Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s less about getting married and more about the aesthetic. People like that don’t care if the cake tastes good—they care that it photographs well.”
He nods thoughtfully, swallowing his yogurt. “Sounds like you hate those kinds of weddings?”
“I don’t hate them,” I say. “Influencer weddings are like hosting a Broadway show where all the actors are drunk and in heels and the director keeps changing her mind.” And doing random TikTok dances in random places throughout the day.
Maverick chuckles—low and warm, the sound curling around me like a blanket I didn’t know I wanted. “Well, I hope it rains.”
“What?” I gape, appalled.
“On the day of the wedding,” he says, licking his spoon clean. “Just a light drizzle. Nothing dangerous but enough to fuck up their footage.”
I gasp. “Maverick—that’s such a mean thing to say!”
He shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “I said ‘drizzle.’ I’m not summoning a hurricane. Calm down, jeez.”
“You might as well be,” I scold. “Do you have any idea how much chaos a little mist can cause to a hairstyle?”
“Nope. Nor do I give a shit.”
“You’re so rude.”
He leans one hip against the counter, drying his hands on a towel. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I glance at the clock. It’s way too late—or too early—for whatever this weird little moment is. A part of me knows I should turn in, escape back to the couch and try for some sleep.
I linger anyway. There’s a long beat where neither of us says anything. The kitchen’s quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you aware of every heartbeat, every breath.
Then, softly: “You gonna be okay out here?”
It’s not flirtatious. Not teasing. A little too genuine for a guy who claims he came here to avoid people.
I nod, suddenly more tired than I was five minutes ago. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
He nods back. “All right. Well. Try not to rob me again.”
“No promises.”
We part ways—me to the couch, him down the hall—and just before he disappears, he glances over his shoulder. “Hey, Annabelle?”
“Yeah?”
“If it does rain this weekend . . .”
I wait.
“We’re crashing that wedding.”
Or, even if it doesn’t, I add silently.
Chapter 6
Maverick
Chopping wood is harder than it looks, especially with a fucked-up knee—but that isn’t stopping me.
Three days together in this cabin, and I’ve almost lost my damn mind. I’ve already read the same magazine four times without absorbing a single word. Tried a jigsaw puzzle and gave up halfway through sorting the edge pieces.
So now I’m out here in the woods, trying to reclaim some part of my masculinity by pretending I’m the kind of man who splits firewood for fun.
I’m not.
The axe is heavier than I expected. Or maybe that’s just the knee talking, because I don’t actually recall ever wielding one. I adjust my stance, grit my teeth, and bring the blade down hard.
Thwack!
The log doesn’t split.
“Fuck.”
I brace again, this time channeling every bit of frustration I’ve been stockpiling since the season ended. Since the injury. Since I got benched. Since my agent suggested I take some much-needed time off.
Thwack!
The blade bites into the wood but doesn’t split it. Again. I flex my fingers, shake out my knee, and resist the urge to curse out loud.
That’s about when I hear it.
A laugh. Soft. Feminine. Definitely amused. Coming from somewhere behind me.
Of course. Annabelle.
I don’t even need to turn around. I can feel the smile in her voice as she calls out, “That’s gotta be the saddest excuse for lumberjacking I’ve ever seen.”
I grunt and roll my eyes toward the treetops. “Don’t you have wedding napkins to fold or something?” People to annoy? Rental agencies to call?
Annabelle strolls into my peripheral vision, hair up, wearing a hoodie that looks two sizes too big and leggings that are probably illegal in several states.
I drop my gaze and make direct eye contact with her camel toe before quickly peeling it away. Jesus. There should be a warning label on those things.
I adjust my grip and bring the axe down with a grunt.
Thunk.
“You know you’re using that thing wrong, right?” She taps her foot on the lawn.
“Jesus, woman,” I complain. “You want to do it?”
She folds her arms and cocks her hip. “Don’t come for me. I think I know a bit more about this than you do.” She barely pauses before continuing. “You’re holding the handle too low, and your stance is off. You’re muscling through it like a caveman. No finesse.” She steps closer, eyeing my sad little woodpile. “It’s not about brute force. It’s about balance. Precision.”
“Is that right?” She is so fucking bossy. “Please, enlighten me.”
“Do you actually want me to show you?”
No. But I gesture with my hand for her to step closer, holding the axe out. “By all means. Be my guest.”
She marches over and yanks the axe out of my hand like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment. “Watch and learn,” she says, rolling her shoulders and squaring off like she’s about to swing a baseball bat instead of split a log.