Page 130 of You Owe Me

It’s about the choice he made.

He picked me. On purpose. Without hesitation. With his whole freaking heart.

EPILOGUE

Rumor has it, he’s a softy.

Maverick

MANY YEARS LATER

5:47 p.m.

The boy is early, which means one of two things: either he’s trying to impress me—which is a bold strategy—or he’s so riddled with anxiety that he forgot how clocks work. Either way, I’ve already made seven mental notes about his body language, posture, vehicle choice, and the visible sheen of nervous sweat coating his forehead before the doorbell even rings.

I’ve been watching from the window for the past ten minutes, which Ainsley would probably call “stalking” if she knew. But this is reconnaissance. Due diligence. The kind of careful observation that’s served me well in business and will hopefully prevent my daughter from dating a complete disaster.

“He’s here,” I call toward the upstairs hallway, my voice carrying the kind of calm authority that used to make board members nervous.

From the second floor, I hear the familiar rustle of satin, the sharp thud of makeup palettes hitting hardwood, andthe unmistakable sound of my wife shouting down, “Be nice, Maverick! Remember what we discussed!”

Be nice. Right. Because that’s what prom night is about—being cordial to the hormone-drenched teenage boy who’s about to take my daughter into a dark auditorium with questionable lighting and even worse music. Also, I’ve been legally leashed by my wife. No background checks beyond what I could accomplish through casual conversation. No GPS trackers hidden in corsages. No casually implied threats delivered over dinner conversation. Just good old-fashioned, normal parent behavior. Whatever the hell that means.

So here I am, standing in my own foyer like a civilized human being. Face calm, posture relaxed, fingertips only slightly twitching with the effort it takes not to launch into a full-scale interrogation about this kid’s intentions, driving record, and long-term life goals.

Cooper, my sixteen-year-old son and professional instigator, appears beside me with the timing of someone who’s been waiting for this moment all week. He’s grinning like a gremlin who just discovered fire.

“Ooooh, this is gonna be good.” He settles into prime viewing position. “Dad’s about to go full psycho mode. I brought snacks.”

He flops onto the couch with a bag of microwave popcorn, clearly here for the entertainment value rather than moral support.

“Don’t you have homework you could be doing?”

He shrugs with the casual indifference only teenagers can master. “I’m observing intimidation tactics. It’s educational. Like a nature documentary, but with more potential violence.”

I notice he’s already got his phone out, probably live-streaming this entire interaction to his friends.

“Put that away.”

“Uncle Sebastian said he wants footage for the family archives. He’s taking bets on how long it takes you to make the kid cry.”

“Tell Uncle Sebastian I still know where he lives and exactly how many favors he owes me.”

“I told him you’d say that,” Cooper replies cheerfully, tucking the phone into his hoodie pocket with obvious reluctance. “He said you’re getting soft in your old age. Something about domestication.”

Before I can properly retaliate, there’s a thunderclap of tiny feet descending the stairs like a very small, very determined army.

Enter Grace, stage right.

Five years old. Pure chaos wrapped in a pink tutu and armed with a stuffed sea lion she’s carried everywhere for the past six months. She skids to a stop beside my leg and blinks up at me with those round blue eyes she absolutely weaponizes when she wants something.

“Is that Vivi’s boyfriend?” She presses her face against the front window to get a better look at the car in our driveway.

“He’s not her boyfriend,” Cooper answers with the authority of someone who’s clearly been briefed on the official family position. “He’s Dad’s next victim.”

The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time.

Grace gasps. “Are you gonna make him take an IOU?”

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