Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(14)

He waits for me to add something else. A strategy or a plan. Maximoff likes to pack his survival gear, and I’m basically saying, just trust me with what we have on our backs.

He makes a face. “So we’ll figure it out in a million light-years.”

I roll my eyes into a short laugh. “I meant we’ll figure it out in the moment, not when we’re both buried six feet under the ground.” His phone rings and then buzzes somewhere on the bed.

He sits up. “I could be immortal.”

I sit up too. “You’re definitely not humble.” I find his phone beneath his pillow and toss it to him. “Here you go, beautiful.”

Maximoff catches his cell and looks thoroughly annoyed by me. Job well done. “Thanks,” he says. “Now I’m eternally sterile.”

“That’s not how that works,” I say. “Looks like you need elementary biology.”

His next words are garbled in a long yawn.

“And sleep,” I add as he pinches his tired eyes—he drops his hand, glowering. His forest-greens flit to my rock-hard bulge, then his bulge.

“I can tell you who’s bigger. And it’s not you.”

He tries hard not to break into a smile. “Funny.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

He glares. “Now I’m fucking limp. Thank you.”

I tilt my head. “Do I really need to point out the lie here?”

He ignores me by pulling the quilt over our legs. Then he unlocks his phone. “It’s probably Dari.” His assistant. “I emailed her about the tour.” A frown crests his face. “I missed a call. Maybe a butt dial since it didn’t ring that many times…and a text from the same person.” He straightens up.

I rest my elbow on my bent knee. “It’s not Dari,” I assume.

He flashes his cell, a text on the screen.

Can we talk when you have time? – Dr. Keene.



Fucking hell. My father is texting him. On a subject unrelated to his health.

Someone among the Hales, Cobalts or Meadows must’ve told my father that I’m dating Maximoff. It makes the most sense.

And instead of contacting me, his son, he’s reaching out to Maximoff. I sense the strain between me and my father all the time, but it seems to yank tighter.

Maximoff cracks a knuckle. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t care.” I’d rather he just lie back down and try to sleep than deal with this shit.

“You do fucking care,” he rebuts, “or else you wouldn’t look ready to uppercut a punching bag right now.”

“If that were true, then it’d mean my father pisses me off.” I’m about to swing my legs off the bed. “And when it comes to him, I feel nothing.”

Maximoff catches my bicep before I move away. “You seriously feel nothing?”

“It’s irritating that he’s texting you and not me, but that’s it. I didn’t start the cold war. It’s all him.” My father wants me to join the family legacy and be a practicing doctor. I have the MD, but I’m never finishing my residency. It’s just not what I want, and he hasn’t accepted that.

Maximoff nods. “I’ll call him back later.”

I try to slide off the bed again.

Maximoff pulls me back for a second time. “Where the fuck are you going?” he asks.

My lip quirks. He really doesn’t want me to leave him, and I struggle to look anywhere else but at him. Consumed. “Need my hand?”

“No,” he says firmly. “I just want you.”

That hits me hard. I almost crawl back. Do your motherfucking job, Farrow. I grit down and then tell him, “I have to get my phone. I haven’t checked social media threats tonight.”

Security’s tech team spends more time doing this tedious shit for us. But personal bodyguards are still supposed to “stay updated” and “aware” of the discourse about our client on social media.

With the media fallout, it’s more important for me to gauge the climate surrounding Maximoff.

“You can do it on my phone,” he tells me, handing me his cell. Trusting me with it.

I can imagine the envy of girls and guys everywhere. And he chose me.

He loves me.

Damn.

My chest swells for a second.

Maximoff lies back, smashes a pillow and then places his head down. He yawns. “I think I’m going to…” He yawns again.

He’s going to pass out. Exhaustion starts drawing his eyes closed.

Good.

He needs that.

I’ve slept in the same bed with him enough to know that he’s typically not a cuddler until a couple hours into sleep. It’s a private, personal fact that tabloids would crave and reprint a hundred times. And it’s all mine for safekeeping.

I stack a couple pillows and lie flat. I’m not about to click into his texts. Privacy is already hard for him, and I’ve never been a nosy little bastard.

I download a program to his phone. It filters certain words on all social medias, and I select a time range. Basically from the last time I did this yesterday to now. Then I type out variations of phrases I need searched like:

kill Maximoff Hale

die Moffy

murder Lily & Lo’s son