Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(32)

I blink in surprise. “How do you know that?”

“I talked to the guy who owns the mechanic shop.”

“Right.” I vaguely remember him mentioning that he knew the automotive shop.

“Two of the guys have been fired. He wasn’t real happy when the police showed up at his shop looking to talk to them.” He rubs his jaw. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you were all right, and to bring you a little something. It’s nothing big.” He reveals a gift bag that’s been hidden behind his back.

“Oh no. No. Nope. You can’t bring me gifts, Maverick. It’s inappropriate.”

“I’m not trying to buy my grade. I noticed that your slippers got—”

I shake my head. “However well-intentioned you may be, I can’t accept a gift. You just can’t.”

Besides it being inappropriate, it reminds me too much of Gabriel.

His eyes widen. “Shit. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to replace some of the things I know got damaged. I’m sorry, Professor.”

“It’s the optics of it, especially with our history.”

He gives me a lopsided grin, gaze moving over me on a slow sweep. “Okay, message received.”

He’s about to take a step down when Sophia comes around the side of the house. She’s holding a bag of fresh bread and a bottle of wine. Her gaze flits from me to Maverick and back again.

“Uhhhh . . .” Her improv isn’t the best.

“This must be the bestie.” Maverick throws one of his dimpled smiles her way. “Have a fun night with my favorite professor. And try to convince her that it’s a good idea to come to my self-defense classes.”

Sophia raises one eyebrow at me. “Hi, Maverick Waters.”

Maverick’s grin widens as he passes her on the front steps, and he turns and walks backwards down the driveway. “You’re talking about me, huh? That’s good. I can work with that.”

“Have a good night, Maverick. Try to stay out of trouble.”

“I’ll do my best.” The monster truck parked in front of my house beeps, and he climbs into the cab, turns over the engine, and waves as he pulls away from the curb.

Sophia whistles. “What was that all about?”

“He was checking in on me after what happened the other day.”

She pats me on the shoulder. “It’s a good thing the semester is almost over.”

“Yes, it is.”





Three days later, I’m standing outside Pump It Up with ten minutes to spare before the self-defense class starts. When I talked to my mother earlier today on one of our biweekly chats, I mentioned I was thinking about taking the class. I didn’t tell her what happened with the drunk hecklers, and I was right not to, because just the mention of the classes put her on alert. I assured her everything was fine—even though that’s questionable—and used Maverick’s words, saying I thought it would be empowering, which seemed to appease her.

A familiar black F-150 pulls into the lot and parks beside my Prius. My heart rate picks up. It’s a reaction I’ve been fighting since Maverick showed up in my creative writing class. But the warm feeling in my chest is new, and I attribute it not only to the things I now know about him, but also to the way he came to my defense, and his continued concern for my well-being.

I stand in the shadows, against the side of the building as Maverick opens the driver’s side door and climbs out, hood pulled up over his head and the brim of a hat peeking out. I went back and forth about whether I should come to this class, all things considered, and decided it would go a long way toward making me feel more confident in my ability to defend myself.

He closes the door and tugs his hood down, then pushes the driver’s side mirror in and angles his body so he can maneuver around my car without grazing it.

He stops short when he reaches the front of the car and sees me standing there. “Professor?” His eyes light up. “I thought I recognized your car. I was hoping I’d see you tonight.”

My stomach flutters, and I internally roll my eyes at my body’s reaction to his admission. “Were you?”

“Yeah. When you didn’t show up for the Saturday class, I wasn’t sure if I’d pushed it when I stopped by to check on you. I worried I’d made you feel uncomfortable. But it’s good that you’re here. Hopefully you’ll learn some helpful stuff.” He gives me a hopeful smile. “I gotta get inside ’cause the class starts in less than ten. You wanna come with?”

“Sure. Yes. Okay.”

He motions for me to go first, since the sidewalk is narrow, but when it widens enough, he falls into step beside me. “How are you? How are your hands?”

“Mostly healed now. That liquid bandage is a miracle. And the bruise on my hip has faded a lot. It’s still a bit sore, but otherwise I’m fine.”

He nods. “I’ll keep that in mind when we’re practicing some of the moves tonight. How about emotionally? You feeling okay? How was movie night with your bestie?”

My cheeks flush at the memory—how suddenly the emotion had swept over me when he’d been about to leave the night of the attack. All the what-ifs creeping in and pushing me to the edge. How I’d accepted that hug from him and how easy it was to find comfort in it. “Movie night was good, and thank you for stopping by to check in.”