Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

“Is Quinn with him?!” another shrieks.

“I will die if Quinn is in there!”

“Maybe he has Quinn’s number?!”

Of course I do.

I keep scrutinizing the diner, the people, but I talk to Maximoff. “I wouldn’t have even bet ten bucks on Quinn being the most famous bodyguard.” But it happened.

Girls are obsessed with him.

“Where do you think you rank?” Maximoff asks.

I meet his serious gaze. “I’m the least famous,” I say honestly. “Because I’m taken, remember?” He declared my relationship status to a FanCon panel, which reached the internet and the world. In result, Tumblr and Twitter lost interest in me. Not that I care.

I’m still the best damned bodyguard in the whole team.

Maximoff rubs his tensed shoulder. “Being the least famous bodyguard is like coming in first place. So you won.”

I stare harder at him. “Okay…but I wouldn’t mind being the most famous out of Omega.”

Maximoff quiets, thinking, and staring off into space.

My pulse starts racing. I can’t read him.

We haven’t talked about going public with our relationship. Something that’d spike my level of fame. But it’s a real, feasible option now. Especially since Omega lasted the tour without a major mistake. We proved we’re too experienced to let notoriety ruin our careers.

And I need to know where Maximoff’s head is at. “Maximoff—”

“It’ll be worse than this. By ten billion times, and it’ll bother you,” he refutes, straightening up. “All the screaming in your ear, the articles on shit you wouldn’t even expect, and the never-ending personal questions.”

He’s convinced himself that no one in their right mind would be fine with the invasiveness, but I’ve been around him and his family enough to understand what the hell I’d be sacrificing and signing up for.

I rest my arm on the table, my fingers close to his elbow. Can’t touch him in public. Can’t comfort him. Can’t love him loudly or proudly.

“That shit won’t bother me,” I say, “and if it does, the tradeoff is worth it.”

Maximoff knows the tradeoff is him. “I’m not worth it.”

“Yeah you are.” My eyes burn. I wake up every morning, and I’m more in love with him than the day before.

And I think, can I do this for another year, two years, three? The answer isn’t just yes. I can picture us together for longer, stronger, and I’ve never seen that far ahead. Yet, I’m now in a position I’ve never been in before.

I’m sitting on the other side. Wondering what his answer is to the same question. Can he see us another year, two years, three? Longer, stronger? I’m a guy with almost no fears, but there is one change I’m terrified to face.

I’m terrified of losing him.

I just sit here and wait, my pulse drumming in my ears. I remember this is his first relationship, and I’m actually afraid to scare him off. I want to go public, but I can’t pressure him. He just needs to know where I stand.

I’m doing that now.

The rest is up to him.

Maximoff swishes his hot tea, thinking. “I can’t do this to you, Farrow.”

“I’m asking you to,” I say.

He instinctively shakes his head. “I can’t…once we cross that line, there’s no going back. Your life is forever fucked—”

“Or it’s better.” My fingers almost brush his elbow.

He sets a hand on the back of his neck. “Or it’s not.”

My heart rate is at an all-time high.

Maximoff looks resolute. “I can’t knowingly do this to you.” He’ll keep returning to this point. No matter what, and I understand. He was upfront with me at the jumpstart—about not ever wanting a public relationship, not wanting to subject his significant other to the media—and he’s too stubborn to change his mind.

It’s my fault for falling this hard for him.

“Okay.” My stomach sinks. “It’s okay.”

Maximoff crumples a napkin and eyes me more intensely than I’m eyeing him. “By your expression, I feel like I fucked up somewhere.”

My brows ratchet up. “What’s my expression?”

“You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” I say indifferently. I run my tongue over the inside of my lip piercing, and just nod slowly. Okay, I may be nervous. But I’m not upset.

What do I say: Maximoff, you know how you were the one nervous about this being your first relationship? Yeah, well, now I’m the nervous one. Cheers.

I don’t say that.

I don’t even say that I’m disappointed. He’d feel guilty, and I don’t want to guilt him into going public. It has to be his choice.

Instead, I land on this, “I promise I’ll be happy with how things are now. All I want is you, wolf scout, and in this scenario, I have you.”

It’s the truth.

Before he can reply, waitresses start singing loudly, “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” And the whole diner joins.

I crane my neck over my shoulder. With five waitresses in tow, Ava carries my bagel sandwich, lit candles stuck in the bread.

My chest swells because I know…Maximoff did that.

With the napkin note.

I fucking love breakfast more than cake. And this gesture crashes into my body. Hard. Shit, I’m really, really in love.

I turn back to him.

Maximoff finishes singing the song with the diner, and his eyes just melt against mine. How no one else can see the affection, I don’t know. It seems overpoweringly clear to me.

I’m choked up for a second. After all that we’ve been through on tour, coming back to Philly and having my boyfriend do this is priceless.

Ava sets the birthday candle bagel in front of me.

Maximoff leans forward. Almost like he could go in for a kiss. I smile, even though he stops. And my smile stretches as he tells me, “Make a wish.”

At the moment, I only wish for two things: a public relationship and the stalker to be found.

Between the two, it’s an easy choice which to pick. There’s no real contest. No hesitation. I blow out the candles.

Hoping to catch this motherfucker. Once and for all.

“Ten, nine, eight…” Maximoff counts down to midnight on his watch. Back in his attic bedroom, I hover over his build on the mattress. Sweat built on our

skin, our hair damp. We’re down to pants and boxer-briefs. My hands are planted on either side of his broad shoulders.

Fuck, I’ve never been more ready for my birthday to end—and then I tense. A sharp noise rakes the window. I sit up off Maximoff.

“Farrow.” He props himself on his elbows.

My gut says, it’s a tree branch, Farrow. Calm the fuck down. I am calm as I climb off him and the bed to check his only windowpane. I have to know for sure.

Maximoff glances at his watch. “Now it’s April 5th. It’s over, man.”

“It’s not over until the stalker is caught,” I say and fling the curtain.

A twig scrapes the glass with another gust of wind. My shoulders slacken. Paparazzi are in sight of the old townhouse, lingering on the street curb below. I shut the curtain before they see me.

Exhaustion tries to draw me back to bed. But I rest on the edge of the windowsill. I cross my arms casually, but fuck, I wish that’d been the stalker. Then I could’ve chased and tackled that dipshit.

Before I even look up at Maximoff, my phone rings in my pocket. Caller ID: Acelighter (Tech)

Tech Team.

I put the phone to my ear. “Farrow,” I answer and listen to them update me on the stalker. I frown. “Are you sure?”

Maximoff stands, coming closer. I mouth, tech team to him. He nods, and I thank the team and hang up.

“Your ex-swimmer friend, Jason Motlic,” I explain. “Apparently, he left Philly. He’s now in San Diego.” If the stalker lives in Philly, it makes little sense why they’d leave once Maximoff just returned.

Maximoff digests this news. “He’s probably not the stalker.”

“Probably not,” I agree. Crossing off Jason means that I only have two top suspects left. Vincent Webber, the asshole one-night stand who talked shit about Maximoff on social media.

And my father.

42

FARROW KEENE

“Get the fuck outta Philly!”

That heckle originates from the south end of the smoky billiards and darts bar, too packed to distinguish faces. But from the gawking and middle fingers slung in our direction, I see clearly who’s being heckled.