Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(57)

I thought he’d be more rattled. “What aren’t you telling me?” I ask.

He looks away, then back to me. “It’s nothing.”

That’s bullshit. “You want to protect your cousins and your siblings and your parents, go ahead. But the last thing you need to do is coddle me. Give me the fucking courtesy that I’d give you and tell me the entire thing.”

He stares at me like he’s weighing the outcomes.

There’s only one outcome. “Maximoff—”

“He told me to tell you something.” He stops there.

“Getting better. Keep going.” I wave him on.

Maximoff now looks thoroughly irritated, and I’d smile if the subject matter weren’t skewed towards serious.

“He said,” Maximoff continues, “that if you complete your year residency, I’d be able to have one of the best physicians. Someone that I could trust. Someone that’s even better than him.”

I roll my eyes in a dramatic circle. Seriously. I almost can’t believe that my father took it there. He’s consciously fucking with my boyfriend’s life just so I’ll return to medicine.

It’s low.

And desperate.

Maximoff adds, “But I told your father that you’re not going back. That’s not what you want. I think he just wants me to convince you.”

I let out a short laugh. “I can’t believe him.” My face contorts through a series of emotions that I can’t name. If he really wanted me to be a practicing doctor, he should’ve tried repairing our torn relationship first, not destroying the last shreds.

I look up at Maximoff. “And he thinks me being your doctor is somehow less of a conflict of interest?”

“Strangely, yeah. I don’t want you to do it, but in an alternate universe where you did, I still wouldn’t have a concierge doctor for a full year while you did your residency. He’s leaving me with little options, and he knows it.” Maximoff gestures to me with his soda. “I even asked him if he could recommend a new physician, and the only name he could give me was yours.”

“That’s fucked up.” I run a hand along my jaw. Calling my father back won’t change his mind. He only wants one thing, and it’s not words.

Maximoff nears and hooks a couple fingers in my waistband. We draw closer, and his stoic gaze thunders against me, the heady beat saying we’re dealing with this shit together. Not apart.

I grip the hem of his shirt, but he takes over and lifts the gray fabric off his head. Knowing I’m examining his muscle again. He has swimmer’s shoulders, really used to being stretched and rotated. Especially with the butterfly stroke.

There’s no bruising and the swelling is gone. Better. “How does it feel?” I ask.

“Just sore,” he says. “I haven’t been swimming as much while on tour, and I think maybe I’m just tight. I need to stretch more.”

I nod. “I’ll keep an eye on it.”

He tucks his shirt in his back pocket. “I know I’m making it worse—the friction between you and your dad.”

“It was never going to get better.”

Maximoff offers his Fizz Life, and my mouth rises as I accept the can. Taking a sip.

“That’s kind of how I feel about Charlie and me,” he says, his large hand on my waist, pulling me closer. Our legs knock, and neither of us shifts back.

I hold the curve between his neck and good shoulder. “Have you ever talked to him about Harvard?”

He shakes his head. “Even if I wanted to, I can never get that far. He makes it impossible.” Maximoff frowns at a thought. “I know I don’t make it any easier, either. It’s just…” His brows scrunch. “…some people aren’t meant to be friends. Maybe that’s just us.”





20





MAXIMOFF HALE





Chicago, thank God we’re here.

We’re alive and breathing and no one’s been punched, in case you were concerned.

So at 3:00 a.m. in our hotel room, Farrow got a call. Spoiler Alert: it’s not a bad one this time. Akara invited him to the hotel bar for drinks. All the bodyguards are there, off-duty, while my cousins are safe asleep.

As soon as Farrow hung up, he turned to me and said, “You’re coming along, wolf scout.”

I was already wide-awake. Sending out work emails and trying not to think about tomorrow’s meet-and-greet. And I wasn’t about to reject a rare offer to hang out with Security Force Omega.

Farrow and I—we’re still in the early stages of our relationship. I’m pretty damn sure. Like 70%. If we’re basing the “stages” on time, then I’m confidently 99%. Because we haven’t reached a six-month mark yet and that seems like a solid relationship number.

I think. Because if we calculate hours spent together, our number is ridiculously high—stop thinking.

Obviously I don’t know how any of this works. There’s no playbook for dating your bodyguard. If there was, I’d own about a million goddamn copies. But I still want all of his friends to treat me like a regular guy and not just Maximoff Hale the Celebrity Client.

I’m not even positive that’s an achievable goal. Maybe it’s something completely out-of-this-world impossible and I’m shooting beyond the stars.