Page 56 of IOU

I don’t have experience with breakups, but I can’t take watching her cry. This T-named fucker has tarnished enough of her free spirit.

The thunder rumbles again, and I’m positive I won’t be going back to sleep anytime soon. With the news about Pops and all the work still sitting open on my laptop, I may as well get something to drink and burn off this restlessness. Maybe I can finish a few things, and the ache in my chest will dwindle to something milder. Knocking out files always makes me feel better.

The kitchen light is on when I crack open the door, and a few steps later, I know why. Ainsley is perched in one of the kitchen chairs, her knee bent with her iPad in her hands.

She doesn’t look up when I approach, and it annoys me to the point of grinning. No one is comfortable in my presence. The rumors make sure of that, but not Ainsley, she sees through the mask.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask her.

She shrugs, still not fucking looking at me. “The storm woke me, and I couldn’t go back to sleep.”

I nod even though she doesn’t see me do it.

“Do you want anything to drink?” I’m already snagging an extra cup from the cabinet. This whole routine feels domesticated.

“Yes, please.”

The air around us doesn’t feel awkward, but I don’t think it ever has. From the moment I found her begging at my doorstep, it wasn’t awkward. The banter comes easy, and the give and take between us feels genuine. It feels normal, and for some reason, that worries me. When have I ever felt comfortable in the past few years?

I pour water for both of us and set it on the table.

“What are you playing?” I can already guess it’s a game. She’s addicted to them. At least that’s what her weekly screen time suggests. Yes, I snooped. Call it a background check.

“Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,” she answers, glancing up at me with a faint smile. “It’s my favorite.”

Another surprise. She’s playing trivia and not something mindless.

“Are you winning?”

Just because she plays doesn’t mean she’s any good at it.

She shrugs. “I’m at two hundred and fifty k.”

“Not too shabby.” I pull out a chair and wedge in beside her, looking over at her screen.

“Uh ... What are you doing?”

I hit the button for the next question. “I’m helping you win.”

She sweeps my hand off the tablet. “I don’t need your help. I can win it on my own.”

Don’t care. I want to play now.

“Well, you better hurry then.”

She gasps and hurries to read the question. “Which of the following phrases describes a close association with someone?”

I smirk when she mumbles out the answers, seemingly confused.

“Maverick! Help me!”

“I thought you could win on your own?”

The timer is ticking down, five, four—”I can’t! Please help me. I’ve never come this close before.”

That’ll work.

“C. Hand in glove.”

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