Page 125 of Married to the Scottish Player
“Well, that’s too fucking bad. She didn’t sign up for this, and I’m not saying jack shit until she’s ready.”
That voice—the edge of it, the heat behind it—it wasn’t polished or professional or calculated. It was furious. Protective. Honest.
He’s fighting for me. Not just in private, but on calls with people who could ruin him. People who shape his career. His reputation.
And he chose me anyway.
No story yet.
Not until she’s ready.
God, how many times has that not been the case? How many times have I been pushed into things—into saying yes before I was ready, smiling before I meant it, agreeing so no one else had to feel uncomfortable?
But he didn’t do that. He’s giving me space in a world where most people take.
A hot lump lodges in my throat. I slide my hand over the doorframe, curl my fingers around the edge, and breathe. Just once. Deep and slow. Letting it sink in.
He’s not trying to own me.
He’s trying tohonorme.
I hesitate only for a short second before pushing the door open all the way. I walk inside, then follow his voice into his office. He’s there, standing at his big black modern desk, holding a bottle of green juice, hair messy, expression irritated—until he sees me.
Everything inside me softens like goo. I am a puddle of mush, heart beating outside of my chest.
I give him a little wave and step inside.
“I’m hanging up,” he tells the person on the other line. “We’ll discuss this some other time.” He exhales, setting his phone on the desk, giving me his undivided attention.
I might be a damn fool, but I say it—the big, dumb, terrifying truth stumbling out of my mouth:
“I love you, Maverick.”
His entire body stills.
Then—
“Say it again.”
“I think I lo—”
He crosses the room in three strides, wraps his arms around me, and kisses me like a man who’s been dying of thirst and just found water. It’s everything that’s been building—longing, relief, panic, possibility—all crashing together in one breathless, desperate, grounding kiss.
My hands slide into his hair. His grip tightens around my waist. I swear I can feel his heart hammering in sync with mine, like our bodies are trying to memorize the rhythm ofusbefore it’s too late.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
His voice is low, hoarse. “You love me?”
We already said it when we were at the lake, but we were drunk, so does it count? I want to say it again in a way neither of us will forget.
“I do. I think I’ve been falling since the time you splashed me with cold lake water because you’re a flirt.”
I press my lips to his again.
This one says I’m not going anywhere even though he did not say the words back.
This one says this isn’t temporary.
