I lift my brows. “Because I wanted to. It’s that simple.”
He nods once, and we exchange a serious look, silently acknowledging all the situations we’ve been through together that not many will ever understand. We’ve worked decently well to get the people we love out alive.
And to make sure we’re both okay.
From barreling through broken bottle-wielding crowds after a bingo hall shit storm. To warming Maximoff and Jane after they fell in a bone-chilling Scotland ravine.
“I didn’t expect this,” Thatcher admits.
“You can say no,” I say easily, “but you and I are going to be attached for a long time. As fucking strange as that seems.”
Our future spouses are best friends. Our future kids will most likely be best friends. There are very few paths where he wouldn’t be in my life.
He basically smiles. “I have a feeling you wouldn’t hold this over me decades down the line, if I said no.”
“Finally starting to figure me out,” I say lightly.
Thatcher nods, mouth rising more. “I’m happy to be your groomsman.” He pauses, but then quickly adds, “I wouldn’t have said no. I appreciate this.” He holds up the card.
I smile back.
Asking Thatcher is strangely easier than Oscar and Donnelly. Maybe because he’s quiet. And I knew he wouldn’t say much.
We go join Jane and Maximoff at the horseshoe-shaped booth.
“We’re still waiting on the samples,” Jane tells us while Thatcher slides next to her and kisses her temple. She blushes.
I try not to laugh when she checks him out and smooths her lips together. It’s impressive that he can tongue-tie a Cobalt without saying a word, especially when the initial honeymoon stage has ended. They’re very engaged and have already dealt with rocky relationship terrain. And came out stronger.
Maximoff curves his arm around my shoulders. “Jane has switched to Team New York.”
“Really, Cobalt?”
She sits up straighter. “Charlie can be incredibly persuasive when he wants to be.”
I roll my eyes. “He texted you please come too?”
“Yes, and there were a few rentals that looked promising.”
Thatcher watches the entrance. “We should keep thinking this over before we take a vote again.”
“Agreed,” Jane nods.
“But you’re leaning towards New York?” I ask, just to be sure.
“Oui.”
Maximoff will likely also skew that direction in time too. I’m feeling too protective. This is a huge change in their lives, and I’d rather figure out why Charlie wants them there before the choice is made.
A pastry chef struts out of the kitchen with an assortment of cake slices. She spreads them on the table: banana, vanilla, pecan, carrot.
Jane opens up her binder to take notes. “You can pick as many as you want, depending on how many layers you’d like.”
“I—” Maximoff cuts himself off as my phone rings loudly. I slip my cell from my pocket and quickly scan the screen.
Shit.
Loren Hale is calling me.
I don’t know why. But if Maximoff’s dad is calling me and not his son, then there’s a chance I could’ve found my way onto his shit list again. I wrack my brain, wondering if I left a dirty dish out or misplaced one of his treasured comics.
Maximoff looks puzzled at the name on the screen. “Answer it.”
I’m already clicking into the call, and Maximoff leans over to Jane, filling her in. I decide not to put the call on speakerphone, just in case Lo is about to give me the third-degree.
“This is Farrow,” I answer.
“Hey, Farrow. Is Moffy busy?” Lo asks hurriedly like he’s almost out of breath.
I frown, my gaze cast on the thirty or forty-plus plates of wedding cake. He could’ve just called Maximoff, but he must know if he asked that same question to his son, he’d receive a white lie 9 times out of 10.
Maximoff will drop anything and everything for his family, and I figure Lo doesn’t want him dropping shit for him.
Now I actually wish he was calling to grill me. Because this is worse.
I’m starting to really believe that something prolonged is bothering Lo and Lily. And the rumors about Luna being a sex addict just don’t seem to hold enough weight to push them there.
I should definitely tell Loren Hale that we’re taste-testing wedding cake.
I should do that.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Because I know it’s not what Maximoff would want, and I also really crave to be there for his parents if they need us.
“Maximoff’s not busy,” I tell Lo. “What’s going on?”
Lo sighs in relief. “I’ve got to run somewhere, and there’s a meeting at Hale Co. that I need Moffy to sit in for me. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
I stand up and slip out of the booth, realizing this is time sensitive. Maximoff follows suit. To his dad, I ask, “Does he need to do anything in the meeting?”
At those words, Maximoff’s demeanor changes. Back stringent, face fortified for whatever storm is about to rage in.
“Yeah,” Lo answers. “Just make a couple decisions on some product placements. Nothing he’ll fuck up—Jesus Christ, we have to fix these elevators.” He lets out an angry breath. “Sorry. I’ve got to run. Tell Moffy that the receptionist will let him know where to go….and thanks. Tell him thanks.” Those last three words sound sadder than any other. Almost guilt-ridden.
“It’s not a problem, Lo. We’ll be there in less than ten.” After I hang up, I explain everything in a few sentences to Maximoff.
He turns to Jane. “You and Thatcher pick out the cake layers.”
“What?” Her eyes pop out of her head. “No. We can pick options—”
“We’re okay with whatever,” I tell Jane. “We trust you.”
“Just no red velvet,” Maximoff says, and that makes me smile. He remembered I didn’t want red velvet.
Jane takes a deep breath, and Thatcher whispers in her ear. She nods repeatedly. “We’ll take this very seriously then.”
We waste no time. We fit on our helmets, and I take Maximoff’s hand in mine. Being pulled out of events and everyday things has always been Maximoff’s normal. And it’s become mine.
I’ve grown used to all the rainchecks, but I’m still on edge. Because the entire time I’ve been on Maximoff’s 24/7 detail, Lo has never asked his son to fill in for him.
Not once.
7
MAXIMOFF HALE
“Maybe he just had a stomach bug.” It’s a stupid theory, but my dad getting the shits before a mega important meeting is better than the worst scenario popping into my head.
Which would be my mom or my dad on the brink of relapsing. They’re strong. Over the years, they’ve found ways to keep from spiraling. My dad could just need a break from work stress.
I’m happy to take over.
Farrow plants his concern on me as the elevator ticks up towards one of the top Hale Co. floors. He chews gum slowly. “He did sound like he was in a hurry. Could be a ‘stomach bug’.” He uses air quotes. “Stranger things have happened.”
I glance at him quickly and back at the elevator numbers. “You’re just trying to placate me.”
“Man, if I were trying to placate you, I wouldn’t have given you a word-by-word replay of the exact conversation.”
He did do that in the parking deck here. I asked for every detail about the phone call, and then Farrow said he made a mistake. By not putting it on speakerphone.
But I would’ve cut into the conversation, and there’s a strong probability my dad would’ve told me to stay put or said something like “never mind, I don’t need you.”
I’m glad it didn’t go that way.
I’m glad I’m here in this elevator, ready to help out and remove stress off him. Because if my parents aren’t doing well, I only want to make their lives e
asier.
I grip my motorcycle helmet, knuckles whitened.
Farrow adjusts the radio on his waistband and edges towards the elevator doors. We’re almost to the floor. I move up next to him. Side-by-side.
He holds my hand.
Oxygen floods my lungs, and my eyes meet his strong gaze.
“You okay to do this, wolf scout?”
I nod once. “Yeah.” I am.
My shoulders ache from my strict posture. I can’t relax.
I’ve been in corporate meetings before, and I’ve sat in the Hale Co. boardroom, invited as a shareholder of the company.
But I’ve never sat in for my dad during a random business meeting, and in this instance, I’m acting as CEO until he returns. I’ve wanted to take over the family company to honor him—because I love him. But he’s always said, no.
Not now, not yet.
Am I just older, and he’s ready to give me this monumental responsibility? Or is he just not doing well, and he needs me?
I don’t have the answers, but right now, I can accomplish whatever needs to get done without them.
Elevator doors ding open, the marbled hallway empty. I’m in eyeshot of glass-walled cubicles and larger, window-view offices for higher-level employees.
Quickly, I locate my dad’s receptionist outside his office: Steven, a scrawny curly-haired man with a grayed mustache and goatee.
I set my helmet on a chair.
Offices to H.M.C. Philanthropies are located in this building, so I’ve been here in the recent past. I’m used to the brief glances before employees concentrate on their day, their own work. The novelty of my celebrity status has worn down. For one, long-time employees have seen me in this high-rise since I was in diapers. For another, I’m not as famous as my dad.
But today is different.
The brightest spotlight heats my back, my head, every damn body part. Eyes pin to me, and somewhat to Farrow too. My brows furrow in a bucket load of confusion.
Dear World, why is everyone looking at us? Sincerely, a baffled human.
Steven holds up a finger, slightly flustered. “I’ve got the memo notes Loren left you, one second.” He sifts frenziedly through papers.
“Steven.” I still look around. “Why is everyone staring at me?”
He glances up. “Hmm?”
“Employees are staring at me,” I tell him again.
Horn-rimmed glasses frame his round face. He peers over my shoulder, his neck flushing a splotchy red shade. “I suppose it’s because they’re not used to you coming here with a partner.” His eyes soften. “Most of us remember you playing with Marvel action figures on the carpet over there.” He points to a spot in my dad’s office. “It’s hard to believe you’re all grown up…about to get married.” A warm smile spreads across his rosy cheeks.
Farrow is grinning.
I relax only a fraction. Just glad that they’re not staring for other reasons. Like maybe I grew two horns or a tail in the middle of the night.
Jokes aside, I’m happy that my hand is still in Farrow’s. In an alternate universe, he’s not with me, and I’m here with a stoic bodyguard who barely speaks.
And I’d persevere. I’d ride this to the finish line and still come out on top. But my lungs would be empty, and I’d crave to fill that hollow space.
I wouldn’t know how, and I’d be so alone—so goddamn alone.
You should know that I can survive in any universe, but I only want to live in the ones with Farrow Redford Keene.
“Ah, here it is!” Steven passes me the memo sheet. “You have an hour before the meeting begins. If you need to ask me any questions, I’ll be right here. Fresh coffee and muffins are set out in the break room.”
“Thanks.” I fold the memo sheet and slip the paper in my back pocket. Grabbing my helmet, I motion Farrow to the break room. Hot tea sounds good before a deep-dive into preparing for the meeting.
He nods, and we head down the hall towards a cracked door. I remember where the break room is located and how Keurig’s line the whole back wall. Closer we are, I smell the pungent coffee bean roast and blueberry muffins.
I barely crest the doorway, and I stop cold.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“Maximoff.” Farrow lets go of my hand. Just to put a calming touch to the back of my head.
Do I look like I’ve seen a ghost?
Feels that way.
I’m wide-eyed on a sandy-brown-haired, twenty-something guy. He’s waiting for a machine to fill his coffee mug. Full lips, hooked nose, squared shoulders—a pretty boy, masculine, and fit like he never skips leg day. He still dresses like he’s simultaneously trying to be preppy and not give a shit. Taupe sweater, a size too tight, and dark denim jeans, fabric ripped at the kneecaps.
I unfreeze fast, and like I’m trying not to trigger a bomb, I skulk backwards. Until I’m in the hallway, and I realize I’m letting Farrow lead me somewhere.
I don’t know where he’s taking me.
I don’t care where the hell we’re going.
He’s reaching behind his back and holding my hand. And I keep up with unoiled joints, walking like the Tin Man behind him.
My dad’s office.
Farrow guides me into the familiar space. Framed X-Men comics hang on burgundy-hued walls, and tons of family photos are crammed on metal bookshelves. Black leather chairs crowd a wooden coffee table, and a Mac computer sits on a clean industrial desk.
I shut the door, my brain spinning. Trying to determine how to tell Farrow about this past thing that just smacked me in the face.
Farrow takes my motorcycle helmet out of my death-grip. And he places his helmet and mine on the desk. His jaw muscle spasms like he’s biting down, territorial and protective of me.
I swallow a rock. “You should know that I know that guy.”
“I know.”
Confusion pulls at my face. “Wait, how?”
“Kaden Simmons.” Farrow speaks his name into existence.
My mouth falls. “You know his name?”
He rests his ass partially on the desk. Seemingly casual and cool, but tension still tightens his jaw. “Back when you had a stalker, I had to read all your NDAs.”
Right.
Fuck.
Our eyes grip each other like we’re about to free-fall together.
Farrow has a photographic memory, so I don’t ask why he remembers Kaden out of all the other NDAs. I bet he can easily file through all the names of my one-night stands. I wonder if he had to do a background check on Kaden. I never asked how deep he dove when trying to find my stalker.
His concern mounts the longer he sweeps my features. “You remember him.” That’s not a question.
It’s a fucking fact.
I blink; my eyes feel burnt raw. Farrow knows that I’ve had too many one-night stands to recall faces and names. I can barely pinpoint locations and dates. It was just sex, but I took care of who I slept with. I was highly aware that they’d always remember sleeping with me, Maximoff Hale.
I wanted sex to be a good experience for every hookup. But there are a handful of times where it wasn’t that great for me.
Words jumble, and I end up just saying, “Yeah, I remember him.”
Farrow combs two hands through his bleach-white hair, and I zone in on the gray titanium band on his ring finger. I zero in on the crossed swords on his Adam’s apple, and the beautiful wings on his neck. Just to avoid the rising pain on his face.
He lets out a breath, hands slowly descending from his head. His eyes on mine. “He’s memorable for you, which either means he hurt you or it was the best sex you’ve ever fucking had.” He winces. “For fuck’s sake, I honestly hope it’s neither.”
Everything hurts because I know I’m about to hurt him.
I stare up at the ceiling, pain fisting my chest. We stand a few feet apart, and I want to close the distance so damn badly. But I’m cemented in front of the door. I look back at Farrow.
; He watches me intensely, and he realizes that his hope isn’t coming true. “Fuck.”
“I remember Kaden,” I start, “because it’d be hard to forget the first time I tried to bottom.”
His nose flares, and his gaze drags across the wall, as though hunting through memories. His face twists through a series of emotions. Anger surfaces the most. He glares past me. At the door, where I’m betting Kaden is the target of his wrath.
He inhales a rough breath, then looks at me. “How are you feeling, seeing him?”
I grimace, shaking my head. “I’m more concerned about you, man.” I gesture to Farrow. “Seeing your ex-boyfriend last year and picturing you in bed with another guy was a weird kind of torture, and I don’t know what this is doing to you.” I pause. “Are you okay?”
He skates his fingers through his hair again, chest collapsing. “You said that the first time you bottomed, you didn’t let the guy get that far. It was a trust thing, and you were nervous.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “I couldn’t relax and get out of my own damn head.”
“He didn’t finger you,” Farrow says through gritted teeth. His graveled voice deep and rougher. “He’s not just a fucking bad lay, he’s an inconsiderate prick, and knowing you, how you are in bed…” He winces, anger flaring in his eyes, and he swallows hard. “Fuck, man, there is no excuse for him to proceed to fuck you when your body basically screams do not enter.”
I want to reassure him about my hookup the way that he reassured me about his ex-boyfriend. “It was just one of those awkward first times. Trust me. And maybe he’s just more inexperienced than you and didn’t think to help me relax.”
He rolls his eyes, still pissed at Kaden, but he picks up a Millennium Falcon paperweight. He doesn’t have trouble locking eyes with me. “He hurt you?”
I rub my tensed shoulder.
Farrow looks sick. He runs his finger over his bottom pierced lip. “I’ll take your silence as a yes.” He goes still. “Did he rape you?”
“What? No.”
His gaze sweeps over me.
“It was consensual. I wanted to try to bottom, and I didn’t let him get far.”
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