Page 49 of IOU

I didn’t look when I passed the kitchen, so I don’t know if Maverick was there or if he retreated to his room like usual. I mean, I think we had a moment just now—at least I did. Those strong fingers that slipped under the elastic of my bathing suit sent crazy tingles throughout my body—no, it wasn’t just the alcohol talking either. Granted, Maverick was the whole reason my butt was showing in the first place, but he could have left it for his friend to see. But he didn’t. He cared.

I take one last look in the mirror. I don’t look great, but I don’t look that awful either. It’ll have to do; besides, Maverick doesn’t care what I look like. He might be nice occasionally and have chivalrous moments, but he isn’t interested in me and I’m not looking for a guy. I’ve had my fill of those for a while.

With my head bowed—I so need a pedicure—I walk into the kitchen like a dog caught unraveling the last toilet paper roll.

“Don’t ask me to warm it up,” he mutters.

At his comment, I pull my head up and see his tall frame leaning against the counter with a bowl of—

“Did you make mac and cheese?” I’m way too excited over this discovery. I’ve dreamed of this delicious, calorie-filled delicacy for the past three nights.

I rush over to the counter and snag the remaining bowl. “You made this?”

I don’t know why it seems shocking that he cooked. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t do it much. He mostly lives off beer and raw vegetables. However, he does have ice cream in the freezer so ... “Your eating habits are like a pregnant lady,” I note, tilting my head at his beer, sitting full on the counter.

He lifts a brow. “Pregnant ladies drink beer?”

I shovel a non-ladylike bite of cheesy noodles down my throat. “Mmm,” I moan, my knees going weak at the cheesy goodness. “This is divine.”

I ignore the scoff and eye roll he gives me. “It’s not a filet.”

Mumbling around another bite, I agree. “No, it’s much better than a filet.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re”—I stop mid-sentence because I need another bite—“ridiculous. Don’t judge me. I don’t judge you when you waste your beer every night.”

Fact. Every afternoon, Maverick comes home from taking souls or stealing firstborns, grabs a beer, twists the cap off, and rolls it through his fingers before carrying it around dutifully, as if it’s his phone.

He rears back at my words. “I don’t waste beer. I’ve drunk some of this one.”

He does waste them, even the one sitting next to him. The question is, why? Why waste them if you don’t like them? Why not just drink tea or milk? What does it matter if people see him with a beer or a Capri Sun just as long as he drinks it?

“Sure, you don’t. The one next to you is so fresh that it’s no longer sweating.”

“I like it room temp,” he argues, picking it up like he might drink it.

“That’s why you keep it in the refrigerator.” I nod like his explanation makes perfect sense when it doesn’t at all.

“Eat your food,” he snips.

“Drink your beer.”

The playful look he had earlier drops in a matter of seconds. Here comes the “cold” Maverick. Not the one who lives here. My theory is the real Maverick Lexington is buried somewhere beneath all the lies and rumors but coaxing him out will take the right hand and one amazing bluff.

“I have work to do.” He snatches his beer and tries to walk past me.

Not happening. I might not be as drunk as I was earlier, but I still have enough of a buzz to make me brave.

“I thought you were taking the night off for poker?”

He cocks a brow, keeping his distance like he’s scared to touch me. “I was, but then someone decided to put on a show for the neighbors, and well, here we are.”

“You didn’t need to cancel. I would have stayed in my room.”

He snorts out a sound of amusement. “Please. You’ve never followed one rule I’ve given you.”

True. “I don’t do well with many rules. It makes me antsy. Why do you want to keep my living here a secret anyway?”

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