THE CRAZY GOOD SERIES - Rachel Robinson Page 0,85

Will the girls think I’m just easy convenience sex before he leaves for six months? I know I shouldn’t give a shit and I could tell myself that a million times, but I still would. Mommy issues. It’s like Daddy issues except worse. Mav sits at the huge desk, papers and non-fiction books stacked in organized piles, shirtless.

He shakes his head while he speaks. “You’re mine now. You have nothing to be afraid of—the fact that your Morg’s friend only solidifies that. No one will say anything rude to you. I mean, I’ve never been to one of these things as half of a couple, but I can’t imagine it’s that painful. You might even make some new friends. It will be good for you to have people who are in the same situation as you.” Sell it, Mav. Sell it. “Go get dressed, please. I need you to be there with me,” he says.

And I can’t say no to that. He needs me. He wants me wrapped up in his world. I huff a little, which makes him laugh. I turn and stalk out of the room before I catch sight of his dimples and attack him for round four.

I’m dressed in jeans, a dressy top, and heels at Maverick’s request and out the door two hours later. We had sex one more time before we left because he saw me naked after I got out of the shower. My core clenches when I think of the way he looked at me before even touching me. It was the hottest gaze in the entire universe.

Dressed in tailored jeans and a black button up shirt, Maverick looks divine. He opens the door for me, offering his arm to walk into the restaurant. I’m not nervous when he’s near, when his body heat drips into mine and I know I’m okay, fearless. But then I see the two tables near the back. Separated into sections like Thanksgiving at Aunt Velma’s. Girls at one table and boys at the other. He senses my freak-out and squeezes my elbow a bit.

“It will be fine. Text me if you really want to leave. There’s Morganna,” he whispers, nodding toward her. I see an empty chair next to her and breathe a sigh of freaking relief. Her red lips part in an exquisite smile when she sees us. Subtly, Mav pats me on the ass, sending me to a table full of vultures, eyeing me down like I’m fresh road kill. Bottle blonde heads laden with more extensions than a Hollywood red carpet turn in my direction.

I ignore them and head to my seat. “Windsor,” Morganna exclaims a little too loudly. “Come sit. Fashionably late was fifteen minutes ago.” By the gleam in her eye she knows exactly why I’m late. Friends always know a well-fucked look when they see one. I’m probably a step beyond well-fucked. I’m not sure what comes after, though. I’ve never been there until now.

“Sorry,” I mutter, quickly sitting down. Morganna introduces me to the table full of women, most of their names ending in Y, and I know I won’t remember a single name because they all look the same and are dressed similarly. I smile wide and exchange fake pleasantries like I do at work.

I glance over at Maverick as he greets his buddies with weird, contorted handshakes and back pats—lots of touching. He flicks a smile at me when he sees me staring. I smile back. Barely. The women chatter around me. It’s only now that I see physical details about them. Standard fake. They have lollipop heads on tiny bodies with enormous breasts that chant the song of their people when in a gathering such as this. Every other guy in the restaurant is staring at them, which seems a little stupid seeing as they obviously belong to the guys one table over. They do belong, too. They spare me a tiny glance and continue talking about their husbands and boyfriends like they are talking about their own lives instead. Morganna texts under the table, and I’m blessedly reassured that she finds these mundane, vapid creatures just as boring and senseless as I do.

I sip my wine and smile when someone says something that’s supposed to be funny. I don’t offer anything, and it’s because I can’t. I have absolutely nothing in common with these women. They talk about their gym regimens and exercise classes like Christians speak of God. To be more specific, one of