Page 119 of You Owe Me

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Rumor has it, she walked into the lion's den wearing Louboutins.

Ainsley

“Ow! Jeez, Eliza, are you trying to give me a lobotomy?” I yelp as she yanks the curling iron through another section of my hair with the delicacy of a lumberjack.

“Beauty is pain, babe,” she replies, completely unrepentant as she wraps another strand around the barrel. “And tonight, you need to be devastating. Like, make-Carter-Mills-forget-his-own-name devastating.”

“Pretty sure he already forgot his own name,” Sebastian calls from the couch, where he’s sprawled with a beer and absolutely zero shame about watching my transformation. “Kid’s been operating on two brain cells since birth, and one of them is dedicated to hair gel.”

Rowan snorts from his spot by the window, where he’s supposedly keeping watch but is mostly just providing colorful commentary. “The other one’s for identifying boat shoes.”

“You guys are terrible.” I laugh, then immediately regret it when Eliza tugs harder in retaliation.

“Hold still,” she commands, wielding the curling iron like a weapon. “We have exactly forty-three minutes to turn you into a femme fatale, and I refuse to send you into battle looking anything less than iconic.”

The apartment feels like a war room disguised as a beauty salon. My dress hangs from the closet door—a black silk number that Sebastian picked out with surgical precision, claiming it would “make Carter’s daddy issues physically painful to witness.” Shoes wait by the bed—red-soled heels that cost more than my textbooks and make me approximately six feet of pure intimidation.

It’s been three days since the kiddie pool conversation. Three days of planning, preparation, and watching Maverick move pieces around the board like a chess grandmaster who already knows he’s won. His recovery has been miraculous—or maybe terrifying. I can’t decide which.

Either way, tonight, Carter Mills learns what happens when you threaten a king’s queen.

“So remind me again why we’re all here instead of letting Maverick handle this himself?” Rowan asks, though he’s grinning like he already knows the answer.

“Because,” Sebastian explains patiently, “our boy has exactly zero chill when it comes to Ainsley. Left to his own devices, he’d probably just murder Carter with his bare hands and call it a day.”

“Which would be satisfying,” I add, tilting my head so Eliza can access a stubborn section, “but not particularly strategic.”

“Plus, someone needs to make sure he doesn’t actually commit homicide,” Eliza chimes in, carefully arranging a curl. “I look terrible in orange, and I refuse to visit you all in prison.”

The bedroom door opens, and Maverick appears in the doorway like he’s been summoned by the sound of his name. He’s wearing all black: jeans, Henley, leather jacket that makes him look like he stepped out of a noir film. His hair is perfectly disheveled in that way that probably took him thirty seconds to achieve, and his eyes are sharp with the kind of focused intensity that means someone’s about to have a very bad night.

“Time check.” His gaze is locked on me in the mirror.

“Twenty-eight minutes,” Sebastian reports. “Right on schedule.”

Maverick nods once, but he doesn’t move from the doorway. Just stands there, watching Eliza work magic with hot tools and bobby pins, his expression unreadable except for the slight tension in his jaw that I’ve learned means he’s fighting the urge to cancel the entire plan and keep me locked in this apartment forever.

“You know,” Rowan observes, “for someone who claims this is all under control, you look like you want to murder everyone in a five-block radius.”

“Just Carter,” Maverick replies without missing a beat. “Maybe his father. Possibly anyone who looks at her wrong tonight.”

“See?” Sebastian gestures at him with his beer bottle. “Zero chill. This is why we need adult supervision.”

“I am an adult.” Maverick’s voice is a deadly calm.

“You’re a possessive lunatic with trust issues and a recent history of cardiac procedures,” Eliza counters cheerfully, not even pausing in her hair artistry. “Which, don’t get me wrong, is very sexy. But not particularly conducive to subtle manipulation.”

I catch Maverick’s reflection in the mirror, and something hot and dangerous flickers in his eyes. Not anger—something deeper. More primal. The look he gets when someone mentions that I belong to him, and he wants to prove it.

“Five more minutes,” Eliza announces, “and then we make magic happen.”

The next few minutes pass in comfortable chaos. Sebastian provides running commentary on Carter’s complete lack of fashion sense. Rowan updates us on the security situation at the restaurant—exits mapped, staff briefed, and contingenciesin place. Eliza puts the finishing touches on my hair, creating waves that look effortless but probably violate several laws of physics.

And Maverick just watches. Silent. Calculating. Terrifying.

Finally, Eliza steps back with the satisfaction of an artist completing a masterpiece. “Behold,” she announces dramatically, “the weapon of mass seduction.”

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