Page 63 of IOU

I expect an argumentative comment or at least a laugh, not a grim nod and acceptance. Moving a chair, I step up and take his place, fanning as hard as I can while Maverick turns off the stove and tosses the pot into the sink. After a few seconds, I have the alarm quieted, and notice Maverick is leaning against the counter, looking like death.

“Are you okay?”

I push the chair back under the table and take a few steps until he stops me by holding his hand up. “I’m fine, just tired. Can you just order pizza or something tonight?”

His voice sounds weird. Is this what tired Maverick sounds like? I don’t think so. It sounds like he’s sick.

“Sure. No problem. Can I get you anything?”

He really does look like death.

He shakes his head. “I’m just going to lie down.”

I agree. “I think that’s a good idea.”

Hopefully, it helps.

He nods and brushes past me without so much as another word. Once the door closes, I begin cleaning up the apartment. It’s not too bad, but I don’t want Maverick waking up and finding a pile of dishes and burnt—is this water? Can you burn water?—on the stove.

One less bra and a lot of elbow grease later, I’m praying I won’t be beheaded as I stack the poker chips on the table in neat, color-coordinated piles. I’ve noticed he likes to mess around with the chips when he’s thinking, so they never stay organized until Wednesday when he has game night. He has instructed me not to call it that—game night. Per him, it’s called poker night, and apparently, he gets all bent out of shape if you make fun of his little get-togethers with his boys.

I’m almost finished cleaning when his laptop dings with a notification. He never leaves it open. Walking to the coffee table, I lean over and take a peek. One look won’t hurt. I simply want to know if I can swipe it away and let him rest.

From the way he looked, he could really use it. I’ve never seen Maverick sick or even less than one hundred percent. He keeps that part of himself hidden away along with his laptop. So him leaving it lying around where I can see it is a big deal.

I rub the touchpad, and his lock screen comes up, but part of the notification still remains.

I’ll take your advice and not sell. Keep the 30% in my Roth IRA and the additional 20% we spoke about in mutual funds. I—

The preview ends, and no matter how much clicking I do, I can’t get in without the password.

What in the fresh hell?

Does this guy have the wrong email address? What would Maverick have to do with mutual funds and IRA accounts? I don’t even know what exactly those are. I mean, I do, but not much. I’ve heard of them, though.

A clattering sound echoes down the hall.

Jerking up, I close the laptop. “Maverick? Are you okay?”

My voice carries down the hallway before I follow, placing my hand on the door handle. A million questions race through my head—ones like: What if he’s fine and just rolled off the bed? What if he sleepwalked into the nightstand? Will he be upset if I go into his room?

I’ve never gone into his room. It’s like willingly walking into the abyss. I don’t know what’s behind that door, but I know it won’t be good for me if I cross the threshold.

But what if he’s hurt?

He didn’t look good.

“Maverick? Just yell that you’re fucking fine, and I’ll leave you alone.”

I add the wordfuckingbecause that’s how he would say it. Not that he was fine but that he wasfucking fineand to go away. I’m being realistic here.

“Ains—” My name sounds strained from behind the door and much likecome in and check on me. Don’t you think?

Twisting the knob, I ease it open. “Maverick,” I warn. “I just want to check—Oh my God!”

I sprint to Maverick’s side, finding him on the floor, half propped up against the footboard of his bed. His face is ghostly white and sweat soaks his clothes.

“I’m fine.” He tries to wave me off, but he can’t even lift his hand.

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