Page 60 of Bitter Beats

“You know there’s nothing romantic going on between Mckenna and me. I admire and respect her. We’ve had a few conversations about her career since she wants to pursue entertainment law and I’ve offered to help her and give some guidance about her next steps.”

“She does?” Why didn’t I know that?

“Get to know her, Maverick. She may surprise you.”

She already has. But I don’t voice that.

Aiden sighs heavily. “We’re friends, Mav. It’s strictly platonic and it always has been. Now I’m your band’s lawyer and I will always work to secure your best professional interests. But if you screw over Kenny, I’m gonna let you fucking have it.”

I crack a grin, knowing he’s being honest. This is the type of devotion Mckenna Byrne inspires in people—loyalty, admiration, sincerity. Hell, my brother Jameson has told me as much.

“Alright,” I mutter, letting him know I believe him.

“Now, what do you need?”

“I need info on a guy. His name is Bran. Branson Burton.”

TWENTY-ONE

MCKENNA

The paceof my life slows when I begindatingMav. My financial concerns lessen, my hectic schedule eases, and my nights are spent with quiet stretches of study time rather than the chaotic bustle of serving.

My biggest concern is disappointing Lia and losing her friendship by quitting the café.

Fortunately, in true Lia fashion, she’s understanding. She doesn’t hold a grudge that I’ve now stepped in as the lady in Mav’s life.

It puts a damper on our budding friendship but lacks the animosity or catty words I expected. For that, I’m grateful. Lia’s acceptance allows me to slip more surely into my role.

In the following weeks, I dive into my classes and fill out internship applications. I steer clear of Branson and his sinister smirk as much as possible. To avoid him in the library, I start studying at home.

And I learn much more about Maverick Tate.

It’s subtle at first. We casually begin eating dinner at the same time. Some nights, we sit in the living room and work with our laptops—he bought me a new one as soon as he learned my old one broke—perched on crossed legs. When one of uslaughs, the other looks up expectantly, and small pockets of conversation occur.

Sometimes, Mav scratches out words in a line-filled notebook with doodles in the margins. While he hasn’t let me read what he’s working on, he’ll often ask me for synonyms for deep feelings. Like loss. Or regret. Love.

Most nights, my stomach grumbles, and I beg him to split a bag of popcorn with me.

He always agrees, even when he’s not hungry.

When our eyes grow bleary, we kick back and watch movies together.

Slowly, our casual morphs into familiar.

Mav begins buying the oat milk I like when he grabs groceries.

I mentally keep track of his schedule, reminding him about dentist and eye doctor appointments.

Our solo microwaved dinners become a double takeout order. Or even a night out, dining at some trendy wine bar or slipping into an ice cream parlor for a single—ahem, triple—scoop.

He confides that he’s writing lyrics for the Clovers’ next album. I admit that Branson creeps me out, and I’m avoiding him.

As the first snowflakes of winter coat the Boston cobblestones, Mav and I are a bona fide couple. At least publicly.

The scandal of him hooking up with Angela Hayes has subsided considerably. Photos of us grocery shopping and sipping wine are splashed across gossip magazines. The laughter in our expressions and the casual way we touch each other are genuine.

When Kimberly stops by the brownstone in early December to inform us that we’re attending the record label’s New YorkCity Christmas party together, I don’t bat an eye, and Mav hardly grumbles.

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