Page 52 of The Consequence of Loving Me

It’s been hours, and I can still hear voices outside my door. I hear them because I can’t sleep.

I can’t sleep because I can’t forget the way Maverick’s lips against mine opened something within me.

My heavily guarded heart has been spilling out, spilling out onto a canvas.

A canvas no one will ever see, but a canvas of our lips pressed together—water colors exploding all around it.

26

Maverick

It’s been days since I’ve seen Veronica. Ever since our kiss, she’s been completely ignoring me. I’ve gone down to the basement several times to try to speak with her, but my knocks have been ignored.

She’s not hiding the fact that she’s in her room, making it obvious that it’s me she’s ignoring.

I shouldn’t have kissed her during that game; I knew it would start us down a path we couldn’t go back from. But there was nothing that could have stopped me from finally tasting her lips for the first time once I had the opportunity. I’d been thinking about her lips longer than I care to admit, and once they were in front of me, I had to take what I wanted.

The kiss; it was excruciating.

Because I knew as soon as her lips met mine that I would want to taste them forever.

And she’s made it very clear she has no intentions to keep anything forever.

At this point, I would settle for her just to look at me. To talk to me. To do anything with me, even if it doesn’t involve our lips meeting.

I miss her snarky comments.

I miss her pink boots.

I miss the way her eyes narrow as she’s thinking something through.

I just miss her.

I might be approaching borderline stalker status because I sit on the stairs in the basement, waiting her out while all these thoughts run through my head.

I planned on giving her space, on giving her whatever she needed to process the kiss between the two of us. But a man can only be so patient before he needs to take matters into his own hands.

Hence, me waiting on the stairs like a damn stalker. Because eventually she has to come out of her room.

Right?

Plus, is it truly stalking if it’s waiting for someone in your own house?

I like to believe that it isn’t.

I find myself aimlessly scrolling through my Instagram feed, something I never check, when Veronica’s door finally opens.

She’s mid-step out of her room when she looks up and notices me. Her whole body stops. Neither one of us says anything. I slide my phone back into my pocket and stand up.

I make sure to do it slowly, because the look on her face reminds me of a scared animal. I’m afraid that if I move too fast, she’ll run.

Once I’m standing, I take a deep breath. “Hi.”

“Why are you down here?” Veronica props an elbow against the doorframe, crossing her arms over the pink dress she’s wearing.

“Waiting for you,” I reply, wanting to take a step closer to her just before I decide against it.

“Waiting for me,” she repeats.

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