She giggles, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re such an old man sometimes.”
“Yeah, but you love that about me.”
“Excuse me?” she raises a brow. “I do not.” A pause. “Okay, maybe a little.”
I chuckle, noticing what her smile can’t hide—the faint shadows beneath her eyes and her skin paler than usual. Even through the pixelation, she looks exhausted. “You look tired, sweetheart. Did you sleep at all this week?”
She sighs, pushing hair from her face. “Barely. It’s been… a lot. Shoots, meetings, events. I don’t know, I haven’t been feeling great.”
“You sick?” I ask, frowning.
She shakes her head, her lips looking a little too pale. “No, just tired. Probably from stress.”
“Or maybe ‘cause you’ve been runnin’ yourself into the ground,” I mutter. “You eat today?”
Her guilty silence answers for her.
“Layla,” I warn.
She scrunches her nose. “Half a protein bar and an iced Dunkalatte.”
“Jesus Christ.” I drag my fingers down my mustache. “You’re gonna make me drive to L.A. just to make sure you eat something that didn’t come from a vending machine.”
“I wouldn’t hate that,” she says softly. “You could cook for me, and we can watch your nasty horror movies.”
“They’re not nasty.”
“Yes, they are.” She gives me a lazy grin, her eyes barely staying open.
I choose not to say anything, just watching how her golden hair spills across her pillow, wishing I were there to hold her, wishing I were there to kiss the soft slope of her neck, telling her how much I miss her, how much I need her.
She lets out a yawn, speaking again. “You’ve been counting the days, haven’t you?”
“Every damn one.”
Her eyes flicker, emotion replacing the teasing. “I miss you, Reed.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Miss you too, sunshine.”
She smiles then, her eyes fluttering shut.
“Get some rest, baby. Call me soon, okay?”
“Promise,” she murmurs, blowing a kiss before the screen goes dark.
I shut down the computer, and the quiet of the office settles around me, already counting the hours until I hear her voice again.
Maverick’s housealways smells like breakfast, and there’s always some havoc ensuing—coffee brewing,music playing, somebody laughing too loudly, their pets running around like bufoons.
Today’s no different.
Amelia’s sitting on the counter with a cold brew in hand, her bare legs swinging as she watches Maverick dance around the kitchen, shirtless, and half-awake with his hair twisted in different directions.
He’s got Leo tucked against his chest, as his tiny fists are clutching at his dad’s chain while Maverick flips a pancake one-handed.
“Look, buddy!” he says, voice booming. “Daddy’s got skills.”
Amelia groans, but she’s smiling. “You’re going to drop our child and the spatula.”
