Page 3 of Three of a Kind

Looking back, it’s clear Gunner has it. Even four on one, they couldn’t take his ass down if he was wasted.

“Yeah, he’s good.” I scoot in at her side, leaving a foot of space between us. “I’m Maverick. You can call me that or Mav. Just not Rick.” I give a fake shiver of disgust. “Definitely not Ricky.” I bump my shoulder against hers. “I’d shake your hand, but I don’t want to blow our cover.”

“Brooklyn.” A bright smile takes over her face, and a set of deep dimples pop in her full cheeks.

Jesus fucking Christ.

She’s really pretty.

Chapter Two

Brooklyn

Maverick’s smoky, nutty scent floods the air as he tosses his arm over the back of the booth. We’ve naturally moved closer the longer we sit side by side, and my instincts don’t mind a bit. His pheromones soothe my anxious nerves in a way I haven’t experienced before.

I’d say it’s probably a reaction to how compatible we are. His warmth frames my left side as he moves closer, and I fight the urge to snuggle up to his chest. It would be totally inappropriate, and I couldn’t even blame it on being tipsy. We’ve been sitting here, getting to know each other, for probably close to an hour, and I’ve only had half a beer.

Which reminds me.

I move to pick up my bottle, but my hand shakes. It nearly tumbles over as I fumble the grab.

Luckily, Gunner sits in the booth across from us, and he swipes it up before it can land against the wooden table.

“S-Sorry,” I stutter, shaking my head as my cheeks heat.

“I’m used to it.” Gunner chuckles, and it changes his entire face to see him happy. “Maverick isn’t the most graceful of human beings.”

“That, I am not,” Maverick says, laughing good-naturedly. “How long have you lived in the city?”

Gunner slides the bottle back, and this time, I manage to bring it to my lips with no major disasters.

“Four years,” I answer on autopilot.

The reminder of why I came and how quickly those dreams dissolved makes my heart pang.

“Ahh, so you didn’t grow up here. Gunner did.” Maverick takes a swig of his beer and uses the bottle to point at his friend.

“You didn’t?” I ask, twisting to look at Maverick. He’s got a slight twang to his voice at times that reminds me of home.

“No, I grew up in Virginia,” he says, bumping his shoulder against mine. “How about you?”

“North Carolina.”

“What brought you to New York?” Gunner asks, leaning forward as he snags my beer. He brings it back to rest in the middle of the table.

“School,” I say, shaking my head. “College. I had a scholarship.”

Gunner’s eyes glimmer as the edges of his lips tip up, and he gives me an encouraging nod, as if he’s waiting for me to go on.

So, I do.

The conversation goes on for so long that I start to feel at ease.

Gunner may have the whole tall, dark, and unbelievably handsome thing going on, but there’s also an underlying level of tenderness that helps me come out of my shell.

Every time I coax a smile out of him, it feels like a win. Not to mention the slight dimples that appear in his short stubble when he finds something amusing.

Maverick is the opposite, with lighter features. He has short blond waves that fall over his forehead and blue eyes. He’s also sporting a thick beard in the same color as the longer hair on top of his head. There are black gauges in his ears and dark tattoos peeking out around his shirt.

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