Page 129 of You Owe Me

“I can’t believe we just traumatized an elderly couple,” I say as Maverick opens the car door for me like he didn’t just get second base adjacent on aisle three.

“We didn’t traumatize them.” He slides into the driver’s seat like he didn’t just get groped in a showroom. “Franklin looked like he wanted to take notes.”

I snort. “Please. That man hasn’t blushed since Reagan was in office.”

“You sure? He looked pretty invested in our testing methods.”

“We have two days left with the old couch,” I warn, clicking my seat belt. “Don’t tempt me to expand those methods.”

“Tempt you?” He smirks, starting the engine. “I’m counting on it.”

His hand finds mine without hesitation, like it always does now. Like muscle memory. Like commitment. Like every moment is a yes. And I swear, if he keeps choosing me like this, I’m never letting go.

“So,” I say, watching the city blur past the window, “any regrets? Handing over your IOU empire? Missing the thrill of blackmail and bribery?”

He considers this, and for a moment, I see a flicker of the old Maverick—the one with the glacier-blue eyes and the permanent tension in his shoulders. But then he glances at me and just… softens.

“Not even a little. Power’s overrated when you’re constantly calculating your own life like a spreadsheet. Rowan’s better at managing the chaos anyway. I was just keeping the wolves at bay.”

“And now?”

“Now I get to build something that’s actually mine. Not Pops’s. Not the school’s. Not a kingdom I have to defend every second.”

He squeezes my hand. “I picked you over every favor ever owed. You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted with no strings attached.”

Cue the complete emotional system meltdown. My stomach does that weird swoopy thing, and my heart decides it’s time to try out jazz drumming.

“You keep saying things like that, and I’m going to be emotionally unstable until Thursday,” I whisper.

“Thursday?” He smirks.

“Delivery day. Obviously.”

He laughs, but it’s warm, low—like he’s happier than he knows how to be yet. I want to bottle that sound and drink it when I feel like setting the world on fire.

“So, how’s Carter doing in his new role as Rowan’s indentured academic assistant?”

Maverick smirks. “Word is he’s mastered the art of formatting citations and cries softly when assigned group projects.”

I snort. “Karma’s just poetic like that.”

“Dean Mills has been signing off on everything Rowan asks for. I think he’s just relieved I’m not sitting across from him every week, making veiled threats.”

“You used to terrify him.”

“I still do.” His voice is all silk and steel. “I just don’t need to anymore.”

I look over at him—this man who used to carry everyone’s secrets like a burden, and now just holds my hand. And I think that may be the most powerful he’s ever been.

“I love you, you emotionally evolved crime lord,” I say, leaning my head on his shoulder as we pull into our lot.

“I love you, too, cereal menace.”

We head upstairs to our slightly too-small apartment, already talking about how we’ll rearrange the furniture. He says he’ll carry the old couch down on his own. I suggest lighting it on fire. He says no. I say I’m not asking.

And somewhere between that back-and-forth and slipping off my shoes inside the door, it hits me again.

This life we’re building? It’s not about the furniture. Or the favors. Or even the empire he left behind.

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