[Maverick’s POV]
The cookie container feels heavier than it should.
I've been standing outside her hotel room door for approximately three minutes, which is two minutes and fifty seconds longer than any reasonable person would stand in a hallway holding plastic dishware.
I tell myself I'm just returning her property. Common courtesy. Professional obligation.
I'm a liar. I've always known this about myself, but usually I'm better at lying to other people, not to myself.
I knock before I can talk myself out of it.
The door opens, and whatever speech I'd prepared evaporates like morning fog. She's wearing an oversized t-shirt with ridiculous puppies that fall past her thighs and leggings that probably cost twelve dollars but somehow make her legs look endless.
Her hair is loose, slightly damp, and the room behind her smells faintly of her shampoo—something floral and soft that I'm going to pretend I don't immediately memorize.
Surprise flickers across her face, followed by something more guarded. "Mr. Finley."
I hold up the container. "You dropped this."
She stares at it, then at me, then back at the container like she's trying to solve a particularly difficult equation. "You came to my room. At ten PM. To return… a plastic container?"
"It seemed rude to keep it." I sound ridiculous. I'm aware I sound ridiculous. "May I come in?"
She hesitates for exactly one heartbeat too long, and then she steps aside, gesturing me in with a sweep of her arm that manages to be both welcoming and sarcastic.
Did I ever see her being sarcastic? Did I ever think I would? Well, that’s new.
The room is small by my standards—which means normal by everyone else's—and somehow already looks lived-in despite her only being here for hours. A book face-down on the nightstand, a sweater draped over a chair, her phone charger tangled into an impressive knot.
I don't sit. Sitting would make this casual, and what I need to say isn't casual. It’s something unsaid that kept me restless from last night and somehow desperate from the moment I couldn’t explain everything to her before the flight.
"Look, Charlotte and I have history. Kind of," I begin, and her shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. "Physical history. Nothing more. We were... convenient for each other, at various points. She wanted it to be something else, tried to make it something else, but I never promised her that. I never promised her anything."
Floris is quiet, her arms crossed over her chest in a way that makes her look smaller than she is. I press on because stopping now would be worse.
"When I made my agreement with you, I meant every word. No one else. For either of us. That wasn't negotiable for me—it was a boundary. A rule."
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated with how inadequate words feel right now while she’s standing right in front of me, completely silent.
"I'm not the kind of man who says one thing and does another. I have morals. I would never do that to you, Floris. Never."
The intensity of how much I need her to believe me is... alarming. It catches me off guard, this desperation clawing at my chest. This shouldn't matter this much. She's an arrangement. A strategic solution.
Except she stopped being just that somewhere between chess games and dumplings and the soft weight of her head under my palm.
"She ambushed me at my suite and kissed before I could react," I continue, my voice rougher than I intended. "I pushed her away. That's what you walked in on—the pushing away. Not the..."
I gesture vaguely, unable to finish the sentence.
The silence stretches between us, thick with everything unspoken.
"I believe you," she says finally, and something in my chest loosens. "I'm sorry I ran, I should have let you explain instead of just assuming the worst. But it’s just..."
She laughs, but it sounds hollow and I know with an unfamiliar certainty that I’d do anything to make it sound bright and light and easy and the exact way I like it again.
"I was surprised. Hurt in a way I wasn't expecting to be. Which is stupid because we have rules and boundaries and this is purely business."
"It's not stupid." The words escape before I can stop them.
She looks at me then—really looks—and whatever she sees in my face makes her expression soften.
"Well. This has been sufficiently awkward and emotionally vulnerable, and I don't have any new cookies to offer as a peace treaty, unfortunately. But I was about to order room service, and the menu has approximately forty-seven pasta options. You could stay. If you want, of course…"
"I want," I say, even though I know I should leave.
Staying is dangerous, intimate in ways that blur lines we've carefully drawn. But apparently my mouth is completely disconnecting from my brain when I near her.
She grabs the room service menu with obvious relief and mischievous smile, that lovely dimple appears on her cheek, clearly grateful for something to do with her hands. "Fair warning, I'm ordering an embarrassing amount of food. The prices here are absurd and I'm on your company's dime, so really, you're only hurting yourself."
"Order whatever you want. I'm paying regardless."
"See, that's what I mean about only hurting yourself." She's already scanning the menu. "Ooh, truffle fries. Rich people love truffle things. Is that a requirement for billionaire status? A minimum truffle consumption quota?"
"It's actually in the bylaws. Quarterly truffle audits."
Her laugh is real this time, bright and surprised, and I feel it somewhere behind my ribs.
The food arrives faster than expected—perks of expensive hotels—and we settle on her small couch with plates balanced on our laps. The room service setup is ridiculous: more silverware than two people could possibly need, cloth napkins folded into swans, tiny garnishes on everything.
"What should we watch?" she asks, grabbing the remote. "I feel obligated to tell you that I have terrible taste in entertainment. Very lowbrow. Many explosions."
"I'm sure I'll survive."
We argue for ten minutes about options, rejecting everything the other suggests on principle, finally settling on some historical drama that neither of us actually cares about. The opening credits haven't finished before she's already talking.
"That dress is historically inaccurate," she announces, pointing at the screen with a truffle fry. "The sleeves are wrong. Too puffy. That's at least fifty years off. I'm not an expert, but I watched a documentary once, so basically I am."
"Your expertise is noted and appreciated."
"Also, that actor looks like a potato. A handsome potato, but still. Very starchy energy."
I huff something that isn't quite a laugh. "Are you going to narrate the entire film?"
"Probably. It's a character flaw. I warned you about my taste—this is part of the package." She pops another fry into her mouth. "The commentary is complimentary."
I should be annoyed, I usually am when people can’t shut up, but I find myself leaning closer to hear her observations better. Absorbing her running assessment of historically inaccurate sleeves and potato-faced actors and implausible plot developments. Her voice is warm, animated, filling the silence I've lived in for so long, making me relax.
God, I love her voice.
Our thighs touch for a moment and neither of us moves away.
The movie continues—plot twists I'm not following, dramatic declarations I'm not hearing—but I'm aware of every shift of her body beside me. The way she gestures when making a particularly emphatic point. The strand of hair she keeps tucking behind her ear.
At some point, her commentary slows and her sentences stretch longer, words blurring together. Her head grows heavy against my shoulder, and I realize she's fallen asleep.
I don't move. Don't wake her.
The television casts blue light across the room, across her face, peaceful now in a way she rarely seems when awake. Her breathing is slow and steady, and I'm aware—painfully, dangerously aware—of how warm she feels against me. How easily I could get used to this.
How easily I'm already getting used to this.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I extract it carefully, trying not to disturb her.
James: Reminder about the crew heading to the winter lodge tomorrow for the team retreat. Your attendance is expected. Details attached.
I stare at the message, then at the woman curled against my shoulder, and I do something I almost never do.
I ignore it.