Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

While we peruse the aisles, Maximoff’s shoulders stay tense and neck stiff. Always a knight prepared for a looming war.

He checks a bottom shelf, finding jugs of water. “Bet you didn’t think you’d be doing this today.”

“Technically, I never thought I’d be doing this any day.” I grab a pair of aviator sunglasses off a rack and slip them on, price tag hanging off the rim.

Maximoff glances back at me, and he almost lets himself check me out, almost. His gaze stops at my chest, and then he unzips his Patagonia jacket, hot, and rounds the corner with me.

Aisle number two carries mostly junk food: beef jerky, Pringles, and popcorn. Then random fruit. Oranges, bananas—I take a red apple.

And I place a hand on his chest. Stopping him mid-aisle because he’s been too quiet. Even the whole ride here. I lift the aviators to my head, pushing my hair back. “The talk with your dad went that badly?” I finally ask.

“My dad kept twisting his wedding ring.” He purposefully buries his emotion, his face blank. “That means—”

“I know what that means,” I say, even if the fact isn’t public knowledge. I spent three years around Lily and Lo, and anytime Lo was in a bad place with his addiction, he’d twist his ring.

Maximoff blinks a few times, his guard descending. Letting some kind of emotion break through.

My hand rises to the back of his neck, and he suddenly clasps my shoulders, his muscular arms wrapping around them. At the same time, we both step into a hug. Chest against chest. I stroke the back of his neck, and he holds us together in a strong embrace.

I feel his heart thud hard and fast.

Against his ear, I whisper, “I’m sorry.” I know how much he loves his parents, and not being able to fix this must be killing him.

His chest collapses in a deeper breath, and we tilt our heads back, our eyes skimming each other. I’d say I lean in first, but he’d tell you the exact opposite.

I kiss him tenderly like I’m the saint, and go figure, he full-bodies the kiss like he’s the sinner. Meaning, he pulls our builds even closer together while our mouths meld deeper.

Damn.

I step him towards the back of the store, and he wrestles for the lead and spins me into a shelf—shit. My shoulder blades knock into a tower of Moon Pies, and they start falling onto the linoleum floor.

We tear apart, and I push the Moon Pie box back on the shelf while Maximoff picks up the fallen packages.

I eye the old man at the cash register. He lets out a long snore. Not waking. Even if he did, I doubt he’s in touch with celebrity news.

I peel the sticker off the red apple, and Maximoff fixes his disheveled hair. He also keeps licking his lips, like he still feels me on them.

Our eyes meet, and he asks, “Did my mom talk to you?”

I didn’t expect that divergence. “I just kissed the fuck out of you, and now you’re thinking about your mom?”

He feigns confusion. “Let me get in my time machine. Look at that, I just kissed the fuck out of you. Not the other way around.”

I roll my eyes and then smile. “And I’m a hundred-percent positive you dreamed of my tongue in your mouth at sixteen.” I toss my apple in my hand. “That’s a true fact.”

Right on cue, he gives me two middle fingers, and his eyes drift to my mouth.

I whistle. “And he wants me to kiss him again.”

Maximoff glances at the storeowner. Dead asleep. Then me. “Seriously, Farrow, did my mom talk to you?”

“No,” I say easily. “I didn’t expect her to.”

He frowns. “Why not?”

I pause, apple near my mouth. “It has more to do with me than you. When I was on her security detail, I built a lot of trust between me and your parents. By lying to them about you, I basically obliterated all of that. They’ll patch things up with you because you’re their son, but I expect a four-month cold shoulder, at least.”

He nods, tensed again.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s my shit to deal with.” I bite into the apple, and he looks at me like I’ve just stolen half the store—which, to be honest, contains nothing valuable to steal.

“What are you doing?” he asks and checks on the sleeping old man again.

Maximoff. “Eating.” I extend the apple to him. Just to piss him off. “Want a bite?” I walk nearer, and he makes a point to cross his arms, biceps bulging.

“You’re stealing.”

“And you’re so pure.” I take a larger bite.

He growls out his irritation, but his lips start to slowly rise. “Farrow.”

“I’m going to pay for it. Relax. Relax.” I widen my eyes and then lower my aviators.

He exhales a bigger breath, and we peruse the next aisle. Some stocked over-the-counter medications.

I squat and shift boxes of cold medicine. I give him my half-bitten apple so I can reach further back. I feel him fixating on the movement of my hands. I smile and find only one pregnancy kit.

I flash him the box. “I’ll check out with cash and rip up the receipt.”

He looks surprised that I have a game plan.

I rise. “I’m still your bodyguard, wolf scout. And I’m still taller too.”

He laughs shortly and backs up from me. “By one fucking inch.” He lets his gaze drop all the way down my body.

8

MAXIMOFF HALE

We’re leaving.

It’s time, and this isn’t some alternate universe. This is actually, in real life, happening. Six inches of snow blankets a deserted parking lot. Right outside of a Food Lion. I shove the tenth suitcase into the storage bays of our parked tour bus.

Security Force Omega darts around and coordinates through their mics, carrying cases of water, beer, soda, and other supplies.

My four cousins hop on and off the black sleeper bus, bringing in snacks and pillows.

And paparazzi—they’re gone. Vanished. They trailed our families back to Philadelphia, and they probably believe we’re with them. But me, Jane, Sullivan, Beckett, Charlie, and six bodyguards are still in the Smoky Mountains.

It’s weird—not having a cameraman up in my face.

I keep thinking about that. And how I’m more used to their invasive presence than the unadulterated peace without them.

My family also decided to extend the hiatus for We Are Calloway. I called Jack Highland, an exec producer of the docuseries, and he agreed to push film dates until after the tour. So those cameras won’t be around for at least four months.

“Moffy?” Jane steps off the bus into the snow.

I heave another duffel into the bottom bay. “Bonjour, ma moitié.” My voice is tight. Because we haven’t talked without a peanut gallery—her brothers, my boyfriend, or any of the security team—in fucking forever.

And by forever, I mean days.

For us, that’s practically a century.

She nears. “Regarde-moi s’il te plaît.” Look at me, please.

I stand straighter and lift my gaze. Wind whips her tangled brown hair, and her outfit is classic Janie: furry pink boots, cat-stitched mittens (gifted by me years ago), a chunky zebra sweater, and a mint-green tutu over knit leggings.

Just seeing my best friend, my mouth aches to rise.

Jane touches her mittens to her rosy cheeks. “It’s just you and me, old chap, and a tour bus full of beautiful people. Friends and family.”

I start to smile. I can feel us finding footing in our friendship again. And I think we’re going to land upright. “You sure they’re beautiful?”

“You’re right. They’re dreadfully gorgeous.” A cheery smile overtakes her face, and we notice Quinn and Donnelly lingering by the rear wheels. Watching our exchange.

So Jane and I walk over to a curb that landscapes a skeletal tree. Grass probably hidden beneath snow. We’re out of earshot from the bus but still in view.

Jane ties her hair into a messy pony. “My little brothers keep calling this the Damage Control Tour

, but to me, it’s something entirely different. It’s the Preserve Jane and Moffy’s Friendship Tour, and I miss you…terribly.”

I pull Jane into a hug, and she immediately wraps her arms around my waist. This is home. This is safety and love.

She is my best goddamn friend, and I don’t want anything to ever come between us again. I kiss her cheek and whisper, “I missed you too, Janie, and we’re going to get through this.”

“Ensemble,” she whispers a Cobalt declaration in French. That means together.

Together.

We part, and she props her chin on her knuckles. “What’d I miss?”

A lot, but I start with the first thing that crashes against me. “I told Farrow I love him.”

Her hands touch her mouth, and her bright blue eyes only grow brighter. “You did? And what’d he reply?”

My smile overwhelms me for a second—just feeling her happiness for me. “He said that he loves me too.”

Janie shakes my arms, elated, and then we catch each other up. Apparently the younger girls—Audrey Cobalt, Winona Meadows, and my sister Kinney—protested about not being able to join the tour. They made a PowerPoint presentation, and when our parents said no, they locked themselves in a lake house bedroom.

“It was dramatic and passionate,” Jane finishes, “but they lost.”

“Good. We don’t need the youngest kids on the tour with us.”

“Je suis d’accord.” I agree. “The meet-and-greets are already very spontaneous,” she says, “and Beckett and Sulli aren’t as used to the spotlight as us. Having the teenagers here would be twice as chaotic.”