Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(115)

41





FARROW KEENE





After Maximoff left the two-hour board meeting, he told me, “I’ll explain at Lucky’s Diner.”

What I assume: it can’t be outright bad news. Or else he would’ve popped a blood vessel in the car. He’s been clinging to some fragment of hope.

And I’m clinging onto something else entirely.

I’ve spent the majority of the morning hawkeyed on hands and pockets. Making a mental account of every person we’ve crossed or encountered.

Shit, I see the headstone photo clearly in each passing second.

Died: April 4th.

Today.

“Is this peak Farrow Keene hyper-vigilance?” Maximoff asks across from me, both of us seated in a vinyl booth towards the back. He slides me a plastic menu and lowers his voice. “You haven’t even checked me out today.”

My lips want to rise, and I fix my earpiece, radio volume high. “Wolf scout, who said I ever check you out?”

“Pretty sure I didn’t imagine you staring at my fucking ass yesterday.”

I whistle. “Pretty sure you’ve fantasized about my ass before you even saw it.”

Maximoff blinks slowly. “And now my brain has short-circuited, thank you.” His sarcasm is thick, almost pulling my mouth upward. “And thanks for the ass digression.”

“You’re welcome.” I pick up the menu, but I don’t even skim the words yet.

I just canvas the bustling Philly diner: fifty paparazzi and twenty-something teens peer through the glass window, 3/5 of customers in booths and barstools crane their necks to watch the celebrity and his bodyguard, about 1/3 of those snap pictures and record videos.

Harmless.

“Order up!” a cook calls, and waitresses zip around tables, trays hoisted high. Bacon and maple syrup smells permeate. An atmosphere I typically love.

But today isn’t a typical day. The stalker is a Philly resident.

Likelihood of them being close = too high for comfort.

I focus back on Maximoff.

He jots a note on a napkin, but he shields the words with his hand.

I eye him a little bit more. His dark brown hair is windblown, his cheekbones sharp, shoulders squared, and his gray Winter Solider T-shirt hugs the ridges of his muscles.

“Wanted me at the meeting with you?” I tease and motion to his shirt choice.

Maximoff frowns, then glances at the shirt. “Jesus Christ.” He glares at the ceiling, then his forest-greens drop to mine. “It was unintentional.”

“I think you mean subconscious.” I dump out the sugar packets and reorder them in the container.

Very quietly, he contemplates, “Subconsciously I’m in love with you?” He pauses. “Sounds about right.”

“And consciously,” I add.

“No. Just subconscious.” His voice is firm.

I roll my eyes, and my small smile falls flat. Because our waitress approaches. Maximoff hasn’t even ordered yet, but the tiny brunette carries a mug of hot tea.

“Glad to see you back in town,” Ava says, usually the one who serves us when we’re at Lucky’s. She places the hot tea on a paper coaster.

“Thanks,” Maximoff says sincerely. “Happy to be back.”

I order a coffee, and we’re still deciding on food when she leaves. Maximoff hones in on my tattooed fingers that fiddle with the sugar packets.

I shouldn’t be smiling, not right now. But being in his company, all I want to do is grin ear-to-ear.

Damn.

It hits me again and again. How I could spend hours and hours upon hours doing absolutely nothing with Maximoff Hale. Just this.

Charlie and Oscar drove back to New York after the meeting, and for the first time in a while, there’s no full tour bus, no extra SFO guys lingering, none of his cousins are here.

It’s just us. And the paparazzi, the fans. But they’ve always been set decoration to his world. Now my world.

“Are you?” I ask him. “Happy to be back?”

Maximoff scans the retro diner. April rain starts trickling outside, and paparazzi and fans pull out umbrellas. Noises everywhere. Talking, dishes clattering, the door clings. An old man with a strong Philly lilt complains about the storm. And Maximoff smiles as two girls on bar stools wave excitedly.

He waves back and then focuses on me, but I already see the revere and fondness overtake his gorgeous features. “Yeah,” he says. “I am. This is home.”

Our attention drifts, Ava setting my coffee in front of me. “Ready to order?”

Maximoff and I exchange a look of confirmation.

Then he stacks our menus and hands them to Ava, along with the paper napkin note. I saw that, wolf scout. “I’ll get the breakfast burrito, no jalape?o.”

“Egg, bacon, cheddar bagel sandwich,” I say, “and a side of potato latke.”

Ava leaves again, and I tear open a creamer. I’m about to ask about the napkin note, but he suddenly spills the news.

“I have to cancel the tour.” He pauses. “The board is shutting it down early.”

I process this quickly. “They’re not going to reinstate you as CEO then,” I say with the tilt of my head. He’s calmer than usual. I don’t understand why.