Headstrong Like Us (Like Us 6)

His chest collapses in a breath. “You know I feel the same.”

I nod, but I ask to be sure, “You’re not getting cold feet—”

“No,” he says with force. “Jesus, I’d go to a courthouse and marry you tomorrow if that’s what you wanted.”

This is about us, and I’m not ready to dictate every fucking aspect of this ceremony. “Is that what you want?” He’s joked about eloping before. “To just go to a courthouse?”

He drops his hand off my neck and touches the black tungsten band on his finger. He’s rubbed that ring so often since our engagement in Greece, like a piece of me is attached to him. And he’s trying to protect what it signifies and means.

Our stubborn love, our future together.

Maximoff starts shaking his head slowly, then faster. “No. I want what my parents had, the whole ceremony, and I’ve put together enough charity events that I know I can organize a wedding, especially with Janie helping. But for charity functions, I always wanted the press around. For our wedding, I’d rather fly paparazzi to the fucking moon and have them videotape craters all day.” He touches his chest. “Dodging the media is something I don’t actively do. It’s like banging your head against a brick wall.”

“I know.”

He nods. “So at times, the courthouse seems easier. But it’s not what I want.”

Understood. “Don’t worry about the media. Security will be on top of that shit, and we’re not staying in Philly.” If we go international, it’ll be harder for paparazzi to track us down and reach us. To be honest, I’m dying to give Maximoff the most normal, romantic ceremony in the world.

I know he wants this to be perfect for me, but I also want this to be right for him.

We head into the garage and hunt through an old workstation. Searching for sheetrock mud and joint compound, which Maximoff is certain exists somewhere.

I squat down and open a wooden cupboard, taking another bite of apple. I’d love to patch up this hole before Lily and Lo come home from work. They don’t exactly know how much Maximoff and I innocently fool around—how many times their son believes he can grapple better than me and tries to pin me to a fucking wall. Those are moments just between us. And I don’t want his parents to jump to wild, overreaching conclusions.

Like that I’m abusive and struck the wall out of anger.

Even the thought sickens the fuck out of me.

I push aside a red paint canister, and my eyes focus on a hefty stack of tabloids. Shoved in the very back. Shit. I care about the Hale family, more than any other (even my blood relatives), and it looks like someone is hoarding gossip magazines knowing they shouldn’t be reading them.

Obsessing over public perception isn’t healthy. I’ve been there, hating the anonymous trolls that butt into my life and criticize my relationship. This brand of fame perpetuates a toxicity that can easily cling and leech. And last thing I want is for this toxic shit to leech onto one of his siblings.

Maximoff is busy scouring through drawers, metal tools clinking, and I pull out probably ninety-plus issues of Celebrity Crush.

“Where the hell did you get those?” Maximoff sees the tabloids.

“Back there.” I point at the cupboard with my apple, and I read the dates on the top issues. “These are recent.”

“How recent?”

I wave an issue. “This one was printed last week.”

He ambles over and snatches it out of my hand. He’s tapping into over-protective, big-brother mode. His love for his family has always been extremely sexy. And I’m going to be honest here: it makes me want to have kids with him.

Badly.

I eye him in a quick sweep, then I stand up. “Your sisters and brother made a collage for us using magazine photos.” I remind him about the Christmas present.

“Made, as in past tense. These tabloids are new.” He flips one open.

“It burned in the fire,” I say like a fact, but the air heavies. We lost the recent Christmas gift his siblings crafted us: a framed collage of me and him. It was cute as fuck. “They could be making another one.”

“None of these pictures are cut out.”

“Not yet,” I tell him. “And if someone really wanted to hide this, wouldn’t they just browse the magazines online? No evidence left behind.”

“There are different articles in the print ones…” He drills a glare onto a page.

I sidle next to him and read the headline. My jaw muscle twitches.

LUNA HALE SEEN KISSING THREE MYSTERY BOYS IN ONE NIGHT! SEX ADDICT ALERT!

“Fuuuck,” Maximoff curses hotly.

I pry the tabloid out of his hands before he chucks it at his dad’s red Bugatti. And I skim the article. “This was two nights ago in New York.”

His nose flares. “I should’ve known she went out to a club with Eliot and Tom.” He hates learning about his family in tabloids.