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)
“Uh . . .” I glance at him. “Was that . . . ?”
“A storm was not on my bingo card for today,” he says, pulling me toward the ladder. “And I check the weather religiously.”
Well, that’s a fun fact.
Another roll of thunder is followed by a flash of lightning in the distance. So weird.
I let him drag me up and out of the water; he’s clearly paranoid about being caught in the water in a storm, even though we’re already wet.
I’m laughing, teeth chattering, adrenaline still buzzing in my chest. “You think you’re fast, McBride? Race you.”
We lunge for our discarded clothes, yanking shirts and sandals into our arms like scavengers in a flash flood, then bolt for the cabin as thunder cracks, closer now, shaking the deck under our feet.
The wind whips at my hair, plastering wet strands to my cheeks, but it doesn’t matter—we’re laughing so damn hard, hearts pounding, toes slapping against the rain-slicked boards.
By the time we reach the porch, I’m gasping for breath, clutching my towel around me like a lifeline. Maverick barrels up behind me, slides open the patio door, and ushers us both inside.
Neither of us cares that we’re dripping wet.
For a second, we just stand there, dripping onto the hardwood, eyes wide and chests heaving, like two kids caught after breaking the rules.
Chapter 8
Maverick
The power is out.
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 now but 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. Real cute.” 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.