Page 54 of A Little Complicated

He digs through one of the leather pouches attached to his motorcycle, pulling an olive green travel mug out. Twisting the cap off, he pours the water out of it onto some nearby grass and offers it to me. “Here. Washed it this morning.”

Instead of reaching for it, I take a small step back. “I don’t need you going out of your way for me.”

“I’ll be your chauffeur and nothing more.”

My brows dip. “Why?”

He shrugs as if the answer’s simple. As if he’s known it all along. “Because I’ve been an ass, and you deserve happiness. Even if it isn’t with me.”

Fuck.

The words leave me aching, but so does his sincerity. And his acceptance. It makes me want to hit him and hug him at the same time. My eyes burn, but I will the sting to go away while standing numbly in the middle of a parking lot as question after question—the same ones plaguing me since his stupid phone call—flash through me.

Why? Why did you bail before prom? Why did you break up with me? Why didn’t you want me anymore? What did I do wrong? Why do you care one minute and act like I don’t matter the next? Why do you root for me and Archer only to make me crave you late at night?

I drop my gaze to the asphalt beneath our feet. The crunch of his shoes against the black pavement grates on my ears as he moves toward me, but still, I don’t move a muscle.

Without a word, Mav takes my iced coffee from my hand and pours the rest of it into his mug, twisting the spill-proof lid into place. Then, he grabs his helmet, slips it on my head, buckles the stupid thing under my chin, and climbs onto his bike, staring straight in front of him.

In a daze, I slip behind him and grab onto his waist without any prodding. My movements are slow. Forced. Controlled. And I think he can feel it, too, but he doesn’t comment on it as he cranks the engine.

And we’re off.

17

MAVERICK

Shopping was torture. I waited outside like I promised. But the regret? The reminder of prom and how I bailed on her? It was fucked-up. I knew it then, and I know it now. But she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand. She never will. I thought I had come to terms with it, but the hurt in her eyes at the coffee shop? It was more than I could stomach, and it’s becoming harder and harder to keep my resolve in check. To remember the why behind the phone call an hour before prom and the why behind every single fucking decision following it.

A soft knock on the door echoes through the house, snapping me from my self-loathing, and someone answers it as I grab a protein shake from the kitchen.

“Damn, Lia,” Griffin compliments from the entryway. “You look awesome!”

“Why, thank you!” her soft, feminine voice replies.

I glance into the family room, giving me a full view of the couches, television, and the entryway where Griff is grasping the edge of the door and talking to Lia.

My mouth goes dry.

Long legs. Black dress. Straight, strawberry blonde hair. Smokey eyes.

Fuck.

When she catches me staring, Ophelia smiles big and bright, but it falls quickly, and she shakes her head, her cheeks heating. “Sorry, I thought you were Archer for a split second.”

Like a punch to the gut, my lungs deflate. I lean against the counter to keep from landing on my ass. I’m used to it. Being mistaken for Archer. It’s par for the course when you’re an identical twin. But rarely by Ophelia. And not once since we started hooking up, and I gave her a glimpse of the real me. The reminder stings more than it should.

Are we so interchangeable, Opie?

Oblivious, Ophelia peeks down the hallway leading to the bedrooms and looks back at Griff. “Where is he?”

“I’ll grab him for you,” Griffin answers, disappearing down the hall. He knocks on Archer’s door, tells my brother Ophelia has arrived, and heads into his own room while I stand motionless in the kitchen.

Everyone’s getting ready to go to SeaBird tonight. It’s a bar next to campus. The alcohol is cheap. The bands are good. And the women are plenty. But I don’t care about any of them. Not when Ophelia’s standing twenty feet in front of me. Fuck, she could be on another planet, and I still wouldn’t care about the women at SeaBird.

None of them matter.

They never have and never will.

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