Page 34 of You Owe Me

With obvious reluctance, he turns his wrist. 156 BPM. Dangerously high, especially after physical exertion.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I say, taking his paddle from him despite his resistance. “We’re done with pickleball for today. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“No, but I play one in your life’s drama.” I gather our things, shoving them into my gym bag. “Come on, we need to cool you down before your heart decides to take a vacation from your chest.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Maverick hates being managed almost as much as he hates losing control. But something in my expression must convince him, because he allows me to lead him off the court and toward the outdoor area behind the rec center.

The space is mostly deserted this early on a Saturday, with just a few dedicated joggers in the distance. Perfect. I guide Maverick to a secluded spot under the shade of a massive oak tree, well out of sight from the main path.

“Sit,” I command, pointing to the grass.

“I’m not one of your sea lions,” he grumbles, but he sits, his back against the tree trunk.

“No, they listen better.” I rummage in my gym bag, pulling out my water bottle. “Shirt off.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Here?”

“Yes, here. No one’s around except maybe some squirrels, and they’ve seen worse on this campus.” When he doesn’t immediately comply, I add, “Your heart rate is too high, and we need to cool you down. This is the fastest way.”

With a sigh that suggests I’m asking him to donate a kidney rather than remove a piece of clothing, Maverick pulls his shirt over his head. And just like every time I see him shirtless, my brain short-circuits for a solid three seconds. The man is unfairly beautiful—all lean muscle and perfect planes, with that tribal tattoo wrapping around his torso in a way that makes my fingers itch to trace it.

But this isn’t the time for ogling. His skin is flushed and hot to the touch when I press my palm against his chest, right over his heart. I can feel it racing beneath my hand, too fast and too hard.

“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack over Carter Mills,” I say softly. “And then he wins without even having to try.”

Something flickers in Maverick’s eyes—acknowledgment, perhaps, that I’m right. Without waiting for a response, I uncap my water bottle and pour a small amount into my palm.

“What are you doing?” he asks, watching me suspiciously.

“Improvisational cooling techniques,” I explain, pressing my wet palm against the back of his neck. “Since you’re too stubborn to call it quits when your body is screaming at you to stop.”

The water trickles down his neck and spine, and I feel some of the tension leave his muscles. Encouraged, I pour more water into my hand and spread it across his shoulders, his chest,and his abdomen. His skin temperature is noticeably high, a combination of exertion and anger that can’t be good for his condition.

“This is unnecessary,” he mutters, but he doesn’t stop me.

“Oh, really?” I check his watch again. 142 BPM. “Tell that to your cardiovascular system.”

I continue my ministrations, methodically cooling his overheated skin with water from my bottle. As I work, I feel his breathing slow, his muscles gradually relaxing under my touch. His eyes never leave my face, those intense blue irises tracking every movement with a focus that would be unnerving if I weren’t so used to it.

Without really planning to, I lean forward and lick a droplet of water from his collarbone. I feel rather than hear his sharp intake of breath, his pulse jumping beneath my fingertips where they rest against his neck.

“That’s not standard first aid procedure.” His voice is suddenly lower.

I look up at him through my lashes, trying to gauge his reaction. “I’m innovating.”

For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air between us charged with something that has nothing to do with pickleball or Carter Mills. Then, with deliberate slowness, I lower my mouth to his chest and lick another trail of water from his skin.

His hands come up to grip my waist, fingers digging in just shy of painful. “Ainsley,” he warns, though whether he’s telling me to stop or continue isn’t clear.

“Your heart rate’s still too high,” I murmur against his skin. “I’m helping.”

“You’re making it worse.”

I smile against his sternum. “Sometimes things need to get worse before they get better.”

His laugh is more like a grunt, but I’ll take it. I continue my “treatment,” using my lips and tongue to chase water droplets across the landscape of his torso. With each taste, I feel him relax and tense simultaneously, relaxing into the sensation while the muscle beneath my lips coils with a different kind of tension.

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