Page 72 of You Owe Me

“Visual serotonin.”

She nods solemnly. “Consider it reparations for everything I’ve ever done wrong.”

“You’re asking me to emotionally support you with my body.”

“Welcome to the patriarchy, Maverick.”

I stare at her.

She stares back, unblinking, gripping a juice box straw full of wine like it’s a weapon of war.

Heaven help me.

“I hate that this might actually work,” I mutter.

“You love me,” she sings, slurring slightly. “You’d do anything for me. Even if it involves partial nudity and mild objectification.”

She bats her lashes. One false eyelash hangs on for dear life.

“You are one downward spiral away from a restraining order,” I say flatly.

She lifts the straw again. “That’s not a no.”

I sigh and pull my shirt over my head in one smooth motion.

She gasps like she’s watching the sunrise.

“Glory be,” she whispers reverently. “The abs live.”

I toss the shirt at her face.

It lands half in the pool, half on her arm. She shrieks like I hit her with a dead fish.

“Sir! This is silk-blend sin! Respect the moment!”

“You wanted a strip show,” I deadpan. “You didn’t specify choreography.”

She laughs—loud and real—and my chest aches in that complicated way it does every time she falls apart and still finds a way to sparkle.

She swipes at her eyes, smearing what’s left of her mascara across her cheek. “You’re stupid,” she mumbles.

“You’re drunk.”

She shrugs. “Same diff.”

I crouch beside her again. “Are you done floating?”

She tips her head to the side, considering. Then, “No. But I might be done sinking.”

That one lands like a sucker punch.

I nod once. “Okay. Then I’ll be here.”

I pick up the wine pouch. Twist off the straw. Toss it into the trash can by the grill.

She watches me like I just carried her out of a burning building.

“I love you.”

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