Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(48)

I frown. “You two talked? To each other?”

“Texted.” He hands me his phone, and I skim their short back-and-forth that goes something like this:

If you’re done early with pics, can you stick around and distract some of the fans in Sulli’s line? It’ll make her less stressed. – Maximoff



Okay. – Charlie



I look up at Maximoff.

His eyes flash hot. “Tell me he got sick. Food poisoning or some flesh-eating bacteria? Maybe an emergency phone call? Or no, wait, Charlie doesn’t ever have an excuse. He’s just bored, and he bolted, right?”

I sense something deeper and more painful. He told me in more detail about the yacht fight with Charlie. And how Charlie bailed on him a week before his freshman year at Harvard.

With no explanation why.

I put a hand on his broad shoulder—and a six-foot-seven devil nearly blows out my eardrum. Fucking hell. I let go, my nose flaring.

Maximoff rubs his face. Trying to shelter his anger from the fans.

“Take a five-minute break,” I say.

“No. No, I’m fine.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.” He puts his fist to his mouth, and the toughened look he wears also begs, closer.

I can’t. My muscles burn. We’re both pulling against a force that wants us to draw near.

Do your motherfucking job, Farrow.

I need to step back, but I say, “You look like you want to punch someone.”

“I do,” he says. “I want to punch my cousin.”

“How about you take that down to an I-want-to-have-a-civil-talk-with-my-cousin?”

“Never heard of that one,” he says, sarcastic.

“Clearly.”

Maximoff almost smiles. He nods to himself, taking a deeper breath. This is where we’d hug or kiss or do something other than what I’m about to do.

Avert my eyes.

Step back.

Let air fill the gap between my body and his.

Doing my motherfucking job.

A short olive-skinned guy is next. He approaches Maximoff with an armful of Superheroes & Scones paraphernalia. Maximoff pops the cap to a Sharpie—the lights go out.

Darkness cloaks the conference room. Power cutting, voices blaring in my ear. Fans shouting, “What happened?!”

I block out every distraction, every possible threat or what if in the pitch-black, and I move urgently.

“Maximoff.” I seize his waist and direct him towards an exit. SFO marked Ballroom E as a “safe area” in case these situations occur.

We can’t see two feet in front of us, but I whip out my cellphone like a few other people and point my camera light.

“Jane.” Maximoff tries to turn back around.

My hand cuffs his forearm tightly. “She has two bodyguards. Don’t stop in the crowds.”

There are five jaw-droppingly famous celebrities to one thousand adoring and semi-crazed fans. The lights could switch on or he could get stabbed in the dark. We’re not sticking around to find out which.

A tour organizer uses a microphone to speak. “We’ll have this all figured out soon. Please, stay calm and stay where you are.”

“They’re leaving!” a fan shouts, riling some people to chase after the celebrities and catch them before they go. Maximoff and I move assuredly in the dark, step-for-step, and I touch my earpiece as Akara speaks.

“Technicians are looking at the power. The entire first floor of the hotel is dark,” Akara informs us. “Lights won’t return for at least another five minutes.”

“Still go to Ballroom E,” Thatcher orders.

We push through a double-door exit, and sure enough, it’s dark everywhere. Phone lights swing back and forth. I’d say that I guide Maximoff, but I’m sure he’d tell everyone that he’s guiding me.

“MAXIMOFF!”

That’s a fan.

I can’t see the person, but it sounded like a “wait up” wail.

“Take one picture with me, please?! I didn’t get one!” Hands are about to grab onto his shirt. I slip behind him and cut people off.

“Move,” I tell Maximoff.

He’s stopped to speak to them, and he’s hesitating. Because he would genuinely place giving a fan a picture above his safety. Knowing it’d make their day, their month, year, or eternal existence.

Lucky for him, I don’t give a shit.

I only care about his life.

“Maximoff,” I say through my teeth. “Move. Or I’ll drag you—” There we go.

He faces forward, our strides lengthy and hurried. “I could’ve taken one picture.”

“No, you couldn’t.” I fixate on two guys ahead of us. They beam their phone lights on Maximoff. He shields the brightness with his hand.

“Hey, that’s Maximoff!”

I step in front of him while we walk. “You can see him later,” I tell the guys casually, but their lights have already created a giant spotlight on Maximoff.

“Maximoff!!” too many people scream and they’re running towards him.

We’re still far from Ballroom E. “Three-o’clock, there’s a bathroom,” I say to Maximoff and lead him by the shoulder—someone grips his shirt.

I shove the person back, and the fabric rips.