too big, and I hope that if I stare at it hard enough, it will fall off her body.
“You only live once,” I announce, holding up the two champagne flutes I snagged from the back of the cabinet and giving them a little jiggle. One has a chip. The other might still have lipstick on it from the last person who stayed here. Classy.
Annabelle eyes me like I’ve lost my damn mind. “You seriously want to sneak into a stranger’s wedding? That is so tacky.”
“Do not get cold feet on me now,” I say. “I seriously need this. Eat someone else’s cake. Do the ‘Cupid Shuffle’ with people I’ll never see again. Cry during a speech that’s not meant for me. That’s the dream.”
Plus, I’m already getting bored. There are only so many things one can do in the woods in an isolated cabin—and since she and I are not a couple, it’s not as if we can have sex all day, every day.
She laughs, finally. “You have a problem.”
I grin. “I know. But I’ve also got a plan. So? You in?”
Her eyes flick toward the window where Moonrise at Star Lake is visible through the trees, twinkly lights already glowing like something out of a movie. Music drifts across the water—muffled bass, the hint of a dance floor warming up.
“I have the strangest feeling this is going to end badly.”
I feel my eyebrows raise. “What could possibly go wrong?”
My roomie nibbles her sexy bottom lip. I’ve sucked on that lip . . .
“So many things.”
“Come on. Balls to the walls—it’ll be so fucking fun, and I love free food.”
She’s standing in the kitchen wearing a robe like it’s couture, staring through the window, fixated on the twinkle lights as if she’s seriously debating whether or not to crash a wedding with me. I want to slide my hands inside that robe; caress the tits that have been in my mouth.
Annabelle is nodding, finally back to my way of thinking.
God, I love a woman who can be talked into bad decisions.
She’s quiet for a heartbeat, and I can practically hear the gears turning in that gorgeous head of hers. Calculating risk. Measuring reward. Probably factoring in shoe options.
“I mean,” she finally says, voice casual but eyes still on the window. “Technically it’s not crashing if we’re just . . . observing from a safe, respectful distance, right?”
I smirk. “‘Respectful distance’ my ass. I want to be part of the dance contest.”
Now she’s the one raising a brow. “Are you insane? You don’t think for one second you wouldn’t be recognized?” Annabelle snorts. “I mean, just ’cause I didn’t recognize you doesn’t mean someone else wont.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She shrugs unapologetically. “What? I didn’t.”
I press a hand to my chest. “Gutted. You know, for a guy who once did a billboard campaign in nothing but football pads, I thought I was at least semirecognizable.”
Annabelle levels me with a look. “I live under a rock. And apparently you’re not as famous as you think.”
I lean my elbows on the kitchen table and eye her robe-clad figure. “You’re deflecting. You haven’t said no yet.”
She snorts again. “Did you even bring dress shoes?”
“No. But I have incredible confidence—and I know for a fact the theme of the wedding is nature.”
She gawks at me. “How do you know what the theme of the wedding is?”
Easy. “When I was done getting my massage the other morning, one of the groomsmen had loose lips. Gave me all sorts of private information.”
“What kind of information?” she repeats, stepping closer like I just whispered a government secret.
I grin, lifting my brows. “Oh, you know. Groom’s ex-girlfriend RSVP’d yes, but the bride didn’t know she had been invited.”
Her eyes widen. “Nooo . . . ! That is juicy.” And completely fabricated—but it could happen! “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Yes,” she says slowly. “I think. But I want it to be true so bad.”
Don’t we all?
Annabelle is impulsive beneath all the sarcasm. She’s the kind of girl who eats dessert before dinner, the kind who texts you from one bedroom away to send a meme. The kind of girl who will 100 percent crash a wedding with me if she thinks she can get away with it.
“Hold on one second,” she says and vanishes down the hallway.
I stand and pace the kitchen, swipe my phone open, check the time. It’s a little after seven. Which means the ceremony is over. Dinner is wrapping up. Dancing is about to start.
Perfect.
I don’t know why this feels like a good idea. It’s not. It’s the exact opposite of a good idea after over three days in the woods with barely any internet, spotty cell service, and a whole lot of sexual tension between me and the roommate . . .
Crashing a wedding sounds like the exact kind of dumb fun I need.
And then she steps back into the room holding a dress toward me, on its hanger. “I brought this just in case. Thoughts?”
Dragging my gaze from her face to the delicate spaghetti straps of the skimpy dress she’s holding, I take note of the slit in the skirt, cataloging every dangerous, perfect inch of fabric. Baby blue. Satin.
“That’s what you brought ‘just in case’?” I ask, voice a little hoarse, because holy hell, just in case is doing a lot of heavy lifting in her world. Like—damn!
She shrugs one shoulder. “You never know when you’ll need a dress!”
“Annabelle.”
She raises her brows like she’s daring me to say something dumb.
“That dress is a felony in five states,” I tell her. “Six if you wear heels.”
Her lips twitch, but she’s still playing it cool, swinging the hanger by one finger like it’s no big deal.
It’s a very big deal.
“Would it be weird if I asked you to try it on?” I say, only half joking. “For, you know, research purposes.”
She snorts. “For science?”
“Exactly. I’m a man of science.”
“Be right back, Einstein.” So fucking cheeky.
She disappears down the hall again, leaving me to stare at the spot where she was standing and reevaluate suggesting we crash a wedding when I know we’ll end up dancing. Together. Close.
And her laugh would sneak past every single one of my defenses like it owns the place.
I rub the back of my neck and look out the window; the sound of the bedroom door creaking open has me turning before I can prepare myself.
And yeah.
Yeah, I’m done for.
She steps out barefoot, the dress hugging her curves like it was sewn onto her body by a team of angels with excellent lighting. Her hair is still twisted up in that towel, somehow making the whole look even more ridiculous and hot.
“Well?” she says, spinning slowly. “Do I pass inspection?”
I gape, touching my face to make sure my mouth isn’t open.
She’s braless, tits straining against the fabric.
“Uh,” I manage. “If I was marrying someone else and you showed up like that? I’d leave them.”
She clutches her heart dramatically. “That is the sweetest thing any man has ever said to me. Are you saying I pass?”
“You . . .” I swallow, then try again. “Yeah. You pass. The dress, on the other hand, might fail. It’s struggling.”
She raises one perfectly unimpressed brow. “Struggling?”
“To contain you.”
Now she’s laughing, shaking her head as she twirls back toward the bedroom, ass swaying.
“Get dressed!” she calls out. “We’re doing this.”
We’re doing this.
Fuck yeah!
I move toward the bedroom I’ve been crashing in and yank open my bag. Black pants. White shirt. Simple, but it’ll work. I throw it all on the bed and start changing fast, adrenaline kicking up like I’m suiting up for game day.
I button the last button on my shirt and catch my reflection in the mirror. “Don’t you dare fall for her.”
Too late. She’s already under my skin, wrapped around every thought like that pale-blue dress wraps around her curves.
I smooth the sleeves of my dress shirt and head back out to the kitchen where she’s waiting—hair still damp from her shower, it’s slicked back into a low bun at the nape of her neck, a few strands escaping to curl against her cheekbones.
She’s wearing pearl studs—small, classic, elegant. The kind of earrings you wear to a real wedding. The kind of earrings that scream “I’m not a party crasher, I’m a guest, thank you very much.”
Two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of tequila sit in front of her.
Well, well, well.
“Pregame ritual?” I ask, stepping into the room.
She grins, cheeks flushed. “Wedding crashing requires confidence. Confidence requires tequila. Don’t fight me on this.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I take the glass she offers, and we clink. “To terrible decisions,” she says, eyes twinkling.
Clink! go our shot glasses.
As I tip it back, hot liquid burning my throat, I realize I should be worried about someone recognizing me. About her getting bored. About this being a mistake.
But I’m not.
I’m worried I won’t be able to stop looking at her all night.
“Maybe I should have another one.”
Annabelle snorts. “Save it for the dance floor, big guy.”
She grabs my hand—doesn’t ask, just laces her fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and pulls me toward the front door.
Outside, the sky is painted pink and orange, the last hints of daylight fading as the sun dips behind the trees.
I inhale the crisp air; pine and woodsmoke thread through on a cool breeze as we follow the narrow footpath from our cabin toward the resort.
She grips me tighter so she doesn’t trip as her heel catches on a branch.
Annabelle lifts the hem of her dress as we go, stepping over roots and ducking under a low-hanging branch.
Suddenly hyperaware of how close we are, the way her shoulder brushes mine every few steps, how the baby bit of tequila hums in my veins and mixes with the clean scent of her skin—like soap and lake water and whatever perfume she probably put on for no one but herself.
“It’s a live band,” she whispers. “I love that.”
“Reception’s in full swing,” I whisper back. “Think they’re ready for us?”
She glances up at me with a sly smile. “They have no idea what’s coming.”
We break through the trees, emerging from the shaded trail like we’re stepping into another world.
The back lawn of the resort stretches out in front of us, strung with hundreds of fairy lights that zigzag overhead like constellations.
Round tables are scattered across the grass, white tablecloths fluttering in the breeze.
A hardwood dance floor is laid down at the center, ringed by flickering lanterns and tipsy wedding guests holding champagne flutes.
Perfect.
The bride and groom are nowhere in sight, but the band is already in full swing, music jazzy and current and enough to make you want to tap your feet. A group of older women are camped out at a table near the bar, giggling behind their wineglasses.
I feel Annabelle’s hand tighten in mine. “Here goes nothing.”