Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“You a Southern girl, huh?” Mr. Bell smiles. “That pretty accent and them manners your mama must’ve taught you.”
“Can’t get rid of either one of ’em,” I tell him, laughing. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“I like them both.” Maverick drops a kiss to my forehead. “Very much. Come, eat.”
He guides me over to the empty seat between him and his father, pulling the chair out for me.
“Thank you.” I pick up my glass of orange juice and take a sip, hoping it covers how unexpectedly nervous I am seeing his father like this, freshly fucked and obviously staying. Maverick’s head was between my legs not half an hour ago.
Father, forgive me for I have whored.
The conversation goes on around me for a few minutes while I pull myself together. Maverick must be reading my mind or picking up on my uncharacteristic reticence, because he smirks at me and licks around his mouth like he’s making sure he didn’t miss a spot. My jaw drops and I stare at him disbelievingly, checking to see if his father or Laurenz have noticed.
“Got some nerve wearing that shit in this house,” Mr. Bell says, nodding at Laurenz’s Waves T-shirt.
“I’m a San Diego boy,” Laurenz laughs, pouring eggs into a pan. “You know I gotta represent us winning our first championship. I promise when Mav buys the Vipers, I’ll get a Vegas shirt, hat, signs. The works. For now, let me enjoy my city’s first ring.”
“August West finally did it.” Mr. Bell’s tone is begrudgingly admiring. “He earned it, but we coming for that crown next season.”
“And Kenan Ross did it,” Maverick says. “Got him a piece of the team.”
“I hate the Waves right now,” Mr. Bell says. “But a Black man becoming an owner, even a minority stake, is a good thing.”
“Always,” Maverick agrees. “I called to congratulate him on the win and the good news.”
“You two should meet,” Mr. Bell bites into his French toast and sends his son a shrewd look. “See what you can get into together.”
“Bolt’s already set it up,” Maverick says with a sly smile.
Knowing what their family has been through and witnessing Mr. Bell’s grief firsthand, it’s good to see father and son plotting about the team that will soon belong to Maverick. And if there’s one thing Maverick Bell usually gets, it’s his way.
I’m living proof of that.
“Your breakfast, madam.” With a flourish Laurenz places an omelet so fluffy in front of me I almost don’t believe it’s real. I taste it and stifle a moan at the perfection exploding in my mouth.
“Like I told Coach,” Mr. Bell says, “we need to make some big moves in the offseason. We play it right, Vipers have a real shot next year.”
“Front office is on board as soon as I assume ownership. Everything should be final in the next few weeks.” Maverick says it casually, but there is a current of excitement running through the words. “That team will be ours.”
“Yours,” his father corrects.
“Ours,” Maverick repeats, his obstinate tone matching his dad’s. “I would never have even dreamed of owning a pro team had it not been for you.”
“You really did it.” His father leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his still-flat stomach. He looks so much like Maverick in that moment—his mannerisms and his expression even beyond the obvious actual physical resemblance.
“Your mother would be so proud,” Mr. Bell says, and a flash of what must be agony crosses his face.
“I know, Pop.” Maverick exchanges a glance with his father that conveys so much. The grief they’ve shared, but also the sense of accomplishment that belongs to them both, too.
“Well, what’s on the agenda for today?” Mr. Bell directs the question to me, shifting the conversation to a lighter tone.
I tug my braids over one shoulder. “I have a video conference thing in about an hour if there’s a corner of this house I can steal?”
“Of course,” Maverick replies. He reaches for my hand in my lap and pulls it up for a kiss. “I hope you don’t have to work all day.”
“Look who’s talking,” I say with a laugh, threading our fingers together and letting them rest on his knee. “You were out of bed hours before I was.”
I shoot Mr. Bell a look that is half embarrassment, half horror, and almost swallow my tongue. It’s pretty obvious I’m spending the week, but I didn’t have to hang all Mav’s business out on the line to dry in front of his father. I may be wild in the sheets, but I would never have a man spend the night in my mama’s house. Not with the “Footprints” poem and the Black Jesus oil painting hanging on the wall in the living room.
“I mean…” My wide eyes meet Maverick’s laughing ones.
“You’re right,” he says, saving me from whatever awkward thing was about to come from my mouth. “I was up early getting things done so we could spend the day together. You down?”