Page 10 of The Maverick

“I’m sure you did.” He headed for the kitchen, pulled two mugs from the cabinet. “We can unpack that later. Right now, I want food in you and a few hours of sleep before we start digging.”

“I’m not a civilian,” she called after him.

“No. You’re a brat with control issues who thinks sleeping with a blade under her pillow makes her invincible.”

He heard the soft huff of disbelief from the living room. “You don’t know me anymore.”

“Maybe not,” he said, pouring the coffee. “But I still know what you need.”

Silence followed that. Thick and loaded.

He brought her the mug, handed it over, fingers brushing hers.

“Drink. Shower. Nap. We start at noon.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” she said setting the mug down.

“You didn’t have to.”

She held his gaze for a beat.

“Fine. But don’t think for one second this means I’m staying.”

Hawke leaned closer, voice quiet and firm.

“You’re staying until I find out who’s doing this. And when I do, you’re going to watch me make him regret ever touching your name.”

Vanessa stared at him, fire in her eyes, defiance in every inch of her posture. He’d known what he was walking into when he answered that phone. He just hadn’t expected to want the fight this badly.

“I’ll take the shower first,” she said without looking back. “Try not to map out my life while I’m gone.”

Hawke watched her move up the stairs with clipped, deliberate steps. Even now, she was trying to maintain control. Trying to pretend this was her choice, not his. He watched her go, watched her hips deliberately sway as she disappeared up the stairs, and knew exactly what this was going to be… absolute hell.

3

VANESSA

Vanessa took her time making her way up the stairs, ensuring her hips swayed in a way she knew Hawke would find alluring. She was pretty sure she was poking the bear, but she didn’t care. It took her mind off the stalker. Each footfall kept time with the voice in her head whispering all the reasons this was a bad idea.

She didn’t belong here.

She didn’t belongwithhim.

And yet here she was—sweaty from adrenaline, half-dressed, and hiding behind the bravado of clipped sarcasm and narrowed eyes—taking the damn shower first like he’d told her to.

The upstairs hallway was just as infuriatingly controlled as the rest of the house. Clean lines, no clutter. Every door closed, every surface bare except for a single black-and-white photo hanging by the bathroom entrance. A mountain range. Stark. Quiet. Like him.

She opened the bathroom door and froze.

Of course, it was spotless. He had folded the towels with military precision. The dark slate tile gleamed as if someone had scrubbed it an hour ago. The shower was massive, all stone and glass, the kind of thing featured in men’s magazines and ruggedcabin design blogs. The scent of cedar and black soap clung to the space, and underneath it, something unmistakably Hawke—clean, commanding, male.

She turned the lock, stripped quickly and stepped into the steam.

She stepped beneath the rainfall showerhead, allowing the warm water to cascade over her skin, and let out a deep sigh. Naturally, he had adjusted it to the ideal temperature, a perfect balance between soothing warmth and invigorating heat. He executed everything with impeccable attention to detail. She tilted her head back and let the water slide over her face.

The heat helped, but not enough. Her pulse still pounded softly, her thoughts still looped around the letter and the book and the ridiculous, infuriating man downstairs who’d shown up like he hadn’t missed a beat… like he hadn’t disappeared the second things got complicated between them.

That was the problem with Hawke. He always showed up when it mattered not just when it counted.

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