Page 64 of You Owe Me

I look up to find Maverick watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Not angry, not suspicious—just concerned. Like he genuinely wants to help, if only I’d let him.

For a split second, I consider it. Consider telling him everything—about Carter’s threats, about the gala, about my failed attempt at digital espionage. Consider letting him take control of this situation the way he takes control of everything else, with calculated precision and ruthless efficiency.

But then I remember the sound his watch makes when his heart rate spikes. The way his jaw goes tight when he’s stressed but trying to hide it. The beta blockers he takes every morning like communion wafers, trying to keep his cardiovascular system from staging a revolt.

If I tell him about Carter, he’ll try to fix it. And trying to fix it might kill him.

So instead, I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine. “I’m fine, Mav. Really. Just overthinking some stuff with my thesis proposal.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. Just turns his hand palm-up and laces our fingers together, his thumb tracing gentle circles over my knuckles.

“You know I’m here, right? Whatever it is. Whatever you need.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks me. Because he means it—I know he does. Maverick Lexington would move mountains if I asked him to, would tear down anyone who threatened me without a second thought. He’d probably enjoy it.

But this time, I’m the threat. My choices, my lies, my complete inability to handle Carter Mills without dragging everyone I love into the wreckage.

“I know,” I whisper, squeezing his fingers. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

On the TV, a new contestant steps up to the hot seat, all nervous energy and misplaced confidence. Regis Philbin welcomes her with that trademark blend of warmth and mild condescension, and I watch without really seeing as she settles in for what’s probably going to be a short-lived run toward a million dollars.

Just like me, she has no idea what she’s gotten herself into.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Rumor has it, I let my IOUs get sentimental.

Maverick

The cards don’t shuffle the same tonight.

Maybe it’s the room—too quiet. Maybe it’s the table—just me, no audience, no idiots bluffing like I don’t already own their tells. Or maybe it’s her. The reason every card in my hand feels off balance.

Ainsley hasn’t sat across from me in days.

Not here. Not on this side of our lives.

She’s been… around. Polite. Distracted. Busy with classes, sea lions, and excuses. The kind of distance that doesn’t slam doors or throw accusations. The kind that leaves your coffee half full and your bed feeling twice as wide.

I flick the corner of an IOU. Let it land face down beside the pile like it doesn’t weigh more than it should. One favor from someone whose name I don’t even remember. Doesn’t matter. They’ll come knocking. They always do.

What I need is the one person who’s been slipping through my hands for weeks.

She’s in the bedroom now. I can hear the drawer open. The zip of a makeup bag. Keys jangling. She’s not trying to sneak out—Ainsley doesn’t do subtle—but she hasn’t looked me in the eye since Tuesday, and that says more than any lie she might spin.

I deal myself a hand I don’t plan to play.

Just to keep my fingers from dialing her number while she’s thirty feet away.

And then, right on cue, I hear it.

The clink of her water bottle hitting the counter. The squeak of that loose floorboard near the hallway. She stops in the doorway like she didn’t expect me to be sitting here, even though it’s the same damn time I always am.

Her hair’s up. Glasses on. Hoodie zipped halfway. And still, somehow, she looks like temptation weaponized.

“Thought you had game night?” Her voice is light. Breezy. But her eyes flick to the cards, then back to me, and I know she’s counting—IOUs, lies, whatever she’s holding in her chest and hoping I don’t notice.

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