Page 6 of You Owe Me

CHAPTER TWO

Rumor has it, she barks during sex.

Ainsley

There’s nothing like a sea lion barking at full volume to drag you straight out of sleep.

“Turn it off,” Maverick groans beside me, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Before I throw it out the window.”

Again. He means again.

This is not the first time he’s threatened bodily harm to my sea lion alarm clock. Nor is it the first time he’s followed through.

I slap the snooze button before it can get us evicted. “You know it’s adorable.”

“It’s a form of psychological warfare,” he mutters, voice muffled beneath his arm.

I grin. “You bought it.”

“I was under duress.”

“You were in Target and feeling soft because I said you looked hot in that Henley.”

He grunts. Which, translated from Maverick-ese, means: maybe you’re right, but I’ll die before admitting it.

“You could just admit it’s grown on you,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.

He doesn’t answer. Just groans again, turns away from me, and pulls the blanket over his head like he’s trying to erase me from existence.

I stare at the lump beside me for a second, debating whether to poke him again for sport, but caffeine wins out.

So, I roll out of bed with my hair a wreck, sleep shirt slipping off one shoulder and pad into the kitchen on bare feet. The tile is freezing, and my will to live is sitting somewhere around 12 percent, but I have cinnamon oat creamer and an unhealthy codependent relationship with caffeine, so I will survive.

The coffee pot gurgles to life just as I hear him behind me, his barefoot steps slow and reluctant.

I glance over my shoulder.

He’s shirtless, hair mussed and sticking up in the back in that way that should not be as attractive as it is, eyes still half-lidded with sleep. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, the waistband loose, like he just barely remembered to put them on before wandering out here. He doesn’t say anything right away, just rubs a hand over his jaw and glares at the kitchen.

“I thought you were staying in bed,” I say, hopping onto the counter and wrapping my hands around my mug.

“You left me with that damn clock,” he mutters, voice rough and hoarse.

“You threatened the clock,” I remind him, lifting an eyebrow. “That’s called consequences. Welcome to the justice system.”

He walks past me without a word, just a low, exhausted groan and a scowl aimed directly at the coffee pot. He leans over it, peering into my half-poured mug like I’ve poisoned it, frowning at the creamer bottle already sitting on the counter.

He doesn’t even touch it. Just sighs. Loudly. “You used the cinnamon oat creamer again.”

“Yes,” I say, lifting the mug to my lips with exaggerated grace. “Because the other one is full-fat sugar sludge, and you, my darling walking arrythmia, have a heart condition.”

He grunts. Not even a real protest—just a defeated caveman sound that translates roughly tomy life is a series of beige health foods, and I hate this for me.

I watch him shuffle to the freezer. The man opens it with all the enthusiasm of someone about to witness a crime scene. He freezes the second he sees the bagels.

“There are bagels in there,” I offer helpfully. “Whole grain. From that bakery you claim tastes like sadness but still had the audacity to eat three from last week’s batch.”

His head turns slowly. “Because it does taste like sadness. Specifically, sadness... with chia seeds.”

---