“Even more reason to call him.”
I shrug my shoulders. It would be the polite thing to do. Somehow I know he won’t answer anyway. I pick up my phone and pull up my speed dial. I hit number one, because I refuse to remove him from that spot, and tap his name. It rings once, and then again.
Phillipe’s voice says, “Maverick’s phone.” I scrunch up my brows and look at the phone. I definitely dialed Maverick and not Morganna.
“Windsor? Hello, Windsor?” Phillipe prompts.
“Yeah, I’m here. Why do you have his phone?” I ask.
“I’m fielding calls for both Mr. Hart and Morganna now. Do you want to leave a message?”
I shake my head. “Yeah, tell him Windsor called and that I want to…,” I stutter. “Just tell him Windsor called.” I can’t force myself to utter the generic condolences. Phillipe voices noise of approval and I imagine him scribbling my name down on his pad of power. “That was so damn weird,” I tell Gretchen.
Gretchen sighs. “Go to his house to talk to him in person. He’s not giving you much of a choice.”
I widen my eyes, already shaking my head no. “No way in hell.” Gretchen doesn’t say another word. She leaves my room, clicking the door closed.
Feeling sorry for Maverick and myself, I fall asleep crying, Goose licking my face the entire time. I wake several hours later to a pitch black room and my phone buzzing next to me.
Maverick’s handsome face is on the screen, signaling his call. I hit the green answer button quickly and pull the phone to my ear. I hear Maverick breathing on the other end and it surprises me. I guess I expected Phillipe to pass along a message.
“Hello,” I croak out. Maverick sighs long, and hard. “Are you there?”
“Yeah. I got a message you called today,” he slurs. “And I just wanted to call you back to tell you…I got your message.”
Maverick is completely shit faced. I’ve never heard him like this. While it warms me everywhere just hearing his voice, I know he probably won’t even remember talking to me or calling me in the morning. “Are you okay, Maverick?” I realize how freaking stupid the question is the second I speak it.
“No,” he whispers simply.
“Do you want me to come over? I figured you wanted space…you haven’t reached out since…you know,” I say. I palm my forehead. I sound like an idiot.
I hear liquid splashing and then he coughs. “I called to tell you not to call anymore.”
“Okay. That’s counterproductive; you could have just ignored the message, like you’ve ignored me for the past few weeks. I’m not stupid. I’d understand what that meant. I know you’re hurting Maverick. I forgive you for lying about your wife. I wanted you to know that. Morganna explained everything. I forgive you and I miss you,” I say, pushing Goose off my face for the thousandth time since I answered the phone. Maverick laughs bitterly. I sit straight up in bed—dread filling my stomach.
“Youforgiveme?” he rasps, coughing once again. He is absolutely sloshing drunk. “Well, I don’t forgive you.”
“What?” I yell. “I know you’re drunk, Maverick. I can smell it through the freaking phone. You aren’t making any sense.” He cuts me off with another laugh.
“You killed him,” he says. I hear him take a pull from a bottle. “I don’t forgive you, Windsor. Don’t leave messages anymore.” As he says the last sentence he sounds stone cold sober.
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone screen for several long seconds before putting it down and pulling Goose into my lap again. I’d like to think he’s just drunk and talking crazy, but deep down I truly believe he thinks his accusations are truth. Who am I to tell him he’s wrong. I fall asleep for the second time in one day with tears streaming down my face.
It will be the last time I let myself cry over Thomas Maverick Hart. Tomorrow I plan to move on with my life, knowing I made another mistake. This time though? I’ll learn from it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Maverick
Two months later
“Get your fucking ass out of this bed, out of this room, and out of this house. Go to work, Maverick,” Morganna screeches. I crack one eye. She’s dressed, her blue tooth already installed in one ear. She yanks the blankets down, unwrapping me from my warm cocoon. I stretch my arm to my nightstand to grab the beeping alarm clock. A whiskey bottle and a full glass fall off and spill all over the hardwood.
“Shit,” I murmur, slumping over the bed to pick up the bottle. “I’m up. I’m up. What day is it?” I ask, clutching my aching head, but masking it by rubbing my hand through my hair. I put the bottle to my lips and tip it up to drink the remainder.
“It’s Saturday. But you need to go in to workout. You are a fucking disgraceful slob. I have four meetings today and I can’t babysit you,” Morg says, bending over with a towel in her hand to mop up my mess. “I’ve let you wallow long enough. Stone is rolling in his fucking grave right now.” She looks up to the ceiling and crosses her chest.
