chapter 6

Maverick's POV:

The whiskey-induced haze in my mind cleared instantly, replaced by razor-sharp clarity.

Could this be why she'd hesitated before?

Grace saw my reaction—the way my entire body tensed like a coiled spring—and panic flickered across her face. Perhaps she feared I'd change my mind about the money.

After all, five hundred dollars was no small sum for her now.

"I just... it's been a while, and I'm a bit rusty," she said hastily, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel until her knuckles went white. "But I'll be very careful, I promise. I'll drive slowly, but I'll get you home safely."

I could only nod, trapped by my own drunken state. Christ, I'd completely boxed myself in with this brilliant plan.

Any lingering drowsiness vanished completely. I sat ramrod straight, every muscle tense, watching her every move with the intensity of a hawk tracking prey.

Mercifully, Grace managed to navigate the streets with reasonable competence.

Her driving was cautious to the point of being glacial—we probably set records for the slowest Bugatti Chiron in history—but she kept us between the lines and avoided any major catastrophes.

As we approached the gates of Cross Manor, I could feel her shoulders relax slightly, the tension bleeding out of her frame.

That's when it happened.

In her relief at nearly completing the journey, Grace's concentration slipped for just a moment. As she pulled into the circular driveway, she misjudged the turn. The car lurched forward with a sickening crunch as the front bumper kissed the stone wall of the garden.

The sound seemed to echo in the night air—three million dollars of French engineering meeting imported limestone.

We sat frozen, staring at each other in mutual horror.

Grace's face had gone paper-white, her dark eyes wide with shock and growing dismay. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

I swept my gaze over her, confirming she was unharmed, before climbing out with deliberate calm to assess the damage to my car. Walking around to the front, I ran my fingers along the scraped paint and dented carbon fiber. The damage was mostly cosmetic, but on a car like this, even cosmetic meant expensive.

Grace scrambled out after me, hovering anxiously nearby.

"I'm so sorry," she stammered, wringing her hands. "I'll—I'll pay for the repairs."

The truth was, we'd made it home safely, and she was uninjured—that was all that mattered. This minor damage? It was nothing to me, pocket change I wouldn't even notice. But as her words hung in the air, a thought suddenly sparked in my mind.

Perhaps this was an opportunity.

I straightened slowly, leaning back against the car's undamaged side, studying her with renewed interest. "Pay for it?" I nodded, as if considering her offer seriously. "Alright then."

I watched her carefully as I continued, "This particular car is a Bugatti Chiron. Base price: three million dollars. The custom paint job alone cost more than most people's houses. And these panels?"

I gestured to the damaged section. "They'll need to be shipped from Italy. We're looking at minimum one hundred and fifty thousand in repairs, not counting labor."

The remaining color drained from her face as the number sank in. Now, in her current circumstances, it might as well have been fifty million.

But Grace White had always been a fighter. Instead of crumbling, she straightened her spine and met my gaze directly. "That seems... excessive for some paint damage. Surely there are more reasonable repair shops—"

"Reasonable?" I pushed off from the car, closing the distance between us with measured steps. "You want to take a three-million-dollar hypercar to some back-alley body shop? Have them slap some Bondo on it and call it good?"

She stood her ground as I approached, though I caught the slight tremor in her hands. "I'm not saying that. I'm saying one hundred and fifty thousand seems inflated. Maybe we could get multiple quotes—"

I shook my head, cutting her off. "I'm not letting anyone touch my car with cheap materials." I paused, letting a slow smile curve my lips. "But you're in luck. I'm in a good mood tonight."

A flicker of hope crossed her expression, quickly replaced by wariness as she studied me. She was learning fast—nothing came free from men like me.

"If you can't pay in cash," I continued, letting my gaze drift over her in a way that was just shy of inappropriate, "we could work out an alternative arrangement."

Grace's entire body went rigid, her dark eyes blazing with a mixture of indignation and something else. She tilted her head back to maintain eye contact, and I had to admire her courage.

Most people would have been backing away by now.

"What kind of arrangement?" she asked, her voice steady despite the slight catch I detected.

I held her gaze, making no effort to hide the predatory interest in mine.

"Simple. Be my girlfriend."

The words hung between us like a challenge. I watched her process this unexpected turn, savoring the play of emotions across her face.

"Why?" Grace asked, confusion evident in her voice. "If you wanted a girlfriend, you'd have people lining up for the position."

I shrugged, affecting casual indifference. "You're interesting. Should be fun to play with."

She flinched at my choice of words but didn't retreat.

I watched her weigh her options, could practically see the calculations running behind those expressive eyes. Finally, something shifted in her expression—resignation mixed with determination.

"How long?" she asked quietly.

"Three months." I tilted my head, considering. "Fifty thousand per month. Fair trade, wouldn't you say?"

Grace closed her eyes briefly, then nodded. "Fine. I accept."

"Good." I stepped closer, backing her against the damaged car. "Then kiss me."

Her eyes flew wide. "What?"

"Boyfriends and girlfriends kiss, Grace." My voice dropped to a dangerous purr as I braced one hand beside her head. "Among other things. Might as well start getting your body used to mine."