Page 36 of You Owe Me

Maverick is still for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a gentleness that always surprises me, he brushes his thumb across my cheek, catching a tear I didn’t realize had fallen.

“I’m handling it.”

“No, you’re not,” I counter. “You’re pushing yourself to the breaking point trying to handle everything alone. Your grandfather’s company. Cooper’s future. Your favor business. Your classes. And now Carter.”

I take his hand and press it against his own chest, right over his heart. “Let me handle this. I promise it’s not a big deal.”

For a moment, he’s silent, his eyes searching mine. Then, with a resigned sigh that somehow feels like victory, he leans forward and rests his forehead against mine. “Okay, you can handle it, but if he asks you out again, I’ll make sure he never speaks a full sentence without flinching.”

And that’s why you can’t tell Maverick Lexington shit.

CHAPTER TEN

Rumor has it, she's caught between a rock and a hard place.

Ainsley

I’m running late for Marine Conservation Ethics, which is ironic since I spent all morning lecturing Maverick about the importance of proper time management and not working until 4:00 a.m. like some kind of deranged vampire with a spreadsheet addiction. The man seriously stayed up all night analyzing poker statistics from some game he wasn’t even at, muttering about “patterns” and “tells” while I tried to lure him to bed with promises that ranged from “I’ll make pancakes tomorrow” to “I’ll wear that thing you like” (spoiler alert: that thing is not, in fact, my sea lion shirt).

Neither worked. So now, I’m sprinting across the quad with half a bagel shoved in my mouth, my backpack slipping down one shoulder, and the distinct feeling that the universe is punishing me for my hypocrisy.

Dr. Paulson locks the door at exactly 10:05 a.m., and it’s currently 10:03. I have exactly two minutes to cross an expanse of grass that would make Olympic sprinters weep.

“You’ve got this, Ainsley!” I yell at myself, startling a nearby freshman who drops his coffee. Sorry, freshman. We’ve all been casualties in the war against tardiness.

I make it to the Harkins Building with thirty seconds to spare, vault up the stairs, taking them three at a time (thank you, long legs that have been my nemesis in all other aspects of life), and skid to a halt outside Room 302 just as Dr. Paulson is reaching for the door.

“Made it!” I gasp, shoving the last of my bagel into my mouth and trying not to look like I’m about to collapse from cardiac arrest. My hair is a wild tangle around my face, my cheeks are flushed, and I’m pretty sure I have cream cheese on my chin, but I’m here, dammit.

Dr. Paulson, a tiny woman with steel-gray hair and the energy of someone half her age, looks at me over her glasses. “Cutting it rather close, Ms. James.”

“Traffic was terrible,” I say with my most winning smile. “You know how those sea lion crossing zones can get.”

She doesn’t laugh, she never does, but I catch the slight twitch of her lips before she turns away. “Take your seat. We’re discussing ethical considerations in marine mammal research today.”

My favorite topic! I slip into the lecture hall and find my usual spot near the front, next to Eliza, my lab partner, who has the patience of a saint and the organizational skills of a military general. She slides her spare notebook toward me without comment.

“Forgot yours again?” she whispers.

“I was in a rush,” I whisper back. “Maverick was being...” I pause, searching for the right word.

“Maverick-y?” she supplies, and I nod gratefully.

“Exactly. Extra Maverick-y. All brooding intensity and mysterious spreadsheets. I swear, he’s like Batman, if Batman had an MBA instead of cool gadgets.”

Eliza smothers a laugh as Dr. Paulson begins her lecture, and I try to focus on the ethical implications of tagging migratoryspecies rather than the lingering concern about Maverick’s obsession with Carter Mills. It’s been three days since our pickleball confrontation, and while he agreed to tackle the Carter problem “together,” his definition of “together” seems to involve a lot of late-night research sessions that specifically exclude me.

I’m deep in thought about both sea lion welfare and boyfriend stubbornness when something hits the back of my head. I turn to find a perfectly folded paper airplane resting on the floor beside my chair. What is this, fifth grade?

I unfold it discreetly, expecting some juvenile note from one of the frat boys who take this class for an “easy science credit” (joke’s on them, Dr. Paulson isruthless). Instead, I find a typed message that makes my blood run cold.

Meet me outside after class. We need to talk. -CM

Carter Mills. The khaki-wearing menace himself. I crumple the note in my fist and scan the lecture hall, looking for the culprit who delivered it. Near the door, I catch a glimpse of a perfectly pressed polo shirt disappearing into the hallway. He must have paid some freshman to deliver his little message and then waited to see if I noticed.

The audacity of this guy is truly breathtaking. Who interrupts a lecture on the ethical treatment of marine mammals to deliver creepy stalker notes? It’s like he’s actively trying to violate every principle of decent human behavior.

The rest of class passes in a blur. I take notes mechanically, but my mind is racing. What does he want now? More threats? More creepy propositions? I consider texting Maverick butimmediately dismiss the idea. His heart monitor would explode if he knew Carter was sending me notes like we’re in some demented rom-com.

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