Page 73 of A Little Complicated

“I’m mad at you.”

“Me?”

“Mm-hmm,” I hum, resting my head against his chest. “You’re kind of an ass, Archer. You make me feel like you don’t care.”

His muscles tense beneath me as I nuzzle closer, desperate for his touch. His comfort. He smells different than usual. Maybe he showered? I don’t know, but he kind of smells like—

Maverick pulls away from me, and the room spins, making my legs feel like a baby deer’s. I almost fall on my butt, his hands finding my waist a second time.

“Come on,” he grunts. “I’m taking you home.”

Home.

It sounds pretty good right now.

My bed.

My pillow.

My blankets.

“Mmm,” I hum, nuzzling against Maverick’s chest again as he wraps his arms around me and guides me outside.

The air is cooler out here. Still warm but not blistering. I like it. It’s almost…predictable. Unlike the man beside me. Why is Maverick being so nice after being a dick at the carnival? I can still hear his words after I told him he’s not my boyfriend.

My mistake.

A deep ache flares against my ribs at the memory, but it’s duller now. Probably because of the alcohol, but what do I know? And why did he call me Lia? He never calls me Lia. Not unless he feels guilty for something, or he’s trying to get me to do something he wants.

I like it when he calls me Lia. I like it when he calls me Opie too. I shouldn’t. I hate the name. But when it comes from him? Well, it hits differently. Like a shot of espresso or something. I like it almost as much as when he calls me Goose. Like I’m his other half, his ride or die when he’s always been mine.

But that was before. Before he broke my heart. Before I broke his by dating his twin brother.

Why is he helping me? And why didn’t he correct me inside when I called him Archer? They hate when people can't tell them apart.

A prickle hits the base of my skull, and I peek up at Maverick again, keeping myself tucked against him. They look so alike. I mean, most identical twins do, but Maverick and Archer? They’re almost impossible to tell apart. Even people who have known them for years struggle sometimes. But me? I’d recognize the differences anywhere. And it isn’t only their smells. It’s the tightness in Maverick’s jaw. The softness in Archer’s eyes. The sharp lilt of Maverick’s tongue. The understanding nods from Archer. They’re opposites. But they still fit. Hell, they’re best friends. Two peas in a pod. Two sides of the same coin. The yin to his yang. The Starsky to his Hutch.

And here he is, helping his brother’s girlfriend to bed when he should be sleeping with a random girl like the rest of his friends, especially after he acted like an asshole at the carnival.

My eyes slide to his, the question shining up at him in my curious gaze as his hand finds my back, and he guides me to my front door.

Why are you here?

This is a dangerous game. One I shouldn’t be playing, especially when I’m drunk. But if he didn’t correct me when I called him Archer inside, would he correct me now?

“I’m sorry I yelled at you, Archer,” I tell him.

His eyes flash with…something, but it’s too quick for me to analyze. Disgust? Shame? Hurt? Regret?

He really thinks I don’t know?

“It’s fine,” he mutters. “Goodnight, Lia.”

“Help me into bed,” I murmur. “I’m not sure I can make it to my room on my own.”

The same tightness in his jaw greets me, but he nods and follows me inside. The front door closes with a quiet click behind us. It’s louder than a fog horn in the otherwise silent house. Maverick’s never been inside my place. Hell, Archer’s barely been here thanks to his busy schedule, but still. I wait to see where Maverick guides me, curious if he’ll give up the ruse and why he’s playing it in the first place. Turning in his arms, I slide my hands along his chest and over his shoulders, memorizing the feel of him in my palms.

So similar. So different.

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