Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

Connor looks marginally impressed. Which is more than he gives most people. He nods repeatedly. “This’ll allow you to text Farrow without fear of a public hack.”

Sudden mention of my boyfriend/bodyguard heavies the air. “Yeah. It’s an added benefit.” I start to unconsciously smile when I imagine us texting like we’re together, for real.

I’ve never had that before.

Connor reads my features. “You like him.”

“I love him,” I correct.

Ryke scratches his unshaven jaw.

“Say it,” I tell him.

“Look, we hired these fucking bodyguards. All of our kids trust them. You lower your guard around them, and it feels fucking wrong for security to take advantage of your vulnerability—”

“I’m an adult,” I remind him for the millionth time. “It was my choice, and it wasn’t fucking easy for me.” I can’t lie to my uncle and say that trust wasn’t a factor. Inherently, I need to trust someone before I can be completely myself with them, and I trusted Farrow. But I also knew him before he was a bodyguard.

Ryke digests this. Silent.

“If you’re worried about your daughters or the little kids with security,” I say, “you don’t have to be. The team is professional, and all they want is to keep everyone safe. You all know that.”

“I do,” Connor says like Uncle Ryke is being dumb.

Ryke rolls his eyes.

My dad watches me, but he stays quiet. I can’t tell where his head is at regarding Farrow, and maybe he’s not even sure.

I feel the need to defend my relationship. “I know you want me to be in an uncomplicated relationship,” I tell my dad. “Some guy or girl I met in a coffee shop or at some damn comic book convention, but that was never going to happen.”

My dad twists his wedding ring.

I solidify.

Then I try to straighten up, water lapping the ledge of the hot tub.

I follow his gaze that drifts down the ridge. Someone bundled in gray faux fur hikes towards the hut, and as my dad relaxes more and more, I know it can only be one person.

I climb out of the water. Cold bites every inch of exposed flesh. I shiver and quickly put on my pants, shirt, jacket—the works. I bet they know what I’m about to do. No one protests as I leave and run down the slope, snow past my calves.

I skid on a patch of ice but keep my balance. Wind slaps my face, and right as I round one corner, I startle the gangly, fur-clad figure.

“OhmyGod!” she shrieks, wide-eyed, and then catches her breath as she realizes it’s just me.

“Hey, Mom.” I lean down and wrap my arms around her bony shoulders, hugging her tight. “I’m sorry.”

“Nonono,” she says rapidly and pushes my chest.

I back up, lungs cemented in my throat.

Tears just stream down her round cheeks. “Why are you apologizing?” Her voice cracks.

I yelled at you. I hurt you. “Mom—”

“I had a whole I’m sorry speech planned.” Her chin quivers. “I wronged you.” She jabs a finger at my heart, but the longer I look into her glassy green eyes, the more fragile she seems—the more my resentment just depletes.

“I forgive you—”

“You can’t,” she cries but hurriedly wipes at her tears.

“I just did.” My chest is on fire again.

“Well, you shouldn’t.” She hiccups and then lowers her fur hood to shield her splotchy, reddened face from me. “Ihavetogo,” she mutters.

“Mom.” I catch her hand. “I love you, you know that.” With every word, I do more harm than good. I’m fighting for the right thing to say and do.

She rubs her face with her forearm. “I love you too…I’m so sorry. I’m doing this all wrong again.” She releases her grip, then treks further up the ridge and embraces my dad.

I turn my head.

Last night, the tour seemed like an okay idea—complicated, fucking risky—but in this moment, I love the whole concept.

Because I feel like I should be anywhere but here.

6

FARROW KEENE

“Price to security team, everyone stay out of the study,” the Alpha lead orders through comms, the lake house abruptly packed with all three famous families. While Maximoff is outside with his parents and uncles, I hit the basement gym.

Four bodyguards from Security Force Alpha are working out, all of which I ignore. Because I hate side-eyes just as much as I hate cliques. And they’re side-eyeing the fuck out of me since I broke their golden rule about sleeping with a client.

Akara is the only one from Omega here, and while I do my twentieth pull-up, sweat suctioning my black shirt to my abs, he kicks a boxing bag in quick spurts.

“What’s happenin’ in the study?” Donnelly asks through comms.

Price’s voice booms in my earpiece. “Jane and her mom are talking.”

On the weight bench, an older bodyguard says, “I heard them crying.” And then he side-eyes me again.

I make eye contact, and he diverts his gaze and grumbles something under his breath. That’s what I thought. I grit down and lift my chin above the bar, ankles crossed.

Akara kicks the bag hard. “I looked at the Instagram account you sent me.”

I drop and take off my hand wraps. See, typically I wouldn’t even bring this to a lead of any Force, but the @maximoffdeadhale account is still active, and the user posted another photoshopped picture about a half hour ago.

This time, Maximoff is falling off the side of a mountain.

Akara wipes sweat off his brow with his bicep. “It’s a troll account.”

“That’s what I thought.” I pop the cap off my water bottle. “But no tabloid has run a story about the Hales heading to their mountain lake house, so why would the user post a picture where he’s falling off the side of one?”

Akara snaps his finger to his palm. “Coincidence.”

“There’s a chance the user could know Maximoff personally.” I swig my water, and my gaze narrows as Akara gives me a pitying look. “It has nothing to do with him being my boyfriend. I’m still his bodyguard, and as his bodyguard, this shit isn’t flying with me.”

Akara picks up his towel. “I’ll send in a request for our tech team to trace the IP address. Until then, don’t check that account.” His voice is strict. “That’s not friendly advice; that’s an order.”

I roll my eyes. “Aye aye, captain.” My phone rings in the pocket of my track pants. Caller ID: Kinney Hale. Maximoff’s thirteen-year-old sister almost never calls me. I answer, “Hey?”

“We need you now. Don’t tell anyone. Hall bathroom near the kitchen. Be fast or die.” She hangs up.

I kick the bathroom door closed, and Kinney bombards me, green eyes shadowed in heavy black liner, dressed in knee-high socks, a black skirt and top, and a choker necklace. She puffs out her chest, but her bony build makes her appear comically tiny.

“We have problems,” she snaps.

I raise my brows. “No shit.”

“Real problems, you turd.” She crosses her lanky arms. “You need to drive us somewhere.”

“No,” I say and unpeel a piece of gum. Stepping past Kinney, I discover the “we” here.

By the toilet, Luna runs in place and then shimmies her arms and hips. I’m positive she’s dancing to no music, and if I should question the weirdness in that act, I don’t.

Kinney confronts me head-on. “We’re your boyfriend’s siblings.”

I pop my gum and notice Xander lounging in a claw-foot tub.

He pulls his bulky red headphones to the collar of his Winter is Coming shirt. “Save your breath, Kinney. He doesn’t give a damn—”

“Wow.” I slowly chew. “You really believe I don’t care when I’m here, entertaining a fragmented phone call that said absolutely nothing.”

He slumps further down the tub and lifts his headphones to his ears. “I think you’d rather bang my brother.”

My jaw muscle t

ics, but I lean casually on the granite counter. I didn’t imagine that dating Maximoff would affect his relationship with his brother, and I’m not happy about this at all.

“He didn’t mean it,” Luna says, panting as she runs in place.

Xander tugs down his headphones again. “Yeah, I did.”

I unpocket my phone to text Maximoff. “Your brother’s been trying to get ahold of you.”

Xander sits up, elbows on the lip of the tub. “He could’ve convinced someone to keep Thatcher on my security detail, but no, he wanted to fuck his bodyguard, and now I lost mine so you two could have a stupid chaperone.”

He’s fourteen-going-on-fifteen. He’s upset. I’m not about to tear into the kid, but I’m fucking irritated that he keeps referring to me as his brother’s fuck-buddy.

I loosely cross my arms. “If you think your brother would risk everything just to ‘fuck his bodyguard’—” I use air quotes “—then you don’t know him that well.”

His gaze hits the floor.

“Man, if Maximoff or I had the power to return Thatcher Moretti to you, we would in a fucking heartbeat. I want him around me like I want gangrene and a root canal.”

I recognize that Thatcher voted for me to remain Maximoff’s bodyguard, but I can’t even feign obedience. I’m not accustomed to being indebted to anyone either. I’d rather buy him a bottle of booze and call it even, but knowing Thatcher, he’ll want my firstborn and my coronary artery.