Page 37 of Married to the Scottish Player
Has been for the last ten minutes.
“Well, this is great,” I mutter, hefting myself up off the couch so I can dig through the kitchen drawers for a flashlight. Or candles.
There was a weird calm after a storm. Like the air forgets how to move, and everything goes still, waiting for what comes next.
Annabelle and I had managed to shower, change, and scrounge up a half-decent dinner, even though she teased me the entire time about being a chicken.
So what if I’m scared of storms? Big deal.
Just ’cause I’m a big dude, I can’t be afraid of a little lightning?
I stood at the window, taking inventory of the yard. Storm clouds still clung low in the sky, gray and heavy, though the worst of the wind had died. Branches swayed against the darkening horizon, a few stray leaves sticking to the glass like wet confetti.
Then it happened.
The power went out.
No warning as the entire house plunged into a heavy, suffocating silence. No fridge hum. No gentle whirl of the ceiling fan. Nothing nowbut the rain beating against the roof, windows, and chimney—and the sound of Annabelle’s groan.
“Fuck.” I spin around.
Lightning flickers again outside, casting a pale, eerie light across the living room. Then total blackness.
“Oh my God,” My cabinmate groans again. “This is the perfect time for you to finally murder me once and for all.”
I force out a laugh, trying to hide the way my stomach tightens at the crackle of thunder. “Yeah, that’s my plan. Wait two days, then kill you in a blackout. Genius.”
The house feels too quiet, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the next boom to tear it apart. I hate storms, always have. Another rumble rolls over the roof, making the walls vibrate. I glance at the window, counting in my head like a damn kid—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—to measure how close the lightning strike is.
“Maverick?”
I snap my eyes back to her. She’s moved closer, like she can sense the edge in my voice.
“Hey.” She nudges my arm with her elbow. “You all right?”
I clear my throat, willing my shoulders to relax. Roll them to get the tension out. “Not a fan of storms.”
Her face softens, surprise flickering there for just a moment before she covers it up with a grin. “Want me to hold your hand?”
I scowl. “Cute.Realcute.” But yes, kind of.
Thunder cracks so loud it rattles the cabinet doors, and for half a second, I jump. Like a grown-ass man,jumping.
She sees it too—I know she does, because that grin softens again. “C’mon,” she says gently. “We’ll make a fire, yeah? Sit together on the couch and light some candles? You can distract me by teaching me more Gaelic phrases.”
I want to roll my eyes. Instead, I find myself nodding. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Good, good.”
She slips past me, flashlight on her phone leading the way toward the living room fireplace. The smell of wet earth seeps through the gaps in the windows, the storm raging. It’s a living, breathing thing, and I fight the instinct to flinch every time the thunder rolls.
Fight the instinct to hide.
I’m Maverick fucking McBride.I’ve faced fullbacks coming at me full speed, have broken bones, torn ligaments—but one stupid crack of thunder and I’m a jittery mess?
Fuck that.
I watch as this cute, petite woman stacks logs in the fireplace, humming as if the house isn’t shaking while I do my best to light the goddamn match. For the most part, my hands are steady.
