Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
That’s a promise.
14
FARROW KEENE
I have a huge decision to make. And I need Maximoff’s help.
But as I watch him stubbornly try to workout, I find myself delaying what I need to surface. I’m certain that my mere presence almost always distracts him, but he’s definitely hooked me in today.
On gray gym mats, Maximoff tries to bite his shoelace and use his left hand to tie his Nikes. My smile is killing me. I stare at him while I easily tie my own shoes.
I already see how this is ending: me, helping him. But I let him try a little bit longer.
Mostly because it makes him feel better.
Partially because his tenacity is fucking attractive.
I usually work out at Akara’s gym, but around the time that SFO gained fame, a celebrity gossip blog started posting about Studio 9. Citing how it’s a hotbed of “bodyguard activity” for the famous families and how Omega can easily be spotted there.
Cut to the third week of May, and the gym has turned into a zoo. People will flock to the windows like it’s Superheroes & Scones. Hoping to catch sight of Omega. Namely, Quinn.
And I’m certain that if I arrived with Maximoff, it’d incite a larger crowd.
Simple solution: skip the gym.
Maximoff has only worn a sling for six days, and he’s not even allowed to stretch until the eight-week mark. I figured Studio 9’s crowds would be an easy excuse to bench him.
My boyfriend’s solution: find another gym.
More specifically, a home gym that belongs to his uncle.
An afternoon rain shower drips down three glass walls and blurs the view of a landscaped backyard and wooden treehouse, along with the Meadows’ quaint cottage. The gym looks like a garden house from the outside, and the inside is equipped with two treadmills, gym mats, a weight bench, and a small-scale rock wall.
Since we’re in the famous one’s gated neighborhood and in a cul-de-sac, it’s private and quiet and I’m considered off-duty. He invited his little brother to join us, and Xander turned him down. I’d say it’s out of the ordinary, but Maximoff usually always tries to invite him to things, especially the gym. Xander’s response is nothing new.
“Race me,” Maximoff says with the shoelace between his teeth. He motions with his head to the side-by-side treadmills.
Race him.
Honestly, I thought he’d do a few one-handed push-ups and then call it a day. But I’ve hopped on this batshit crazy ride, and I’m not hitting the brakes. If he derails, I’ll catch him.
I finish knotting my shoelaces. “How long are you planning to pretend you didn’t just have surgery six days ago?”
“Tomorrow,” he mumbles through the shoelace, “because then it’ll be seven days.”
I roll my eyes and end up shaking my head, smiling. I lean back on my palms and watch him do a halfway decent job at tying his right shoe.
Marvel stickers and Elfish words decorate his red sling. Handiwork of his brother and sisters. His right arm is still braced to his upper abdomen. We’re both shirtless and in gym shorts, but he’s the only one with lingering bruises.
Fuck, I’ve never liked seeing him bruised, and while I’m a few feet away, I skim the yellowish-green marks on his ribs…
I smell rain on metal. I glance at the windows. Rain softly pelts the glass. I almost feel wet cement beneath my hands, gravel digging into my palms.
My smile fades. I’m still on a gym mat, and I try to train my focus on Maximoff.
“Goddammit,” he growls, his laces coming completely loose. On both shoes.
I push myself to a stance and tower over him. “Let me help, wolf scout.”
He nods after a short pause. As he rises to his feet, his gaze scales my six-foot-three frame, fixating on my chiseled abs and chest tattoos. His carriage rises in a heady breath.
Fuck, Maximoff.
My muscles contract. I slowly lower to my knees and my carnal gaze drips down his swimmer’s build on my descent.
He’s watching my fingers as I tie his left Nike, and before I mention how he’s obsessed with my hands, Maximoff says, “Let’s place a bet on the race.” His deep voice comes out raspy.
“The race,” I repeat with raised brows. “You really want to place a bet on that?” I knot his lace and work on the right shoe.
“Yeah.” He nods. “I can run a faster mile than you, man.”
I laugh. “The fact that you think you can run a mile right now is truly something else.”
Maximoff tries hard not to smile. “Maybe I can…maybe I can’t, but we’ll see. And if you beat me, I’ll give you head.”
I can’t fucking tear my eyes off him. “You must really want to give me head. Because there’s no chance in hell you’re beating me.”
“There’s a chance,” he refutes, his hand on my head while I kneel at his feet. His fuck me eyes and bobbing Adam’s apple just about drive me nuts.