Page 37 of Crazy Good
I scoff at him. “What? I’m not allowed to touch you now? I thought you missed me?” I ask. I’m smiling, so he knows I’m not totally serious. He runs a hand through his crop of hair.
“I want to talk to you. Can we just talk?” His eyes look a little worried, which only worries me. The last time someone told me they wanted to talk with that look on their face was when one of my friends was telling me about Johnny’s affair. I try to avoidtalksas a general rule. I nod, tuck my legs under me, and face him on the couch.
“Lets talk,” I urge.
He exhales. “When I’m around you, I don’t think straight. I just want you. I’m crazy. Do you understand that?” His eyebrows knit together. “We don’t talk enough.” A man admitting that we don’t talk enough. Shit. This must be really bad. My pulse skitters, still between my legs, but now also at my throat.
I bite my lip. How best to proceed with this? “You’re not crazy, Mav. We should talk more. I agree. You start,” I tell him, stifling a stutter. Crap.
He shakes his head. Then he launches into a speech about how he doesn’t speak with his family, and how Stone and the guys are the only people he has relationships with. He tells me his past haunts him, that he relives the day he told his father he was going to boot camp in Illinois and then to San Diego to become a Navy SEAL. He rehashes the different ways that conversation could have gone, and then has nightmares because it was the moment when he lost the people he cared most about. Maverick goes into gory detail about how letting people into his life isn’t acceptable. How keeping women at arms’ length in a hotel room is preferable to letting them inside his house and heart. He takes several deep breaths and continues on, connecting all the dots for me. I realize I’m shaking when he places his large hand on my shoulder. He’s talking about me now. About how he knew I was different the first moment he saw me.
“I wanted to let you in. Maybe I was just ready, Win. Maybe you were sent here just for me—because that’s what it feels like to me. I have never been more afraid of fucking something up,” he says, hanging his head to break eye contact. “I have a confession.”
Oh, shit. He can’t even look at me when he admits it.
“A girl came up to me in a bar last night. She offered herself to me within seconds of saying hello,” he says.
I swallow. Please don’t say you accepted. Don’t say it. I’ll break. Just like Kathy said. He’ll break me beyond repair with just a few words. He wouldn’t. Maverick couldn’t do that to me. Could he?
“Say it, Maverick. Just say it,” I mumble.
He looks me in the eye. “I planned the whole thing out in my mind. How I would take her to a hotel and fuck her senseless. So I could come back here to you with a clear head. I didn’t. Of course I didn’t. But I thought about it, and I feel like it’s just as bad,” he grinds out. Thank God. I can deal with this. I can deal with this.
I grab his hand in mine and squeeze. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I have sex with Channing Tatum in my head anytime I scroll past his photo on my newsfeed. You don’t even want to know what I do to Zac Efron in my mind when I watch his movies. You can think whatever you want, Mav. You don’t act on it. There’s a difference. It’s a very large difference,” I explain. He seems to relax a tiny bit. “I want you just like this.” I lay my hand on this side of his face. It’s a little pink from time spent in the sun. “Foggy head and all. I want you like this. If you need to fuck someone, I know a willing participant.” I smile at him. He shakes his head, one dimple disappearing.
“I’m no good. I’m telling you I’m crazy. Nothing in my life will ever be what you deserve. I internalize everything, and don’t tell anyone how I feel. I’m reckless where others are careful. I’m also completely at a loss. I have no idea how to keep what I want most,” he says. He didn’t use the word “fuck” once. He’s honestly telling me how he feels. “You.” He finishes his sentence and it’s like a punch to my stomach and heart at the same time.
My palms feel a little sweaty. “If I tell you one more time I’m not going anywhere you’re gonna start thinking I’m lying. I’ve promised a million times, maybe even once while your dick was in my mouth, that I won’t leave you. I’m the one who should be worried, Maverick. You have girls propositioning you on the regular. My prospects are non-existent. I’m just plain Windsor with the boring job and a cheating ex-fiancé. You make me special.”
He pulls me into a hug. It’s warm and comforting and not the least bit sexual. It’s refreshing just to have him reassuring me, with all our clothing on. I crawl into his lap and entwine my body with his.
“Don’t worry. Please. I only told you to try to warn you how messed up my headspace is. I guess I won’t frighten you off after all I’ve admitted. So let’s just be together. I’ve missed you,” he repeats for the fourth time. It’s like a plea.
“I’ve missed your more, I bet. I wasn’t swimming with dolphins or surfing. I was stuck in my office,” I say. I kiss his cheek because it’s right in my face.
He smiles and his boyish good looks appear. He’s two people—the person he turns into when he talks about his past and his issues, and then this one—the most attractive man on the planet who teases, laughs, and just happens to be all mine.
“God, I’m so glad you’re mine,” I whisper. “Even if it was an accident, or weird cosmic powers, I’m glad you picked me. You make me so happy.” His heady gaze locks on mine. He opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it again, sighing. “Where’s my present?” I squeal, when I remember. I love presents and something from Maverick makes me insanely giddy.
A straight white smile assaults me before his lips kiss mine. One hand twists in my hair and the other pulls my waist closer to him. I’m wearing a dress, a fact I didn’t remember until this second when my panties begin to stick to me. My breathing speeds up, his touch sparking every nerve ending to life. God, his hands are like a magic freaking wand. I shudder. He feels it. His lips form a smile against my mouth, his front teeth meet my tongue instead of his own tongue.
“I actually have two,” he whispers.
I shiver again, because I can’t freaking help myself. Having him close completes me in some odd way. I didn’t even feel like this when I was engaged to Nash—something that scares the shit out of me. I would have lived an entire life withoutthisfeeling.
He glances over my head into the kitchen. “Lets eat first. You cooked,” he says, raising his eyebrows.
“I can cook, Maverick. I use a recipe like a normal human, but I can cook. And no,” I tell him, shaking my head. “Give me the present now. I hate surprises and I don’t do well with anticipation.” I smile. He laughs.
“It seems to me you do quite well with anticipation.” He disentangles our limbs and grabs a scrap piece of paper from the side pocket of his bag. “I hate to drag it out, but you’re going to have to wait a few more minutes. I have to go grab something,” he confesses with a lazy smile. I nod. He disappears into a hallway. When he returns he’s holding a beautiful wood-grain acoustic guitar.
I’m pretty observant, but I still won’t believe what I’m thinking until it’s a done deal. A scrap of paper and a guitar? A song? For me? Holy shit.
My stomach gets all light when he levels me with his gaze and says, “I wrote you a song.” He clears his throat. This. Is. Real. “I’ve never done this before. I usually just jam with my buddies. Bear with me.” His face is a mask of frightened anxiety. His eyes are a little wider than they usually are and the crinkles by his temples are absent. I’m sure the smile I beam back at him is the goofiest, most unattractive thing my face is capable of, but I can’t control it. Or my mouth.
“Are you serious? Oh my God. Oh my God. I’m totally about to have a heart attack over here…or maybe vomit…or something unsightly and embarrassing. You wrote a song forme? That’s the type of thing that only happens in movies and passionate romance novels. It definitely does not happen to me,” I gush.
Damn it. I realize I’m bouncing on the sofa like an animal at the zoo. Not quite at Tom Cruise on Oprah level, but still bad. Trying to assemble some degree of control, I cross my legs and scoot to the edge of the couch. He drops down in the leather chair directly across from me. He’s chuckling under his breath as he twirls some of the knobs on the end of the guitar. I memorize the way he looks right now because I never want to forget this. If it ends badly, which I don’t even think about anymore, I’ll always have this moment. I’ll lock it up so it stays untainted by anything that happens after it. It’s mine.
