Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
When we finally climbed into his Audi, I expected Maximoff to sigh in exhaustion. Maybe express frustration. His mom would’ve been tired, a little upset.
Instead, he seemed just as prepared for anything, and he said, “Let’s find a pub. Jane will meet us.”
Declan should’ve written: Maximoff Hale will barrel through every circle of hell and come out unscathed.
He actually wrote: everything in Moffy’s life is short-lived.
9:12 p.m. we shake off paparazzi and discover a hole-in-the-wall Irish pub around South Philly. After I ensure the place is safe, we order our food and drinks at the bar. They say they’ll bring it to us shortly.
We claim a low wooden table in the very back. Cigarette smoke clouds the cramped, dimly lit area, and a soccer game airs on the only TV. Engrossing several old bearded men at a high-top table, plus the bartender.
I lean back on two legs of my chair and casually examine our surroundings, but I find myself looking at him.
Maximoff reads a text. “Jane and Quinn are still fifteen minutes away.”
I open my mouth to reply, but a voice infiltrates my right ear. “Omega to Farrow.” I drop on all four legs of my chair and press my mic. “Farrow.” My eyes lift to Maximoff who watches intently. Like he’s never even overheard his old bodyguard speak to security before.
Maybe he hasn’t.
I’m not about to excuse myself from the table to speak to Akara. I don’t care if Moffy listens to a conversation that’s about him.
In fact—I pop my earpiece out, hang the cord over my shoulder, and then I swivel the volume knob on my radio. Increasing the sound.
His brows furrow, confused.
My smile stretches. Just wait, wolf scout.
Akara’s voice crackles over the earpiece speaker, audible to me and Maximoff. “I need to know if Moffy plans to go to a drugstore or grocery within the next week. We’ll have to put extra security on him.” With the Camp-Away approaching and its annual popularity, he’s been in entertainment news almost nightly.
“And?” I ask Maximoff. He knows that Akara can’t hear me unless I touch the microphone.
He leans forward, forearms on the table. “Tell him no.”
I click the mic. “No, not anytime soon.”
Akara says, “Thanks.” The line goes quiet after that.
Taking a deep breath, Moffy straightens up, and neither of us unfastens our strong gazes.
“Did you like that?” I ask, my lips lifting.
“So badly it hurts,” he says dryly, but a real smile crests his mouth. “Would you be willing to do that for me all the time?”
“Would you want me to?”
I love giving him things that no one else can. For a guy who has the world at his fingertips, you’d think there’s nothing left to offer Maximoff. But he’s been denied some simple pleasures and human rights.
Like the ability to drive safely down a fucking highway.
Maximoff cracks his knuckles. “Actually, no. Security will kill you.”
“Now you care if I die? What happened to shoving me out of the car and backing up over my body?”
“Give me five minutes,” Maximoff says, “we’ll be back to your death.”
I roll my eyes into a wider smile, and my tattooed fingers rotate a saltshaker like it’s a coin. I catch Maximoff staring at my fingers for two long beats. He’s in love with my fingers. I try to seize his gaze.
He purposefully glances behind me.
I follow his attention to the bar, and I run my tongue over my molars, my smile slowing hardening. A guy about my age sits on a tattered leather stool, dressed in a black beanie and graphic T-shirt.
My jaw muscle twitches. I look between them, and the guy gives Maximoff a suggestive I-want-your-ass once-over.
Maximoff begins to smile back.
I can’t tell if he’s just being nice or if there’s real interest. My narrowed gaze pings from him to the guy, my muscles burning the longer they scrutinize one another.
I shouldn’t care.
I set my elbow to the table and put my hand to my mouth. I spin a saltshaker with my free fingers while a million replies grind at me.
He’s not good enough for you.
You could do better.
You really like that dickhole?
You’re here with me.
Don’t flirt with him.
Don’t fuck him.
The saltshaker falls on its side.
Moffy glances at me while I upright the salt.
Jealousy. I’m jealous of a nameless, beanie-wearing dickhole on a barstool. My ex-boyfriends would laugh at me for caring this much about a twenty-two-year-old celebrity.
I unwrap a piece of gum, and as soon as I peel the foil, Maximoff asks, “What’s your favorite color?”
The corners of my mouth curve upward. “My favorite color?” I repeat like he asked me a kindergarten question. Which he did. But I keep thinking, he’s not interested in that other guy anymore.
He’s more interested in me.
Maximoff crosses his arms. “What kind of high school names someone valedictorian when they can’t even answer their favorite color?”