Page 52 of Can't Get Enough

I look up, glancing around the arena, but I don’t see Maverick anywhere. Realistically, it’s a sold-out crowd of thousands, so no surprise there.

Maverick:Look higher.

I let my gaze roam until I find the luxury boxes that ring the upper level of the arena. In one of them, I barely make out Maverick standing beside his assistant, Bolt, and a man taller than the two of them.

Me:Candy Crush actually.

Maverick:I have a box.

Me:I see that.

Maverick:Come up.

He’s really sayingcome see me, which I definitely should not do.

Me:I think we’re fine down here with the common folks.

Maverick:Common folks, my ass. Your seats are $25,000 a pop. Probably cost more than this box.

My brows stretch to my hairline, shock freezing my fingers over the keypad for a second. I knew these were fantastic seats when Imani offered them, but I didn’t realize they werethatgood. She probably didn’t either since they were gifted to her.

Me: Nothing but the best for my girls

Maverick:I think you should come up here if only so we can observe my assistant and yours insult each other for thirty seconds before sneaking off to fuck like wildebeests in some dark corner.

Bolt didn’t call Skipper and she didn’t call him. Though it was a strange encounter, I could tell she was disappointed he never reached out at all.

“Ladies, one of my friends has a box,” I say, leaning forward to look at Chapel and Skipper. “And invited us to come up. You interested?”

“Hell, yeah.” Chapel grabs her small YSL bag. “I know they got better food and superior liquor.”

“You’re probably right.” I laugh.

Me:Tell me how to get there. We’re on our way.

Maverick:I was hoping you’d say that.

Ten minutes later, I’m asking if this was a good idea. Putting myself in closer proximity to one of the most charismatic, intelligent, successful… and dammit fiiiine men I’ve ever met makes no sense when he’s strictly off-limits. When indulging the attraction could derail my goals. I’m still reciting this mantra to myself when the elevator arrives at the box floor and the doors open.

“Who’s this friend, by the way?” Skipper asks. “I didn’t bother to…”

Her words trail into astonished silence when we come face-to-face with Bolt as soon as we step off the elevator. A muscle ticks in his jaw and his posture is stiff—shoulders tight and hands shoved into pockets of flawlessly tailored slacks. Tonight’s bow tie is pin-striped. Skipper’s steps halt beside me and she growls under her breath.

“Ms. Barry,” Bolt addresses me, not looking at Skipper. “This way. Mr. Bell is waiting for you.”

Skipper grabs my elbow and hisses in my ear. “I’m gonna piss in your coffee tomorrow. You coulda told me.”

“And miss this reaction?” My chuckle is low, my amusement is high. “No way.”

When we step into the luxury box, Maverick’s back is to me. He and the other man I spotted from the floor face the plexiglass. Even though the man stands a few inches taller than Maverick, I recognize the legacy of his strong shoulders and the proud set of his head in who I presume to be his son. They’re deep in conversation, and when they turn their heads to speak to each other, their profiles are so similarly stark and strong and raw-boned, I’ll eat my Louis Vuitton sneaker if they aren’t father and son.

“Now this how we s’posed to be living.” Chapel lets out a low whistle. “We shoulda been here all night.”

Maverick turns to face us, and our eyes connect. The glance is as hot and quick as a drop of oil in a pan, but we both look away immediately. Maybe it just feels that way to me. Maybe all this unwanted awareness sparking between us lives only in my imagination.

I really hope so.

“Hendrix,” Maverick says, walking over to us. “Good to see you again.”

---