THE CRAZY GOOD SERIES - Rachel Robinson Page 0,143

same cloth. I swallow down the lump in my throat. My thoughts always wind back to his letter. How strong his feelings about life and taking chances are cause me to understand him better and love him more.

He grabs my hand in his and smiles just for the sake of smiling. He has no clue how appealing he is. Not anymore, at least. He doesn’t even notice the attention he gets from random strangers, waitresses, or even the girl who checked us in at the hotel front desk. When I mentioned it, he shrugged and said it didn’t matter who looked at him as long as I was looking at him too. I laughed it off. The man is all mine. There are no doubts how in love he is. I think that’s the thing—I know how much he loves me…I feel it. That’s what makes it real. That’s what makes me so confident in every aspect of our relationship. I try to form a mental image of my relationship with Nash, paired with mine with Maverick, and it’s insulting to the years I spent thinking Nash was the one for me. Love equals confidence. Bravery. Leaping without looking. Maverick Hart.

He looks both left and right, eyes scanning our surroundings. “I wanted to show you something,” he admits, peering down at me. “It’s just around the side here. We have time before our dinner reservations.” He pulls me against his side and kisses the top of my head.

“As long as I don’t end up getting road rash, I’m game,” I tease. He tried to cajole me into having sex…in his driveway. Oh, did he try. His baritone laugh wraps around me, making me reconsider road rash as a bad thing.

I wrap my arm around his back and look up. His face is blank, but his eyes are full of worry. He doesn’t know I’m looking. He peeks down and sees my case study.

“Everything okay?” I ask, pulling away to see his whole face. He bites his lip and nods.

“Being around this many people. It’s a cluster. My brain won’t turn off,” he explains, like it’s a normal thing every human being feels. He ushers me toward the side garden by the hotel. We took a walk through here the other morning so he knows where to lead under the dim moonlight. It’s less busy here. There isn’t any alcohol or gambling. It makes sense. The path winds around beautifully manicured bushes and trees that I’m sure require some sort of weird tools to keep up a la Edward Scissorhands.

“Are you going to grow claws and cut my name into this bush? Don’t scar your face though,” I say pointing to a large lion shaped topiary.

“Do you want me to do that?” A light on the walkway lights the side of his devastatingly handsome face. I see one dimple and white teeth and a hazel eye.

I shake my head. “Nah, but I do like that movie,” I say, sitting down on the stone bench. My feet already hurt and we’ve barely walked—the price of freaking beauty. I put a pair of roll up flats in my tiny purse because I do not want to go home with another blister or Band-Aid. As it is, I’ll be wearing UGG boots to work with my skirts for two weeks. I cross my legs and let one of my heels pop out of the shoe for relief.

Maverick looks up toward the hotel and checks his watch, his free hand fidgeting by his side. “Your feet hurt already?” It’s been the ongoing joke all weekend. I look around as small spotlights flick on, lighting the patio that we’re sitting in. I narrow my eyes at the onslaught of white light.

I look up at Maverick. I lie. “My feet are perfect. What did you want to show me? The timers on these lights have perfect timing.” He runs a hand through his hair as he stares at my face, my eyes. Looking for something, no doubt. When he doesn’t speak, I smile. He smirks.

Then he hands me a small jewelry box. My heart starts pounding. Not just pounding, but like rocking against my chest in a crazy rhythm that matches my stomach flipping. My mind goes blank, like absolutely black as I take the box from his palm. When I finally tear my gaze from the black box, I glance at him.

He chuckles. “Go ahead. Open it. You can see it now…in the light,” he says.