Page 10 of You Owe Me

“So unfair. Meanwhile, I can’t get my Tinder date to make eye contact.”

I smirk. “You want Maverick to stare at you and make you cry?”

“No, I want Maverick to throw me over his shoulder and speak in Wall Street threats.”

“It is pretty hot,” I agree, sipping from my water bottle.

She grins. “So. Serious question.”

Oh no.

“Is he good in?—”

I don’t let her finish. “If you say one more word, I’m going to roll up this worksheet and pop you with it.”

“What?” she says innocently. “I was going to ask if he’s good in… social settings.”

I deadpan. “Maverick at a party is like watching a tiger loose at a petting zoo. Technically there, deeply unsettling, and absolutely not mingling.”

“Hot.”

“You need help.”

She flips onto her back again with a dramatic sigh. “I still can’t believe he’s real. I mean, he was practically an urban legend before you started dating him. Like, you know he has a campus subreddit, right?”

Unfortunately, yes. I do. And it’s awful.

“Some girl posted that she once saw him meditating in the rain. In a full suit. With a cigar. No umbrella.”

“Eliza.”

“No, listen! There’s a guy who swears he still owes Maverick a kidney. A kidney.”

I snort. “It wasn’t a kidney.”

“Says hisgirlfriend.” She points at me as if I just proved her point. “That’s so mafia-coded. He doesn’t just help people. He collects debts like a sexy academic mob boss.”

She’s not wrong there.

Maverick’s infamous IOUs are the stuff of late-night whispers and library bathroom graffiti. People say he once got an entire physics exam moved because the TA owed him a favor. That he knows the Wi-Fi password to the president’s private guest network. That if you cross him, your GPA mysteriouslydrops, and your favorite smoothie place stops stocking your preferred protein powder.

And those are just the reasonable ones.

There’s a whole sub-section of theories about how he funds his lifestyle because he doesn’t work a visible job. The theories range fromsecret trust fund babytointernational arms dealertoblack market kidney broker with a side hustle in crypto. But the truth? The truth is somehow even more ridiculous: Maverick’s an investment broker for his grandfather’s company. He runs it from his apartment—barefoot, half-caffeinated, wearing sweatpants, a heart monitor, and usually juggling three spreadsheets.

But before I can mentally spiral any further into the absurd reality of my boyfriend’s double life, a smooth, unfamiliar voice interrupts.

“Ladies. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

The voice cuts into our conversation—smooth, deliberate, and instantly annoying. The kind that makes your skin crawl before your brain can catch up. Polished. Confident. Too practiced to be harmless.

I look up, already bracing myself.

And yep. Just as I suspected: trouble in loafers.

He’s got the kind of carefully put-together look that screams connections. Crisp white polo, tucked into khakis like he’s never sat on grass before. Not a single hair out of place. Even his smile feels… managed.

“You are, actually,” I say, before I can stop myself. Eliza shoots me a look, all eyebrows and silent judgment. I shrug. My filter took the afternoon off.

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