Chapter 18 Maverick
Maverick
I’m not even a little mad about waking up married.
Confused? Sure.
Foggy on the logistics? Definitely.
But mad? Not even a little.
Is that fucked up or no?
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the gold band on my finger like it’s the best party favor I’ve ever accidentally taken home. I twist it around once. Twice. It catches the sunlight and winks back at me.
Huh. I kind of like it?
I mean—I’m not dumb. I know this isn’t legally binding. There was no paperwork. No witness signatures or sober judgment. Not even a real wedding license involved.
Still. I can’t help the giddy twist in my gut every time I look at that ring.
“Okay,” Annabelle blurts, holding her phone like a weapon. “I googled it. Apparently, in Washington State, verbal consent and a ceremony can technically be recognized if there are at least two witnesses? But I have no idea if that’s true or not? Or—”
“Babe.”
She freezes mid-rant. “What?”
I stand slowly, walking toward her until there’s barely an inch between us. Her eyes are wide and still a little wild. My hands find her waist without thinking.
“I don’t care,” I say quietly. Not right now, anyway.
“That’s because you’re still drunk. Obviously.”
Rude. “I can be sober and be okay with this. There’s no need to freak out.” I give her hand a squeeze. “I’m not saying we have to start monogramming towels or announce it to the media, okay? But don’t act like it’s the worst thing in the world that we got drunk and got married.”
Her lips twitch. “Fake married.”
I shrug. “Semantics.”
“No—it was fake married. Like two kids pretending. Happens all the time.”
Sure. Right. Not to me.
“Know what I’m going to do?” I tell her, holding up my left hand. “Check my credit card statement to see if I paid for these.”
I open the credit card app on my phone with the grim determination of someone bracing myself for the charge while Annabelle hovers over my shoulder, chin resting on me.
“What if you paid with cash?”
I roll my eyes as I scroll. “Why would I use cash? What am I, eighty years old?”
“You had cash last night. I remember because you tipped the bartender because his little glass was empty. You gave him one hundred dollars.”
“Rings cost more than a bar tab.”
I swipe through a few pending charges.
And there it is.
Diamond Lab Bridal Pop-Up: $1500 Pending
Her gasp is immediate and so dramatic. “Maverick! Th-that’s so much money!”
Pfft. Hardly.
She does not realize I can well afford it. In fact, not once has this woman asked about the money I make, what my place is like, or thought about the benefits of dating a professional athlete—let along being married to one.
Overnight, Annabelle became a WAG, and she doesn’t even know it.
She paces, mumbling about refunds and how it’s illegal to marry someone while they’re intoxicated, as if she’s going to take the pop-up bridal jeweler to small-claims court.
I watch her as I lean back on the bed, rubbing the ring with my thumb. She’s beautiful. Hair a mess, face flushed, pacing barefoot and naked like she owns the place.
She kind of does now—half of it, anyway.
“I’ll pay you back,” she says at last, decision made.
I raise a brow. “Babe.”
“I mean it!”
“You’re not paying me back. That ring is a gift.”
Her mouth falls open. “Fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of gifts?”
“Technically it’s a wedding present,” I say with authority. “From me. To my wife.”
She groans. “This is a nightmare.”
I laugh. “This is too much to handle before breakfast. Maybe we can go back to the resort and—”
Annabelle holds up her hands. “No. No, no, no—we are not going next door ever again. Ever! Bad things happen at that resort.”
She paces some more.
“Let me at least order breakfast. You can hide in the bedroom when they deliver it.”
My wedded wife hesitates. “Mm. I guess I could eat.”
Good girl.
By the time the food shows up, she’s mostly stopped pacing, though she still glares at the ring on her hand like it’s personally responsible for global warming. I carry the tray outside to the small patio, and she follows, now wrapped in a robe.
Ahh. What a day to be alive!
The lake glitters, and I slide into a chair, stretching my long legs beneath the table, content with the world.
“Truce?” I offer, passing her a mug and filling it with coffee as she settles in across from me. “Let’s not talk about annulments or court proceedings until after we stuff our faces with carbs.”
She snorts. “You’re not funny.”
Sure I am.
After a while, I glance over and say, “Let’s talk about what our actual lives are like.”
She pauses, a pastry halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean?”
“I mean we’ve possibly married, and you’ve seen me naked like six times. Maybe we should backtrack to basics. You know, last names—you know mine, but I don’t know yours. Pets. What our houses are like.”
“Houses,” she giggles. “You’re hilarious—I live in a shitty apartment.”
I inhale. “I’ll start. Callum McBride. I have no pets and live in a penthouse apartment, downtown Scottsdale. My place is actually fucking awesome, but you know—lonely.”
She sits up straighter in her seat. “Annabelle Franklin. No pets. I live in a small apartment in downtown Star Lake, and I dumped the guy I was seeing because there was no excitement. I’m finally putting myself first. I love wine and movies at the theater and . . . breakfast.”
“See?” I nudge her foot with mine under the table. “This isn’t so scary.”
“Speak for yourself.” Annabelle clears her throat and looks toward the windows. “Tell me something else.”
I think for a second. “I like puzzles.”
She blinks. “Jigsaw puzzles?”
“Yup.” No shame, puzzles are my game.
She stares. “Okay, that is not what I expected.”
I get that a lot. “I’m full of surprises.”
“Scottish and loves a puzzle. What else?”
I consider this, humming low in my throat. “I hate olives with a passion. I’m a sucker for cinnamon rolls. Like, if you ever want to get on my good side, bring me a warm one.”
Annabelle grins. “No to olives, yes to frosting. Got it.”
“My turn,” I say, pointing a finger at her. “Your guilty pleasure?”
“Romance novels.” She looks embarrassed. “Specifically historical Highland romance—or rom-com.”
I nod. “That’s cool—I used to read more, but now I don’t make the time. I’m too busy falling apart.”
Her gaze goes to my knee. “How does it feel today? After, you know . . .”
After carrying her through the woods, tripping all the way back to the cottage? After going for a late-night swim? Fucking her in the yard? Feeling great, for the most part.
“Surprisingly good. I need to check in with my trainer today, give him an update. But yeah, can’t complain.” I sip my coffee. “Maybe it’s all the sex that’s doing my body good.”
Annabelle rolls her eyes. “What are some of your red flags?”
Easy. “I drink out of milk cartons—but in my defense, I live alone, so it’s my fucking milk.”
She laughs. “Fair.” Pause. “What else?”
“Hmm. I talk to myself. Out loud. Especially when I’m pissed off or working out. Mostly grumbling.” I grin. “Also, I hate texting back. Real bad at it.”
She narrows her eyes. “Ah. So you’re one of those.”
“Terrible,” I confirm. “Don’t take it personally.”
There’s a pause—one of those lingering, charged silences where we both sip our coffee but neither of us breaks eye contact. Now she’s biting her bottom lip like she’s fighting a smile, and I can feel the pull of her across the table. The low burn of comfort and tension simmering at the same time.
I clear my throat. “Your turn. Red flags?”
She exhales. “Okay. I overthink everything. I rewatch comfort movies over and over. For example, I’ve seen How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days at least forty times. And I talk during movies.”
She talks during movies? That’s the worst. “Wow.” I lean back, hand over my heart. “You might be the true monster in this marriage.”
Annabelle rolls her eyes again. “Ha ha, funny.” She meets my gaze, raising her brows. “I’ve got more.”
“More?”
She grins. “I have a terrible memory for names, but I’ll remember what someone was wearing on a random Tuesday in 2019. Also, I once fake cried to get out of a speeding ticket.”
I lift my mug in salute. “Respect.”
Annabelle laughs, shaking her head. “Your turn. Give me another one.”
“Fine.” I think for a beat. “I once broke up with a girl because she ate string cheese like a psychopath.”
Her face scrunches. “How do you eat string cheese like a psychopath?”
“She bit it. Like it was a stick. Just—Chomp.” Not cool, not okay.
She gasps, truly horrified. “No stringing?”
“Nope.”
Annabelle leans forward, resting her chin on her palm, expression somber. “Okay, serious question.”
I raise a brow. “Hit me.”
She pauses, eyes soft. “Do you think we’re actually compatible? In real life?”
I’m confused. “This is real life.”
Her head shakes back and forth. “No it’s not—this is like Love Island. All smoke and mirrors and fantasy dates.”
“First of all,” I correct her. “If this were Love Island, there’d be at least three cameras in our faces and someone yelling ‘I’ve got a text!’ every ten minutes before a new bombshell enters the villa.”
“I’m just saying . . .” She trails off, toying with the edge of a napkin she plucked from the center of the table.
“It’s easy to like someone when everything is beautiful weather and there’s sunshine and lake swims and crashing a wedding reception.
But when we go back to our real lives—you’ll go back to being a football star, and I’ll go back to Star Lake and being a wedding planner for other people. ”
I nod slowly, heart thumping, trying to find the right words. “You’re not wrong. This place is its own little bubble. But I don’t think what’s happening here is fake. I don’t think you are fake. And I sure as hell know that I’m not pretending to like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—I meet a lot of people, being . . .” Jeez, how do I put this? “A sort of celebrity, and it’s been a long fucking time since I’ve had this much fun with a woman.” I shift in my seat. “If we’d met in a bar, or at a party, I would be texting you for a date so fast.”
Her head tilts. “What makes you so sure?”
Easy. “’Cause you would have rolled your eyes at me, not been impressed, probably thrown a drink in my face—and I would have loved every second of it, because very few people are honest with me.” My friends, yes. Women, no. “Does that make sense?”
Annabelle nods slowly, and I want to pull her in my lap and kiss the frown off her face. But instead, I stay where I am to give her space.
My phone buzzes, and I ignore it.
“You wanna take a shower?” I ask her. “Might make you feel better.”
My phone buzzes again.
Annabelle looks at it. “Sure. I’ll shower, and you can call your trainer and handle . . . your stuff.”
Stuff.
I wait until she leaves the table and the door to the bathroom clicks shut before finally flipping over my phone.
Nine notifications.
Two from my trainer. Five from random friends. One from the Sentinels group chat.
My phone is blowing up.