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)
Because it’s definitely not the first time he’s been caught publicly in one. All to defend his family.
Sometimes the fights are even nastier. He gets hit. Things get broken. Someone ends up sued, either him or the bodyguard. The fact that we evaded all those scenarios makes it a success.
The security team critiqued the video footage from the pub, and the only criticism they could scramble together was Quinn’s sudden outburst.
But I don’t blame him. The first time I heard the shit people said about Lily Calloway—to her face—I almost blew it.
We’re told all the time about the constant harassment these families receive, but until you meet it head-on, it doesn’t seem real.
Glancing at the phone, I say, “You’re trying to see how much damage the fight caused?”
He nods and scrolls through Celebrity Crush.
I take constant surveillance of his environment and him, splitting my attention between the two. “Even if you have several refunds, more people will enter the raffle.” I try to steal his gaze. “You’re overthinking.”
“I always overthink. It keeps me…” Color just drains out of his face, eyes plastered to his phone.
My muscles bind. “Maximoff?” I lean into him, his shoulder taut and firm. Quickly, I skim the screen.
25 Reasons Why Maximoff Hale Is Like Ryke Meadows!
He slowly scrolls down to the first bullet point, and I see words: Maximoff Hale fights with his fists first and talks later. Exactly like Ryke! Compare the most recent video of Maximoff losing his cool at a Philly pub with this old video of his Uncle Ryke Meadows outside a diner.
Maximoff plays the video of his uncle and increases the volume, barely audible in the club.
Ryke must be no older than twenty-five in the footage. Unshaven, tan from the sun, brooding, tabloids like to call him an aggressive jackass.
Ryke grabs his helmet off his black Ducati.
“How’s that Calloway pussy, Ryke Meadows?!” A preppy-dressed man snickers, jumping up on the curb near Ryke.
“Go fuck yourself,” he growls, hardened to stone and white-knuckling his helmet. He cements to that one spot, zeroed in on the man like a predator to prey. The look in Ryke’s eyes feels the same as the look that was in Moffy’s.
The man snickers. “If you don’t tell me how Calloway pussy tastes, then I’ll just find out myself. Starting with the youngest one—”
Ryke lunges and swings—
Maximoff abruptly clicks off his phone. The screen blinks to black. Taking a huge breath, he asks me, “Did that video remind you of me?” He stares me dead in the eye. Building defenses against my upcoming response.
I want to be transparent with him. No hoarding secrets, no doling out lies, but this truth will hurt him a little. I suck in a breath through my teeth. Pinching my fingers, I say, “Seventy-five percent.”
Maximoff digests this silently and then he eyes my fingers, obsessed with my hands for some precious reason. “Your seventy-five percent looks a hell of a lot like two-percent.”
I smile, and as the music booms, I have to raise my voice. “Then you’re not looking closely enough!”
“Purposefully!” he shouts back, gripping his cellphone in a tight fist.
I chew my gum, assessing his tense state. Turning my head into his neck, my lips a breath from his ear, I say, “Lean back with me.”
“What?” He stiffens.
I raise my brows. “He’s never relaxed on a couch.” I let out a long whistle. “The new things I’m showing him.”
Maximoff realizes what I mean. He pockets his phone like he’s accepting a bet, and then he slides back until his spine hits the leather. His shoulders unwind, somewhat.
After a short, silent beat, he says, “Thanks for being honest with me. I mean it.”
I hear the deep sincerity in his voice. “Anytime, wolf scout.”
Our arms touch unconsciously, and when our heads turn towards one another, our faces are only a couple inches apart.
The air seems to crack with that familiar, hard-to-breathe tension that I felt weeks ago when I massaged him. Our gazes grip securely.
In my head, I can be his bodyguard and sleep with him.
I’m that good. And it’s that simple.
In his head, I’m not sure what’s going on up there.
He inhales strongly, his chest rising, and his gaze bores into mine, searching for a sign. Mine caress his like the stroke of flesh against flesh. I want to slide nearer. I want to wrap my arm across his shoulders and close the two-inch distance.
My muscles tighten as I stay still, pulse pounding. And the next look he wears, I know that look. The look that melts his forest-green eyes and softly and forcefully begs, kiss me.
I breathe, my body doused with kerosene. Lit on fire, and just before I make a move, a sound, a clearer, more visible acknowledgement for him, his gaze just drops.
Off of me completely. To the ground, then the bar where girls start squealing in glee at the eye contact he gives them.