Chapter 29 Annabelle
Annabelle
The second I slipped that ring on your finger . . .
“Pfft. He doesn’t own me,” I grumble, stalking along the sidewalk toward . . . wherever it is I’m going.
The man at the door called me Mrs. McBride, which made me even more furious.
Is There No Such Thing as Privacy? When I found out Lucy’s boyfriend was famous, did I fawn over him?
No. Did I go online and do a deep dive? No.
I used him in my lumberjack show because I needed warm-blooded bodies, like any normal event planner would do who was desperate. It didn’t matter to me who he was.
Mrs. McBride.
God, I could scream.
I twist the gold wedding band off my slim finger and stuff it into my sports bra; a nice boob prison. Serves it right.
Why does it even matter? It’s not real. He’s not real. Maverick isn’t even his real freaking Name, for the love of God!
“Calm down. You’re getting yourself all worked up.”
That’s what I tell myself as I stomp past palm trees in this suffocating high-end area, the heels of my shoes sticking to the blistering sidewalk like the Arizona sun wants me to suffer.
I’m one ray of sunshine away from a full-blown heatstroke. I am a rotisserie chicken under a heat lamp.
I round the corner and duck into the shade of a palm tree, pressing my back against the trunk like I’m in a spy movie and need cover. The bark scratches at my shoulder blades, but I don’t move.
I need a plan.
I need hydration.
I need a life reset and possibly a therapist.
Or maybe just a Diet Coke and a fan.
BLAH!
I peel myself off the palm tree and start walking again, slower this time, weaving through the rows of trendy boutiques, window after window of white linen dresses, artisanal candles, and overpriced bags. None of which can help me in my current crisis.
I stare at my reflection in the glass of a store called Cactus Rose Collective. My tank top is plastered to my back, my bra has a ring stashed in it like I’m a petty smuggler, and my face is slowly turning the color of a strawberry margarita.
Gross.
I need to call someone before I actually melt into the pavement, like a sad street pancake.
I dig my phone out of the tiny zipper pocket in my shorts and scroll to Lucy .
She answers on the second ring, sounding out of breath. “Tell me you’re not dead in a ditch.”
“I’m not. But I am spiraling. Does that count?”
There’s a pause, then rustling. “Where are you? What happened?”
“I’m window-shopping without a wallet in a town that sells cowboy hats and crystals that cost thousands of dollars.”
“So . . . you’re fine?”
“No, Lucy. I am not fine. I am sweating in places that shouldn’t sweat. I got called Mrs. McBride by the doorman, my wedding band is in my bra, and I may have heatstroke. And also a broken heart.”
Lucy’s voice sharpens at that last one. “Did Maverick do something? Talk to me.”
“Yes. He . . .” I swallow hard, dragging my sweaty palm down my even sweatier cheek. “He wants to tell the world I exist. And I’m not ready.”
Lucy lets out a soft, knowing noise. “Ah.”
“Don’t you dare ‘ah’ me.”
“I’m just saying. That sounds like the kind of thing a guy says when he wants to be serious.”
I groan. “No. It’s the kind of thing a guy says when his publicist wants him to be serious. She’s pushing this whole redemption arc—like I’m some support wife here to fix his image.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “I didn’t realize his image needed fixing.”
“I thought all young football players needed fixing,” I mutter, shading my eyes as I squint up at one of the nearby high-rises. Sleek. Modern. Too many balconies.
Lucy’s quiet for a second, then asks carefully, “What does Maverick think about it?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That making a public statement isn’t about branding. That it’s about . . . me. Us controlling the narrative.”
“Uh-huh.” I can practically hear her nodding. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Harris and I did the same thing.”
They did? “You did?”
“Yes. You were probably too busy with your own shit, but after that whole lumberjack stunt, the sports world went nuts. So when I flew to Arizona, they dug up photos of us at the lodge—that night he carried me out. Then pictures of the logrolling competition. Interviewed people from town, who were all too happy to spill the tea.”
I scowl at that. “Of course they were.”
“Right? So the team leaned in. We leaned in.”
As she talks, I walk slowly, dragging my hand along the stucco wall of a taco shop and mentally calculating how many hours of therapy I’m going to need to unpack my feelings.
Lucy goes on. “I’m not saying you owe Maverick anything. I’m just saying it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Maybe you should stop running from it.”
“I’m not running. I’m walking.”
“Same thing.”
“Did you roll your eyes at me?”
Lucy laughs. “Yes.”
I sigh, lean my forehead against the glass. “I just want to keep pretending, you know? That this is our bubble with no one else in it. Just me and him and sex and the quiet. No press. No expectations.”
“I get it. But you can’t live in a bubble forever.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But I wish we had a little more time in it.”
There’s another pause. Then Lucy’s voice softens. “You might still.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . if he’s worth it—really worth it—he won’t pop the bubble just because someone else tells him to.”
I chew on that for a second. “He makes it sound as if we have no choice.”
“Of course you have a choice. You also have to realize that . . . because he’s so popular .
. . at some point, stories are going to start springing up that are so false—they hurt.
To your core. Lies. For entertainment.” She takes a deep breath.
“It’s going to happen anyway, but at least you can say your piece. ”
I close my eyes for a beat, letting the heat wash over me like punishment. Or possibly a hot flash. Honestly, who the frick can tell in Arizona? “What if I say my piece and it doesn’t matter?”
“To who?”
“Him.”
“Girl, you already have pregnancy brain if you think the man doesn’t care how you feel.”
Pfft. I glance up to see a woman walking toward me with two fussy-looking dogs—greyhounds?—and she barely smiles as she passes.
“Fine. I’ll admit, I may have overreacted, but in my defense, I haven’t been myself the past few weeks.”
“No shit. Old Annabelle wouldn’t have stayed in a cabin with a strange man; she would have packed her shit and hightailed it out of there.”
I turn back the way I came. “She really would have and probably stolen some of his food before she left to spite him.”
“Hey, Annabelle?” Lucy says quietly on the other side of the line. “You’re in Arizona because you wanted to make this relationship work—not declare the entire thing one wild adventure you’re only going to look back fondly on. You are in this, girl.”
I am.
I am in this.
I nod, Maverick’s building already in sight. “You’re right. I guess I just panicked.”
“Not a good look for you.”
I snort. “No. Definitely not my best.”
“Your best is a woman who ran a fall festival with three working chainsaws, lumberjacks, food trucks, volunteers, and paid employees. You don’t panic—you plan. You adapt. You run shit.”
I am a doer.
I smile, the first real one in what feels like hours. “Yeah. I do do that.”
Lucy exhales. “Exactly. Hang up this phone and go tell him you’re in. Then maybe get married for real.”
Married for real.
I hang up the call. Press my palm to the warm glass door of Maverick’s building. Step inside. By the time the elevator dings and deposits me onto his floor, my heart is thumping like a marching band warming up for a parade.
I walk down the hallway, sandals scuffing quietly across the tile. The door is cracked a sliver—enough for his voice to carry out.
“I’m not selling her out,” he says, firm and sure. “There is not going to be a story yet.”
My breath hitches. I freeze outside the door, heart thudding like it knows something I don’t—like it’s already heard the words I’ve been too afraid to say out loud.
“Well, that’s too fucking bad. She didn’t sign up for this, and I’m not saying jack shit until she’s ready.”
That voice—the edge of it, the heat behind it—it wasn’t polished or professional or calculated. It was furious. Protective. Honest.
He’s fighting for me. Not just in private, but on calls with people who could ruin him. People who shape his career. His reputation.
And he chose me anyway.
No story yet.
Not until she’s ready.
God, how many times has that not been the case? How many times have I been pushed into things—into saying yes before I was ready, smiling before I meant it, agreeing so no one else had to feel uncomfortable?
But he didn’t do that. He’s giving me space in a world where most people take.
A hot lump lodges in my throat. I slide my hand over the doorframe, curl my fingers around the edge, and breathe. Just once. Deep and slow. Letting it sink in.
He’s not trying to own me.
He’s trying to honor me.
I hesitate only for a short second before pushing the door open all the way. I walk inside, then follow his voice into his office. He’s there, standing at his big black modern desk, holding a bottle of green juice, hair messy, expression irritated—until he sees me.
Everything inside me softens like goo. I am a puddle of mush, heart beating outside of my chest.
I give him a little wave and step inside.
“I’m hanging up,” he tells the person on the other line. “We’ll discuss this some other time.” He exhales, setting his phone on the desk, giving me his undivided attention.
I might be a damn fool, but I say it—the big, dumb, terrifying truth stumbling out of my mouth:
“I love you, Maverick.”
His entire body stills.
Then—
“Say it again.”
“I think I lo—”
He crosses the room in three strides, wraps his arms around me, and kisses me like a man who’s been dying of thirst and just found water. It’s everything that’s been building—longing, relief, panic, possibility—all crashing together in one breathless, desperate, grounding kiss.
My hands slide into his hair. His grip tightens around my waist. I swear I can feel his heart hammering in sync with mine, like our bodies are trying to memorize the rhythm of us before it’s too late.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
His voice is low, hoarse. “You love me?”
We already said it when we were at the lake, but we were drunk, so does it count? I want to say it again in a way neither of us will forget.
“I do. I think I’ve been falling since the time you splashed me with cold lake water because you’re a flirt.”
I press my lips to his again.
This one says I’m not going anywhere even though he did not say the words back.
This one says this isn’t temporary.
When we break again, he cups my face in both hands and murmurs, “What now?”
For the first time since this wild ride started, I don’t feel lost.
I know exactly what I want.
“We go all in,” I whisper. “For real.”