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“I feel bad.” I looked down. “But it’s not okay.”
“It’s not okay. And I’m going to fix this, okay? I’ll make it right.”
“Thanks,” I said sadly, meeting her eyes. “But it’s not for you to fix. It’s for him to fix.”
***
Four-thirty a.m. came around far too quickly, as it always did. Maverick had already been waiting at the back door for me when I came down, but instead of making small talk this morning, I’d talked him through my process.
Every little mundane thing I did, I told him. I had no idea if he was writing it all down or not because I was just talking. I was in my own little bubble, working the doughs and making mixes and frosting cupcakes. I didn’t know who I was talking for—if it was for me or it was for him.
Maybe both of us.
It could be therapeutic to talk to yourself, after all.
I just… didn’t know.
We hadn’t spoken last night except for when he texted me photos of a couple of tools to ask me what they were. A part of me didn’t want him to know that I’d gone to my brother’s house and yelled at him like a madwoman.
If I admitted that, he’d know I had stronger feelings for him than I wanted to admit to.
Right now, it was easier to just pretend it wasn’t happening.
Almost cut off that section of our growing relationship, cut it right back down to the business side where it probably should have stayed.
Who was I kidding? We’d had a personal relationship before a business one. I should have known I’d catch feelings for Maverick. I should have known this would be a terrible idea.
My mind was going wild and it needed to be quiet.
We weren’t even dating. I’d laid down that law and he’d accepted it.
Why had he accepted it?
Was it possible that he was just that much of a nice guy? Did those guys exist? Surely there was something wrong with him. There had to be.
“What’s your worst habit?” I turned around and found him peering at me over the top of his laptop with a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“My what?”
“Your worst habit,” I repeated, making the bread rolls and setting them on the baking tray. “You know. Nail biting. Nose picking. Never putting empty food packets in the trash. That kind of thing.”
“Um.” His brow furrowed as he thought. “I procrastinate a lot,” he said slowly. “That’s probably it. I always get stuff done on time, but it’s always at the last minute and usually at a great stress to myself.”
“Okay, what would other people class as your worst habit?”
“My editor would agree with my procrastination. It drives Karin wild.”
“In your real life?”
“That is my real life. She keeps messaging me asking for updates. I might give my next character a pet snake to wind her up. She hates snakes.”
I leaned forward on the counter. “That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it.”
“I answered your question. Procrastination is my worst habit. I don’t pick my nose or bite my nails or leave empty packets in the cupboard.” Mav paused. “You do the latter.”
I had a very strong urge to let him have a good view of my middle finger.
“Surely you do something that’s extremely annoying every day. Something that would annoy a close friend or a girlfriend or a family member.”
“Why? Are you preparing for that?” He grinned.
My cheeks flushed. “No, I—” I huffed. “Stop throwing me off.”
“Stop wearing yoga pants when I’m here on a morning. It throws me off.”
“I will not.” I put the bread rolls in the oven and walked over to where he was sitting, leaning against the counter with my hip. “This is my kitchen and I’ll do what I want.”
“Fine, but then you don’t get to complain when I can’t stop staring at you.”
“I didn’t say I was complaining. Now what’s your worst habit?”
He sighed. “I never put the caps back on juice. Or any bottle. I always forget.”
I blinked at him. “How—how is that even possible? How do you forget to do that?”
“I just do. It’s one of those things. I unscrew the cap, put it down, and put the bottle back where it needs to go. I once spilled an entire two-liter bottle of Pepsi over my mom’s floor because I went to put it back into the bottle rack and didn’t have the cap on it.”
“That makes literally no sense. What kind of a monster are you?”
“One who is always last minute and doesn’t cap bottles, apparently.”
“Eh.” I pushed off the counter. “At least now I know you aren’t perfect. That makes me feel better.”
A slow grin spread across his face, sending a tingle down my spine. “Are you saying you thought I was perfect?”
“In your dreams,” I scoffed, heading for the pantry. “That’s just not true.”
