Chapter 14

Carys

A noise in the foyer brings me out of the office just in time to see Maverick stumbling through the front door. His hair is disheveled. His clothes are askew. His eyes are bloodshot and lazy.

But the best part? He’s wearing a boa...a big, pink and purple feather boa.

“Do I want to know?” I ask, feeling relieved.

If I’m being honest, I’ve been watching the front door for the last few hours. Every time it opened or made a creak, my heart hoped it would be Maverick and I would get a chance to explain my behavior from earlier. My stupid, childish behavior.

Since then, I decided I can be an adult about this. I can enjoy the time I have with Maverick, no strings attached. Even if we have sex tonight and he leaves tomorrow, I’d be okay with that, because as long as my stupid heart and my stupid brain are in agreement that we’re only in this for some much-needed pleasure, everything will be fine.

But now, a hint of dread is joining my relief, because as I’ve been sitting here waiting for Maverick to come back, I’ve also let my mind wander to where he’s been and who he’s been with. It’s obvious he’s drunk. It’s also obvious he’s had a good time.

How ignorant of me to think he wouldn’t go find pleasure somewhere else, with someone else.

“Short answer or long answer?” he asks, staggering toward the front desk and dropping his elbows down on the hard wood with a thud.

“Uh—” I begin, but I’m quickly cut off.

“I’ll give you both,” he says, his tone turning serious...like, seriously thoughtful and contemplative. Much too contemplative for someone who’s been drinking. In my experience, booze equals truth serum, so I’m guessing, no matter what, I’m getting ready to hear the truth.

“The short answer is: Jules.” One of his eyebrows goes up, practically to his hairline as he smirks, shaking his head. Damn it all to hell. He’s so sexy, even when he’s wearing a pink and purple boa and drunk off his ass. “The long answer: Revelry. Johnnie Walker. Elton John. In that order,” he says, ticking off the list on his fingers. His long, capable fingers.

And just like that, my mind is lingering in the past, back to the bathroom in room 201 and Maverick getting me off on the counter. I’m honestly embarrassed to say, at twenty-five, it was the best orgasm of my life to date. Maybe that’s why I threw Maverick out today? Because if he was capable of eliciting emotions like that from my body with a flick of his fingers, what is he capable of with his...

“Ahem.” I clear my throat, shaking my head, piecing together his cryptic response and trying to gather my thoughts and turn them back to the present. I’m pretty sure I got the gist of it. “Jules took you to Club Rev and you drank Johnnie Walker and sang Elton John?” I ask, testing out my deciphering abilities.

The smile Maverick gives me is panty dropping and proud. An odd combination, I know, but somehow he’s able to deliver. “Good girl.”

Good girl?

Not usually something that turns me on, but coming from him, dripping in honey and rolled around in gravel, it makes my insides clench.

“Did Jules walk you home?” I ask, changing the subject and trying to judge how pissed I’m supposed to be at him for taking Maverick out and getting him wasted. I mean, I know Maverick is a big boy...man, definitely a man...and he can take care of himself, but still. Jules took him to a gay bar and dressed him up in a boa, for God’s sake.

There’s a level of responsibility here.

“Yes, he did,” Maverick says matter-of-factly. “He was the perfect gentleman.” With his hand over his heart, he sways on his feet.

I chuckle, walking around the counter to steady him. “Let’s get you to bed,” I tell him, putting my hand on his waist as he leans into me. Not too much, but more than I know he normally would, if he were sober.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Leaning his head over, he rests it on top of mine. I bear hug him, just to make sure I don’t lose him. Sure, I could put him to bed on the pull-out cot in the office, but he needs a real bed to sleep this off.

As we’re riding the slow-ass elevator to the third floor, he turns me in his arms, forcing me to look up at him. “You’re so pretty,” he mumbles. “Not like magazine pretty. You’re real pretty. Not just here,” he says, running a hand over my hair. “And not just here,” he adds, softly brushing his thumb over my cheek and down to my lips. “Or here.” His hand drops lower to my neck and then to my chest as he takes a full hand of my boob. “Or here,” he continues, gliding his palm down my torso and around to my butt. “But here.” Bringing his hand back up, he rests it over my heart. “You’re good people. I told CeCe that today. We agreed you’re good people. She’s nice too and pretty.”

My heart, that had stopped beating while he was talking, falls down into the pit of my stomach.

“You met CeCe?” I ask, helping him off the elevator and into the hall as I try to shake this feeling of something resembling jealousy. Why didn’t I know he met CeCe? I was going to take him to meet her. And he thinks she’s nice and pretty?

“Yeah, good coffee too,” he says, his words getting more and more garbled, so I start walking a little faster, hoping we make it to his door before he completely gives out on me.

“Yeah,” I agree, forgetting my words as my mind races with all the what ifs. I hate this. I hate my traitorous heart. We just had a conversation about not having feelings for Maverick beyond thinking he’s sexy and wanting what he has to offer me, and here it goes getting jealous over him meeting CeCe.

A few more paces and we’re at his door, I reach around and feel his pockets, checking for a key. Maverick’s arms go all octopus on me and the next thing I know, he’s pinned me against the wall. “You wanna feel me up?”

“I’m looking for your key,” I say impassively, trying like hell to keep my voice from exposing me.

“Is that what you call it?” His words come out deep and raspy, barely above a whisper. “My key, your lock. I think they’d make a good match.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Drunk, sober...I still know what I want. You. And you want me. I know you do. You’re just trying to convince yourself that you don’t.”

He’s absolutely right, but not like this. And not before I get more information about CeCe and him meeting her. And her being pretty. I need a sober Maverick for that conversation.

I feel the key in his front pocket and dig it out, making fast work of the lock and door.

A few minutes later, he’s horizontal on his bed with his shoes off. It’s the best I can do, because he’s now passed out and his dead weight is a bit too much for me. Rummaging through his toiletry bag in the bathroom, I find some ibuprofen and leave two on his bedside table with a full glass of water.