Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(10)

“I’ve never known that before,” he says dryly. “I’ve just been living in the other attic for three years thinking, why the fuck does it feel like hell’s sauna? Thank God you’re here to share this unfound wisdom.”

I have to lean on the brick wall, my smile killing me.

Sarcasm is just written in his DNA. Equipped with verbal pitchforks at birth.

I gesture him onward with my hand. “Keep going.”

“I’m done.”

I roll my eyes before standing off the interior brick wall. They’re all brick, I realize. No mold, luckily, but the wooden ceiling rafters look like they haven’t been dusted in a decade.

I waft my shirt from my chest. It must be ninety degrees in here. It’s August in Philly, summer heat still present, but with the AC cranked low, downstairs is a freezer in comparison to the attic.

I’m about to open the only window, but Moffy already aims for the windowsill. Completely ignoring my earlier speech.

I tilt my head upward, restraining another eye-roll.

He has no idea that I spent six hours being debriefed this morning about him and the entrances, exits, and windows of the two townhouses.

Omega’s recommendation: try to keep him away from windows. I’m not in a gated neighborhood anymore. Windows face public streets. Which means anyone can whip out a camera, point a lens upwards, and try to film him.

Moffy’s 44th rule: I open my own windows.

And there lies the discord. His mom welcomed all the airbags that kept her safe, but Moffy would rather live his life as unrestricted as possible.

It’s considered dangerous.

See, a very small space exits between freedom and safety for celebrities. I fight to give that middle-ground to a client. Especially for someone like Maximoff who wants that freedom. But the more he tries to protect himself, the more we’re going to have a problem.

He can’t be his own bodyguard.

It’s impossible.

“For every one window you open, I get two,” I tell him.

He pauses by the windowsill. “Why the hell would I agree to a lopsided ratio that’s in your favor?”

“Because one-to-two is better than one-to-three.”

He licks his lips. “How about one-to-one?”

I swing my head from side-to-side, considering for less than a second. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” I concede early, surprising him, but I really just need him to let me in somewhere. One-to-one is better than one-to-zero.

My job is about split-second choices that affect his life. And I subtly and quickly weigh risks. My window faces an overgrown magnolia tree that obstructs the street view. Also, if he cared about being caught on camera, he wouldn’t actively go for the window right now.

Conclusion: Risk = low.

Window = have at it, Moffy.

I keep an attentive eye on him and remove my black sheets and bedding from my duffel.

Maximoff wrenches the crusted window open, muscles flexed. The old wood screeches as it reaches the top.

When he returns to my mattress, he cracks his knuckles. Moffy scans my bedding, his phone buzzing in his jean’s pocket, but it’s been vibrating since I first saw him today.

Earlier, I deduced that he’s ignoring his texts. “Do you need a minute?” I ask.

“For what?” He’s rigid, but he always stands at attention like he’s one breath from sprinting into a fight to save his family.

I nearly smile. “A minute to let this sink in.”

He inhales a strong breath. “Sure. Just change that minute to a century, and I’m good.”

I rest my knee on the mattress, my hand slipping in my pocket. “If I give you a century, you’ll be dead.”

“Great. You can guard my corpse.”

My brows hike. “That’s really adorable that you think I’ll outlive you.”

“Who says you won’t?”

“I’m five years older than you.” I find a piece of gum in my pocket and peel the foil. “And I’m still taller than you too.” By one inch.

“I forgot that in your fucked-up alternate universe, height determines one’s life expectancy.”

I laugh a short laugh and pop my gum in my mouth.

We stand still on either side of my bed, and neither of us really moves. I skim his wardrobe, just a green T-shirt, jeans, and a cheap canvas watch. He looks like he’s worth twenty bucks, not over a billion.

His quiet humility makes him seem even older.

My eyes flit up to his, and he visibly tenses.

One of us needs to speak. Not jokingly. No humor. I rarely have serious conversations with him, and to be his bodyguard, our serious talks need to outweigh all the others.

I rake both of my hands through my hair for the third time today. Pushing the strands back. “What are your plans for tonight?”

My words must wash over him like a bucket of ice water. He cringes, looks away and shakes his head a few times. “This is too fucking weird.”

I slowly chew my gum, thinking of how to approach this. I’m attaching myself to his life. Not the other way around. I’d be just as irked if our positions were reversed.

“Help me make my bed,” I say.

Maximoff easily takes the detour, and he motions for me to give him the corner of the sheet. I do.