Page 50 of IOU

I eye the almost full bottle in his hand. “Aren’t you going to take a drink? I’ve been told that I drive people to drink with my conversations.”

It’s true, I have been told I’m nauseating at times, but really, I just want to see him take a swig of the beer he always carries around but never drinks.

“It’s no one’s business what I do at my own home.”

See? He doesn’t address the beer situation. He only gives me a morsel of the truth.

“Agreed. But you still haven’t drunk any of your beer, and from the stress lines in your forehead, you could probably use it.”

Come on, tell me the truth. Show me the real Maverick.

“You need to sleep. You’re sounding belligerent.”

“And you are sounding like a little faker.”

“Who says I haven’t drunk any? You were in the shower when I opened it.”

Why am I doing this? Why am I trying to corner Maverick into admitting he doesn’t drink beer? Honestly, I don’t know. I think I would like to see that he doesn’t have it all together, as he would love for you to believe. I want him to show me some of his truth like I’ve bared mine.

“I know you haven’t drunk any. You never do.”

He lets out a big sigh and rakes a hand through his hair.

Fine. I’ll let it go. For now.

“Did you have a good day?” I change the topic.

That’s neutral, roomie type conversation, right? I mean, it’s not like I’m asking whose soul he took this afternoon.

His eyes snap to me and narrow. It’s taking all he has not to shake me or chain me up in my room, but the chivalrous Maverick wins out. “It was fine.”

His voice sounded pained.

“Like every other day,” he adds when I just stare at him, waiting for details.

“I’m guessing that every day to you is like living your best life for most people.”

Everything is at his fingertips. People want to be him. They want freaking tours of his apartment, for goodness’ sake. I can’t understand it, though. From what I’ve seen of Maverick Lexington, he’s quite the bore except when he’s making or enforcing deals. He’s quite sexy and alpha-y and scary when he does those things.

But here?

Here he retires to his room early except for Wednesday poker night. He doesn’t watch TV, and he doesn’t go out much at night. I mean, he goes places, I suppose. He doesn’t invite me along, so I can’t say for sure what he’s doing. He could be going to the library or the hospital to read to children. All I know is that he’s here—a lot—always working away on his laptop.

At some point, though, he maintains that body. No way is he naturally blessed with muscle on top of muscle. I’ve never even seen him do a push-up or a P90X DVD or anything, though. However, I wouldn’t be opposed if he decided to do either of those after dinner.

“Don’t be ridiculous. My life is not someone’s best life. My life is exhausting.”

And complicated. And probably full of more rumors than truth, but we’ll let him go with exhausting.

“Did you procure any new favors then? Is that why you’re in such a good mood?” Blame it on Boxed Wine Ainsley. She wanted to know more about all this favor business.

His eyes roll dramatically.

“What have I told you about asking questions about the favors?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a playing card. It doesn’t scare me anymore. I have so many now that Maverick will die before I can repay them all.

Well, that’s not true, but let’s just say I owe him more than a handful at this point. What’s one more?

---