Maverick is standing in front of me in all his billionaire-in-a-domestic-setting glory, and questioning me on why I’m avoiding him.
Is that a dream?
"Avoiding you?" I force a laugh that sounds approximately seventy percent genuine. "I wasn't avoiding you. I was just... busy. Giving you space. Very intentional space-giving. It's called being considerate."
"You've looked at me exactly twice today." He pushes off the doorframe, and suddenly the hallway feels much smaller. "Both times by accident."
"I'm a busy woman with many responsibilities. Temperature adjustment. Beverage distribution. Competitive murder gaming." I gesture vaguely behind me. "The avoiding thing is purely coincidental."
He takes another step closer, and my back finds the wall. Which is rude of the wall, honestly. I could use an escape route right about now.
"You talk in your sleep, you know," he says, and my stomach drops straight through the floor.
The nightmares. The bruises. The scent of alcohol. The crash. My father's voice, the screech of tires, all the broken pieces I've spent years gluing together.
Did I mumble about the accident? About the hospital? About my mother who couldn’t stop crying neither did my father drunk temper? About the darkness I keep locked away behind sunshine and aggressive optimism?
My panic must show on my face because his expression softens immediately.
"Nothing bad," he says quickly, something almost gentle in his voice. "Mostly incoherent mumbling. Something about croissants, I think. Very passionate croissant opinions."
Relief floods through me so fast I feel dizzy. "Croissants? That's... okay. Croissants are a valid sleep topic. I have strong feelings about pastry, apparently. My subconscious has excellent taste."
"You also said something about chocolate chips being superior to raisins."
"Well, obviously. That's just an objective fact. Raisins in baked goods are a war crime." I shove his shoulder without thinking, half-laughing. "You scared me, I thought I'd confessed to something embarrassing. Like my childhood obsession with boy bands or my opinions about proper napkin folding."
He catches my hand before I can pull it back. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and solid, and his thumb brushes across my knuckles in a way that makes my breath stutter. The laughter dies in my throat, replaced by something heavier that crackles between us like static electricity.
Neither of us moves and the hallway is silent except for my heartbeat, which has apparently decided to audition for a drum solo.
"The crew is going to a bar in town tomorrow," he says finally, voice lower than before. "Decent drinks, apparently. Sam found it. You should come too."
"I should?" My voice comes out breathier than intended. "I mean… yes. Obviously. Bars are great, I love bars. Big fan of establishments that serve alcohol to consenting adults."
"Good." His thumb traces another slow circle across my knuckles. "Then I'll see you there."
He releases my hand slowly, like he's reluctant to let go, and I immediately miss the warmth.
"Goodnight, Floris."
"Goodnight," I manage, and then he's walking away, disappearing into his room, and I'm left standing in the hallway with my heart doing things that definitely violate our professional arrangement.
The next evening, I spend way too long getting ready.
Four dress changes. Careful makeup that looks like I'm not wearing makeup but actually requires eleven products. Perfume I never wear—something fruity that Gemma bought me for my birthday and said was "for special occasions."
I tell myself it's for me. Self-care. Personal confidence. Maverick Finley has nothing to do with why I'm debating between the black dress and the green one for the fourth time.
Liar, liar, pants on fire, my reflection whispers back.
The bar is exactly what you'd expect from a small mountain town—dark wood, warm lighting, locals who eye our group with mild curiosity. But the crew is loose and laughing, more relaxed than I've ever seen them.
Marina actually smiles at something Derek says. Sam is already six drinks deep and telling increasingly implausible stories.
I belong here. The thought keeps surprising me.
As I talk to Maverick, unexpectedly sharing stories about my mom and getting his own in return, Sam gets too drunk and too fast, knocking over someone's drink and nearly starting an international incident with a very large man who does not appreciate having beer spilled on his flannel shirt.
Chaos erupts—apologetic, messy, requiring immediate extraction—right when Maverick steps outside to take a phone call right before Sam's spectacular collapse.
"We're taking him back," Derek announces, hauling Sam's arm over his shoulder while Marina grabs the other side. "You coming, Floris?"
"I'll wait," I hear myself say. "For Mr. Finley. Someone should tell him we're leaving."
Derek raises an eyebrow but doesn't argue. The crew shuffles out with Sam between them, his voice carrying something about the hot tub being his "true calling" as they disappear into the night. And then I'm alone at the bar.
Not for long. A man slides onto the stool beside me—tall, conventionally attractive, smile that suggests he knows it. "Rough night with your friends?"
"Something like that. One of them tried to fight a lumberjack over spilled beer. Standard Tuesday, really."
He laughs, easy and charming. "Can I buy you a drink? Seems like you could use one."
He's harmless, the conversation light, and I find myself laughing at his terrible jokes about mountain wildlife.
Then Maverick returns.
I feel him before I see him—a shift in the air, sudden tension that makes my skin prickle. His hand lands on my lower back, warm and possessive through the fabric of my dress.
"Work emergency," he says, voice ice-cold. "We need to leave. Now."
The stranger's smile falters. He reads something in Maverick's expression that makes him slide off his stool with mumbled apologies. Gone in seconds.
Maverick escorts me to the car, hand never leaving my back the entire time, and opens the door for me to get into the passenger seat, while relocating the hand on my head so I don’t bash it against the door.
The drive back is silent. Oppressively, suffocatingly silent. Maverick's jaw is tight, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, and I can't figure out what I did wrong.
At the lodge, he walks me to my door and I turn to face him, confusion and frustration tangling in my chest.
"Did I do something wrong?" I ask. "Because you seem angry, and I don't understand. What is it that I’ve done?"
"You didn't do anything wrong." His voice is clipped.
"Then why are you upset?"
"It's not you." He exhales roughly, running a hand through his hair. "It's the guy. It's me. I don't know."
"What does that guy have to do with anything?" I push, needing to understand. "He was harmless. We were just having a conversation."
His jaw tightens, and when he speaks, the words sound torn from somewhere deep. "I was angry. Seeing you with him, watching you laugh… I was angry that your attention wasn't on me. That you were talking to him instead of me."
"Oh," I breathe, the single syllable carrying everything I've been trying not to feel.
"Yeah. 'Oh.'" His hands brace against the doorframe on either side of my head, caging me in without touching. "So go inside. Shut your door. And lock it."
"Why?"
"Because I can't handle knowing you're one room away from me tonight." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Not after watching him lean into your space. Not when you're looking at me like that."
My heart pounds so hard I'm surprised he can't hear it. "What if… I don't want to lock it?"
Something in his expression cracks. His control, his careful distance, all of it splintering. "Floris..."
"What if I leave it unlocked?" I whisper. "What happens then?"
He doesn't answer. The silence stretches between us, electric and impossible, as I reach behind me, turn the handle, and step backward into my room.
His eyes follow every movement, dark and hungry.
"Goodnight, Maverick," I say softly, and close the door between us.
I don't lock it.