Page 81 of Married to the Scottish Player
He grins, undeterred. “Bring that too.”
I cross my arms. “You’re being serious.”
“Dead serious.”
“And you think this isnormal?”
“Babe. What’s normal anymore?”
True. He has a point ...
That’s how we end up at my apartment.
Maverick stands in the middle of my tiny living room like a yeti trying not to knock over furniture. He’s way too big for this space. His head almost brushes the ceiling fan, and his duffel bag looks comically out of place next to my floral area rug and mason jar vase full of fake peonies.
“This is ... cozy,” he says diplomatically, eyeing the bookshelf, which has paperbacks stacked on it, the basket of laundry I did not fold, and the bar cart I had to have but never use.
“Thanks.” I start gathering the essentials—laptop, chargers, toiletries, a handful of comfy clothes, and my favorite throw blanket.
He crouches by the bookshelf, picking up a well-worn paperback and flipping it over. “You’ve got, like, five books with shirtless dudes on the cover.”
“Correction, most of them have shirtless dudes on the cover.”
He grins, thumbing through one. I toss a pair of sweatpants into my duffel and snatch the book out of his hands.
Maverick lifts a brow as his eyes skim the page. “I just made a mental note to growl more often.”
“Please don’t.”
Too late—hegrowls. Full-on, deep and exaggerated, like a bear. Then he clears his throat and adopts the Scottish accent again. “I’ll be readin’ this one by candlelight, lass.”
This perks me up. Is it possible he’s a romantic? “Oh, you’re a candlelight kind of guy?”
“Aye.” He leans against the bookshelf. “Me and”—he looks at the cover again to see the title—“Highlander’s Forbidden Desire, alone under the stars.”
I snort. “You’dbeso lucky.”
Before he can fire back, my phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I pull it out to see Lucy’s name lighting up the screen with her contact photo: a blurry selfie of the two of us mid-laugh, our faces smushed together. Ahh, good times, good times ...
I swipe to answer. “Hey, hang on—”
I wave a hand toward Maverick as I back out of the room to take the call in the safety of my bedroom.
It’s Lucy,I mouth, pointing to the phone.
He nods, already ignoring me, lost in whatever steamy part of the book he’s found.
Lucky him.
I shut the door behind me and press the phone to my ear. “What’s up?”
Be cool. Be nonchalant. When you’re ready, you can tell your best friend that you—
“Are You Freaking Married?” she shouts from the other end of the phone, screeching so loud I pull the device away from my face and stare at the screen.
“Annabelle Franklin, Are You Freaking Serious?” she continues shouting. “You Go on One Staycation and Shack up With One of the Most Famous Linebackers in the Freaking Country? Who Are You?”
So much ground to cover. “Listen. It was an accident—and it’s not legal.” I laugh, looking over at the suitcase on my bed, half packed with clothes and toiletries, enough for thirty days in Arizona.
