Fly With Me | ✓

37

The disgusting thing about flying to London was that it always seemed like Everleigh lost a day. Travelling alone never felt right. She'd miss her day, show up in the morning, either pick up her car if she hadn't arrange for someone to come get her, or she'd hope that someone did indeed remember that she needed picking up. Then she'd stew in her jetlag by herself, in her empty flat, wishing that she could simply go back to work and forget how lonely she always was.

Travelling with Maverick was different. After being dropped off at the airport by Margaret and Esmé—the former of which insisted on driving when she found out Esmé got to the house the night before in half the legal time—and buried in hugs that felt like they'd never let go, Everleigh and Maverick walked through the gate a couple hours early to their flight. She did her best to ignore the magazine racks that had photos of her and Maverick outside The Final Grill and a couple other adventures they'd been on before he went home to Windsor—along with a photo of him landing in Windsor, asking if there was already trouble in paradise. Disgusting. Getting to sit down on the benches with a carry on while she thought about how her dog was doing was the most relaxed her brain would let her be.

("Is this the first time you've had to wait for a plane and not the other way around?" "Hardy har, Meadowlark.") (Maverick fell asleep on her shoulder while they sat at their terminal—maybe he really had overslept every single day of his life.)

"Don't take this as sarcasm," Everleigh said.

"What a good start to a statement," Maverick said. Finally woken up. A lazy hand dragged through bleached curls and ran down to his eye, which he rubbed the sleep out of. He looked ready to take another nap, although people were already boarding. Everleigh didn't want to tell him the people sitting across from them had definitely—and not very stealthily—had taken photos of them while he'd been asleep. "Everleigh Meadowlark, you can say whatever you want to me."

"I'm glad you're coming home again," Everleigh said. "The flat was lonely without you."

Maverick draped his arm over the back of her seat. Ran his thumb along her tricep. Everleigh tried to ignore the movement of another phone across from them. "Careful, Meadowlark, I might think you have feelings for me if you keep being so nice."

Everleigh rolled her eyes. "Never mind."

"Nope. Can't take it back."

"Careful, Maverick—"

"Okay, you win." Maverick held a hand up in surrender. "Never mind."

"That's all it took?"

"Yup."

"Your own name?"

Maverick shook his head. "Feel like I'm in trouble every time I hear that name from you."

"You're not in trouble," Everleigh said, nudging her elbow into his side. "I love you, you spoon."

Maverick had clearly tuned out the person taking photos across from them—better than Everleigh had, at least—because he didn't hesitate to press a kiss to her temple. "I love you too, Meadowlark."

"And I suppose I'm still glad you're coming back with me," Everleigh said. "I guess. Or whatever."

Maverick raised his eyebrows. "Romantic."

"I'm not the poet."

"Clearly."

"Big words for someone who's not paying rent."