Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
My eyes went so wide it was a wonder they were still in my head. “You mean—”
“Not talking about it.” Maverick threw the truck back in Drive. “You wanna quit being my friend, you go right ahead.”
“You think I’d quit being your friend over something like that?” I craned my neck, trying to force him to meet my gaze. I didn’t know any gay folks in real life, but my mom watched a TV show about a pack of gay friends and their city lives. I’d asked her once why she liked it, and she’d said gay people deserved happiness the same as anyone else. And that was how I felt about Mav’s declaration. He was still Mav. He still deserved all the things. “That’s the real bullshit, Mav. You’re my bro.”
I’d called him my bro before, but it never quite fit. I had brothers, both younger, and they had a tendency to drive me crazy and inspire my stern side. Maverick was different. Different from my other guy friends, too, especially over the last year or so. There was an awareness there I didn’t have with anyone else, a soft spot in my chest, an electric unease, yet a rightness to our friendship I couldn’t define.
“So we’re good?” Maverick’s eyes were wary.
“We’re good,” I said firmly. I might not be sure of much else, but I was sure of that.
“I reckon I could drive for prom,” Maverick mused slowly as he resumed our drive to nowhere.
“You just said—”
“And you said it’s a friend group. Not an orgy.” He laughed at his joke. I didn’t. I had no clue what he was after. “I can go for you. Help you get in with Betsey.”
“I don’t know if I want in with Betsey.” I wasn’t as good at shocking confessions as Maverick, didn’t know how to explain that I didn’t think about kissing or sex like other guys. Sure, I got the same random hard-ons, but they never seemed tied to sexy imagery like they were for others.
“You want in.” Maverick’s expression was as grim as I’d ever seen it, but I wasn’t so sure myself.
Chapter 7
Maverick
Now
“Do you want to flip me for the primary bedroom?” Faith swept into the kitchen at the ranch house where I was helping myself to the dregs in the coffee pot. Her loaded-down SUV sat next to my own overstuffed car. We’d each returned home to take care of things so we could spend an indefinite amount of time at the ranch. By some miracle, we’d arrived back here within a half hour of each other.
“You go right ahead.” I finished pouring the leftover coffee over milk and ice. In LA, I had a pricey daily coffee habit, but here, I made do with my improvised cold brew since the nearest barista was a forty-minute drive away.
While we’d been gone for a few days, Faith had arranged for a cleaning service based out of Durango to come and pack up the bulk of our father’s things, a task neither of us wanted to confront yet. We’d get to the boxes. Eventually. But in the meantime, no way was I taking over a room I’d never felt comfortable entering. “This place has enough bad vibes without me actively courting more.”
“Hey, this is what he wanted.” Faith stamped a high-heeled sandal onto the tile floor. I had no idea how she drove in those let alone navigated the uneven terrain surrounding the ranch house. “Dad drafted the will to force us to spend time here. His ghost should be delighted that I want that balcony and view.”
“It’s all yours.” I gestured toward the back staircase. “I’m perfectly fine in the downstairs guest suite.”
Like the kitchen and great room, the downstairs guest suite was a more modern addition to the house. When I was younger, Brita and a succession of other cooks and housekeepers had occupied the space, but my father hadn’t managed to keep anyone on full-time in years. While the crew was here cleaning and packing up Dad’s things, I’d had the guest suite painted white and a basic queen bed delivered in an attempt to live with as few memories as possible.
“I’m staying in my mom’s old room, but I’m taking down her princess pictures.” Hannah, Faith’s thirteen year-old daughter, entered the kitchen carrying two duffel bags, a backpack, and wheeling a pink suitcase. She was the product of my sister’s second society marriage, a disinterested oil baron who was good for little more than writing child support checks. Somehow, despite the divorce and all the other ups and downs in her young life, Hannah remained one of the most optimistic creatures I knew.
“Excellent plan.” I relieved her of the bags. “Do you want help?”
“Sure.” She headed toward the stairs only to whirl back at me, gesturing so widely that the suitcase wobbled. She had her mother’s coltish long limbs and graceful hands, but somehow had ended up with my eyes, a fact I’d noticed from the earliest pictures Faith had sent. “I know! We can flip the room! Like on your show, Uncle Mav.”