Page 114 of Can't Get Enough

When I make it back downstairs to the kitchen, three pairs of eyes lift to greet me, making my steps falter at the entrance. Maverick, Chef Laurenz, and Maverick’s father. Maverick rises and comes over to slip his arm around my waist.

“Pop,” he says, squeezing my hip. “You remember Hendrix Barry?”

“From the playoffs, right?” Chris Bell asks, smiling even as he tucks into French toast topped with powdered sugar and strawberries. “You doing all right this morning?”

“Yes, sir.” I try to act perfectly normal, like that wasn’t only a month ago and now I’m obviously smashing his son. “Good to see you again.”

“You a Southern girl, huh?” Mr. Bell smiles. “That pretty accent and them manners your mama must’ve taught you.”

“Can’t get rid of either one of ’em,” I tell him, laughing. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“I like them both.” Maverick drops a kiss to my forehead. “Very much. Come, eat.”

He guides me over to the empty seat between him and his father, pulling the chair out for me.

“Thank you.” I pick up my glass of orange juice and take a sip, hoping it covers how unexpectedly nervous I am seeing his father likethis,freshly fucked and obviously staying. Maverick’s head was between my legs not half an hour ago.

Father, forgive me for I have whored.

The conversation goes on around me for a few minutes while I pull myself together. Maverick must be reading my mind or picking up on my uncharacteristic reticence, because he smirks at me and licks around his mouth like he’s making sure he didn’t miss a spot. My jaw drops and I stare at him disbelievingly, checking to see if his father or Laurenz have noticed.

“Got some nerve wearing that shit in this house,” Mr. Bell says, nodding at Laurenz’s Waves T-shirt.

“I’m a San Diego boy,” Laurenz laughs, pouring eggs into a pan. “You know I gotta represent us winning our first championship. I promise when Mav buys the Vipers, I’ll get a Vegas shirt, hat, signs. The works. For now, let me enjoy my city’s first ring.”

“August West finally did it.” Mr. Bell’s tone is begrudgingly admiring. “He earned it, but we coming for that crown next season.”

“And Kenan Ross did it,” Maverick says. “Got him a piece of the team.”

“I hate the Waves right now,” Mr. Bell says. “But a Black man becoming an owner, even a minority stake, is a good thing.”

“Always,” Maverick agrees. “I called to congratulate him on the win and the good news.”

“You two should meet,” Mr. Bell bites into his French toast and sends his son a shrewd look. “See what you can get into together.”

“Bolt’s already set it up,” Maverick says with a sly smile.

Knowing what their family has been through and witnessing Mr. Bell’s grief firsthand, it’s good to see father and son plotting about the team that will soon belong to Maverick. And if there’s one thing Maverick Bell usually gets, it’s his way.

I’m living proof of that.

“Your breakfast, madam.” With a flourish Laurenz places an omeletso fluffy in front of me I almost don’t believe it’s real. I taste it and stifle a moan at the perfection exploding in my mouth.

“Like I told Coach,” Mr. Bell says, “we need to make some big moves in the offseason. We play it right, Vipers have a real shot next year.”

“Front office is on board as soon as I assume ownership. Everything should be final in the next few weeks.” Maverick says it casually, but there is a current of excitement running through the words. “That team will be ours.”

“Yours,” his father corrects.

“Ours,” Maverick repeats, his obstinate tone matching his dad’s. “I would never have even dreamed of owning a pro team had it not been for you.”

“You really did it.” His father leans back in his chair and folds his arms over his still-flat stomach. He looks so much like Maverick in that moment—his mannerisms and his expression even beyond the obvious actual physical resemblance.

“Your mother would be so proud,” Mr. Bell says, and a flash of what must be agony crosses his face.

“I know, Pop.” Maverick exchanges a glance with his father that conveys so much. The grief they’ve shared, but also the sense of accomplishment that belongs to them both, too.

“Well, what’s on the agenda for today?” Mr. Bell directs the question to me, shifting the conversation to a lighter tone.

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