Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
As Donnelly leaves, he blows me a middle-finger kiss, and Oscar makes some remark about me being territorial. Quinn asks if I need anything, and Oscar sticks his head back in, just to mouth, my brother loves you. He bats his lashes.
I pop my gum and just tell Quinn, “Ibuprofen for Maximoff.”
Once they disperse, Beckett stays in the bathroom with Sulli in the doorway.
I train my focus on Maximoff. “I need to touch your nose and feel for a fracture.”
His joints lock up.
I’m not going to hurt you. I express that through my eyes, and then he nods. I lightly skim my thumb down the swollen bridge before pinching a little.
He shuts his eyes for a moment, the only sign of pain. “I’m fine,” he tries to assure me.
I concentrate on a centimeter of bone, adding almost no force as I run my finger back and forth. Shit. I drop my hand when I’m 100% certain.
“He’s prone to nosebleeds,” Beckett tells me. “This happened years back at that yacht party, and the bone didn’t break.”
Maximoff holds my gaze strongly, both of us remembering that moment. I was there. I stood on the yacht deck and saw him fight Charlie on the dock below.
He was nineteen.
I was twenty-four, on the very, very cusp of a career change from medicine to security. Even back then, I found myself investing my interest in Maximoff Hale.
I wanted to intervene on his behalf. Fuck, I would’ve loved to pull him out of that fight. But a silent Hale-Cobalt-Meadows declaration always hangs in the air: do not interject in familial arguments.
Even me, the maverick on the security team, hasn’t bent that rule out of shape, but to come to his aid, I’ve wanted to.
Many times.
Maximoff breaks eye contact and fixes a narrowed look on his cousin. “Thanks, Beckett,” he says dryly.
“I didn’t bring it up to be an asshole,” Beckett clarifies. “Farrow should know your medical history.”
Maximoff growls in frustration and tries to roll his head backwards.
I tighten my grip on his jaw, keeping him bent forward. “Don’t move.”
“Just tell me the diagnosis,” Maximoff says, still pinching his nose. “I need facial reconstructive surgery, right? A brain transplant tomorrow? Probably a full-body cast and a coffin fitting?”
I smile while chewing my gum. This guy, man. “You can keep going.”
He glowers. “I’m done.”
“That’s too bad,” I say seriously and slide off the counter, my chest brushing up against his chest. I keep hold of his jaw. “I love watching a Harvard Dropout self-diagnose a nosebleed as a full-body injury.”
He’d flip me off if he could.
My hand descends, and I rub the back of his neck. My other fingers hover by his wrist. “Bleeding looks like it’s slowed.” I draw his hand down so he stops pinching his nose. No blood dripping. That’s good.
“And?” he asks.
“No surgery, no X-rays. You only need ice and pain meds. It’s just a small break.” I’ve seen several minor nose fractures in the ER like his. I take the ice from Beckett. “Keep the ice across the bridge of your nose and be gentle. It’ll help with swelling.”
His shoulders loosen, relaxed at the news. I know what concerns him—and it’s not pain—it’s calling the concierge doctor, scheduling a surgery date, and derailing the meet-and-greet tour where fans, crew, and everyone on the bus are counting on him.
Maximoff splays the ice baggie across the bone, and I wash my hands in the sink.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” Sulli says again. “If you want to bail on the ultra marathon, I totally get it.”
Maximoff speaks for three full minutes, assuring Sulli that he can easily still run. The race isn’t soon either, and regardless, they won’t have that much time to train on tour.
Beckett sips his beer and watches me wipe my hands on a towel. Blue and yellow braided “friendship” bracelets are tied loose on his wrists. Identical to the ones on Sulli’s ankles.
He has a question for me. I can tell. “Ask,” I say and toss the towel on the counter.
“Is Maximoff your first relationship?”
“No.”
Maximoff extends his hand. “Beckett, let’s not go here, alright?”
Beckett turns on him. “Have you asked Farrow why his other relationships ended? Did he break up with them or was it the other way around? How many guys has he been in love with—”
“Man,” I cut him off, “no offense, but I’m not in a relationship with you. If Maximoff wants these answers, I’ll tell him, but I’m not holding a public forum.”
Beckett skims the length of me for the fifth time now. “Why not? You have something to hide?”
“Stop, Beck,” Maximoff warns.
Sulli wavers uneasily, disliking confrontation.
“I’m just looking out for you, Moffy,” Beckett says while zeroing in on me. As though I’m prey, but it’d take more than this kid’s skepticism to arch my back and reach for a figurative gun.