“I’ve taken care of them,” Jane begins with urgency. No emotion attached. Like she’s discussing bus mileage and the trip route. “My sister already agreed to watch all six while I’m gone. My oldest cats and youngest kittens love Audrey, and she loves them fiercely. It all works out well.”
My brows scrunch. “It’s four months, Janie.” She’s never been away from her cats for that long.
“They’re in good hands.”
Thatcher types on his phone. Taking notes. “How’s Licorice doing?”
Jane almost blushes. “Um,” she says, frazzled by the question. “Still skittish from being stuck in the crawl space, but I’m glad you found him.”
“Me too.” Thatcher checks notes on his phone. “The tour should help with the incest rumor.”
Jane clears her throat. “I propose we ban that word.” She means incest.
I grimace. “I second that.”
Heavy silence falls, and Thatcher pockets his phone before looking to Jane, then me. “I don’t know if it’ll mean anything to you two,” he tells us, “but I understand what you’re going through. Years ago, when I was in high school, Banks and I got the gamut of twin questions. Most were harmless but others…” He trails off, and we can easily fill in the blanks.
Banks Moretti is his identical twin, and also the 24/7 bodyguard to Xander.
Beckett nods strongly, also a twin. Also understanding.
Jane and I don’t have to ask for examples or specifics. I stare off for a second—for Christ’s sake, I should’ve realized sooner why Charlie would be at the lake house in support.
Why he’d understand like Thatcher and Banks. Like Beckett.
With zero evidence, the media tried to twist my close friendship with Jane into something perverse. But Charlie dealt with that all the time too.
I was there in high school. I heard guys ask Charlie harmless questions like can you read your twin’s mind and then they’d veer into shitty things like do you sleep with your twin? They’d snicker as they prodded how many three-ways have you had with Beckett? And weird shit like if you’re naked, are you confused about who’s who? Have you touched each other’s…?
Charlie would wear his annoyance. I remember that and how he’d just walk away. Move on. That’s all he could do.
And I know that’s all we can do now.
“Merci,” Jane says to Thatcher.
I nod, appreciative of the support. The rumor will die sooner or later. It has no merit or validity, so I think we’ll be fine.
Jane rests her chin on her fists. “I couldn’t care less what the media or public thinks of me anyway.” Her gaze lowers though. Clearly caring about something.
I know she’s still upset that our parents doubted us for a split-second. I’ve been trying to understand their perspective so it’ll make more sense, but it’s not that easy. For either of us.
“Mom was crying,” Beckett tells his sister, “and you know, Mom. She says she only sheds tears for the ones she loves. She really felt like shit for not believing you.”
“Good,” Jane snaps.
Beckett continues, “She also told Dad they needed to cut out their hearts for the betrayal and gift each to you in a glass jar.”
Jane tries not to smile. “Encore mieux.” Even better.
Farrow glances at me. “Did your parents say anything?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Just that they’ll be here tomorrow.”
4
FARROW KEENE
“Weather reports a white-out blizzard at zero-nine-hundred hours.” Thatcher’s voice resounds through comms.
I pull out my earpiece while I ascend wooden stairs to the second floor. It’s pushing 5 a.m. after a never-ending Omega meeting where we all planned security for the tour. I thought I left Thatcher in the fucking kitchen.
Now he’s in my eardrum. With the volume high, I still hear him. “Be alert if you’re driving to the lake house—”
I swivel my radio’s knob, and his voice cuts off. Security agreed to spend the night at the main house and not security’s cabin a mile out. There are plenty of vacant rooms, but I choose the one with Maximoff.
Quietly, I slip inside the bedroom and expect to find him sound asleep. He’s upright, leaning against the log headboard. Maximoff types relentlessly on his laptop. Dark crescent moons shadow his eyes.
He looks spent, but he’s still forcing himself awake.
I frown and slam the door shut behind me.
“Hey,” he greets, not flinching. Not looking up. He props his phone beneath his ear. Listening to a voicemail or something equivalent since he doesn’t speak.
I sidle to the bed and unclip my radio from my waistband. I wrap the earpiece cord and set it on the night table. “A call or notification wake you up?” I ask and rest a knee on the bear-printed quilt.
Maximoff lowers his phone and returns to his laptop. “Never went to sleep.” He tries to catch a yawn and fails.
“Okay, enough.” I push his computer closed. He rubs his eyes and doesn’t try to reopen the laptop.
I step back, keeping an eye on him, and I find black drawstring pants in my duffel.
When I unzip my pants, Maximoff hones in on my tattooed fingers. Especially as I fish the button through. He likes that.
My lips rise.
He tears his gaze off me, neck slightly reddened, and he rotates his strained deltoids, computer still on his lap. “You’ve been awake for just as long,” he says.
“And I’m not the one that looks like shit.”
Maximoff bites down to fight a small smile, which sharpens his jawline.
I skim his striking features from afar, my blood hot, and then I step out of my pants and into the drawstring ones.
“We’re not the same,” I remind him, lifting the elastic band to my waist. “I’m used to vigilant nights. Sometimes they even excite me.” I kick my duffel aside. “But clearly, sleeplessness isn’t your thing. Let go and just sleep.”
Maximoff rakes a rough hand through his thick, dark brown hair. “If I’m going to be out of the office for four months, I have a million-and-one things I need to take care of and schedule.”
His work ethic is admirable and insane.
I sit on the bed. “Plan tomorrow. It’s not going anywhere. And your parents are trying to beat an incoming blizzard right now. They’ll be here earlier than you think.”
His muscles flex, readying himself for that shit storm.
I put his laptop on a night table, and I edge closer to Maximoff. When I lean back against the log headboard, our shoulders brush. Close. Both of us on top of the quilt and shirtless. His charcoal gray boxer-briefs cling to his toned build.
Maximoff fixes his messy hair. A knockout sexual tension grips us both, his muscles flexing. My jaw clenching, hot breath brewing at ninety-degrees inside of me.
He probably wants to make the first move. But I reach out and massage his taut shoulder.
His breathing heavies, and our tough gazes bore into each other.
Maximoff leans forward, allowing me to go lower. For a guy that doesn’t trust easily, his permission to “go lower” is absolutely priceless. I want to give him more.
And more.
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I knead his muscles, using my whole body to massage deeper. I run the heel of my palm down the length of his back.
“Fuck,” he mutters, blinking repeatedly to keep his eyes wide open.
If he weren’t tired, he’d flip me over by now. I like how hungered he usually is, but there’s something extremely fucking sexy about how he’s trying to battle his exhaustion.
I pull him between my legs to massage his back with two hands. I brace more of my weight against him, and my thumbs knead the base of his neck.
He swallows a wolfish groan, the noise almost fisting my cock.
I grit down and shift slightly.
Maximoff glances back at me, his fuck me, kiss me eyes in full blood-boiling effect. Before I even make a move, he rotates his body to take charge. And he yanks my leg, pulling me down—my head hits the pillow.
Damn.
My pulse hammers in my throat as I lie beneath him.
I clutch his neck and bring his mouth to mine. The starved kiss turns deep and heady as his tongue parts my lips. Fuck, Maximoff.
The way he uses his mouth is fucking killing me.
He falls to his elbows. Lowering his pelvis against my pelvis, thin fabric separates us, but he’s grinding while deepening a kiss.
Hot friction hardens him and me. Veins throb in my cock, and his dick pulses against mine. Fuckfuck. A gruff noise cages inside my lungs.
Maximoff shifts his head and scans me in a slow, thundering wave. One that clearly reads I want to fuck you.
His voice is more hollowed out as he says, “I don’t want to fucking sleep. Not yet.”
With him above me, I run my palm down his hard chest and the valleys of his abs. Our stinging lips brushing, I whisper strongly, “You want to fuck me?”
His mouth crushes against my mouth, and his hips buck against my waist before he grows more against my thigh. Fuck, I love feeling a guy harden.
Our muscular legs tangle; my ankle rubs his calf, and I grip his hair with one hand, our tongues wrestling. I could flip him to his back, but instead, my other hand travels to the waistband of his boxer-briefs. Dipping under them, I cup his perfect bare ass.
He grumbles an aroused curse against my mouth.
Huskily, I ask, “Did you like that?”