Page 21 of Dirty Empire

One week turned into two, and in the third week, Maverick finally had enough.

“We’re going out,” he says, coming into my room fully dressed in dark jeans and a button-up shirt. His muscles flexed underneath as he opens my closet door and steps inside.

“I don’t-”

“It wasn’t a question,” he snaps. I widen my eyes, taken back by his tone. He’s been so gentle and caring these past weeks. He came back out of the closet with a blue sundress in his hand. He tosses it on the bed.

“Get dressed. We’re leaving in ten minutes.” He turns and walks out the door, leaving me in shock. What the hell has gotten into him? He’s probably tired of my moping around, and I can’t say I blame him. I’m tired of it myself.

It takes me twenty minutes to haul myself out of bed, get in the shower, and look presentable enough to meet Maverick downstairs. He’s sitting at the dining room table with a spread of breakfast in front of him, but it seems like he’s done eating. He leans back in his chair, scrolling through emails on his cell phone.

I take a seat next to him, not sure what to do. The house is bright and spacious, and I have to admit that it feels good to be a functioning human. He grabs an empty plate from the table and sets it in front of me without taking his eyes off his phone.

“Eat,” he says. Obviously, he’s turned into a caveman overnight.

“I’m sorry…about these past few weeks,” I say, unable to think of an excuse for my behavior. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get so low.

He puts the phone down on the table and looks at me. Dark blue eyes pierce into me as if seeing right through me, seeing all of my vulnerability laid out in front of him. His face is so handsome as if carved from marble. He has to be in his late thirties, but he barely looks a day over twenty-five.

“There’s no reason to apologize, but that’s over now,” he states. He makes it sound so simple, but it’s the simplicity of it that I like. It’s like his words are a nail in the coffin of my depression. It’s over; time to get back to everyday life. I have to find my new normal, whatever that might mean.

I give him a small smile before loading my plate up with bacon and pancakes from the middle of the table. I eat in silence while Maverick works on his phone. He’s probably spent a lot of time working while I’ve been holed up in the guest room.

Once I’m done, he stands up. “Come on.”

He walks toward the front door, and I follow behind him.

“Where are we going?”

“To see some more of the island,” he says as we walked outside. “This island is beautiful, and we should experience it.”

He gets into the driver’s side of a black SUV, and I slide into the passenger's seat. “Does that mean you haven’t seen much of the island, either?”

He turns around in the driveway and drives toward the fenced entrance to his property. “I’ve never had someone to explore it with,” he admits.

I feel a ping of sadness for the man next to me. He has all the money in the world but no one to even explore this beautiful island with. I stare out the window as we drive. The roads are paved, but bright green vegetation flourishes on both sides. I count five mopeds that pass by but only a few other vehicles. While I lived with Miles, I took the tropics for granted. Now gratitude swells in my chest. I push a button on the door panel, and the window rolls down. The warm air hits me in the face and causes my hair to blow around me. The smell of saltwater and sand surrounds me.

Maverick glances over at me. The side of his mouth lifts like he’s holding back a grin.

We arrive at an outdoor market. There are a lot more cars here. As we exit the vehicle, I notice all the craft stands. There is a ton of handmade art; fabrics, painting, and pottery. Everything is beautiful, and I can tell the items were made with love. It’s so different from U.S mass-produced products.

“Everything is so beautiful,” I whisper.

Maverick takes my hand in his and leads me through the market. I stop at a stand filled with beautiful pottery. It would look great as decoration in Maverick’s house.

“Can I help you?” a woman asks from behind the counter. Her accent is thick, and her hair’s long and a bit frizzy as if she brushed out all of the curls. It falls down her back and across her exposed shoulders. The halter top she’s wearing is necessary in the hot temperatures.

“You make all of these?” I ask.

“Me and my sisters. Is there one you want to look at closer?”

I examine the wall of vases and decorative pieces behind her. I want to look at them closer, but I don't want to give the woman false hope. I don't have any money on me.

Maverick speaks up. “Get whatever you want.”

I turn around to look at him. He looks relaxed, with his hands tucked in his pockets.

“Are you sure?”

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