Maximoff checks his buzzing texts, but soon after, he slips his phone back into his pocket. “So today, I’ll have lunch at my place. You can settle in here, whatever you need to do, and I’ll go to my office in Center City about two. I’ll text you when I’m in the garage.”
“I need your number.”
His brows pinch. “We’ve never exchanged numbers?”
I chew slowly again. “We’ve never needed to, wolf scout.” When we were younger, I only saw him when I had to tag along my dad’s on-call appointments or the holidays the Hales invited us to. Labor Day cookouts, some birthdays. It’s not like Moffy and I were friends.
He was only fifteen when I was twenty. I was in college with friends my own age.
I tilt my head, watching him stare off into space. I wave my hand at Maximoff. “Did I lose you?”
He moves my hand away, mentally present, and then he reaches out. “Pass me your phone. I’ll put my number in your contacts.”
“Or you could just hand me yours.”
“No.”
I roll my eyes at the firm no, but I decide to just comply and give him my cell for now. It’s not an argument I need to win. “What about after your work ends?”
He types his number on my cell and hands it back. “Dinner plans are up in the air. I’ll let you know if I’m going to a restaurant.”
“Are you in for the night after dinner?”
Before answering, Maximoff pulls his damp shirt off his head and balls the fabric in a fist.
My brows hike at his sculpted body, broad swimmer shoulders, and lean torso that gleams with sweat. Photograph-worthy, a money-shot for paparazzi. Certain clients want money-shots “blocked” from cameramen. Some post money-shots on Instagram so they’re worthless for paparazzi to sell. Others don’t care.
His Rule #67: don’t worry about money-shots. It’s not important.
I eye the curvature of his long arms. “Is the gym a constant pit stop? Because your mom was a certified couch potato.” I used to spend my tiny free time at Studio 9 or passed-out asleep.
Maximoff rubs his damp forehead with his bicep. “The pool.”
“Just the pool?”
“Yep.”
I scratch my throat where my tattooed swords lie. “I can count eight places on your body that say you’re full of shit.” I casually point at his abs.
Maximoff scrutinizes me. “You look unimpressed.”
He’s used to people outwardly fawning. I begin to smile. “Because mine are better, wolf scout.”
He huffs, then glares and motions to me. “Take off your shirt and we’ll find out.”
I pop my gum. “I love a dare.” I pull my V-neck off my head and then toss my shirt on the mattress.
His gaze sweeps the black ink on my chest, ribs and abs—almost everywhere. My fair skin is a mosaic of skulls, crossbones, swords, rough swelling water and sailing ships. Colorful sparrows and swallows intersperse the gray scale pirate imagery.
I follow his eyes as they descend. All the way to the hem of my black pants.
Normally I’d think he was checking me out, but Maximoff has more ethical boundaries than a football field stacked on top of a tennis court stacked on top of a hockey rink. I bet he’d drive a sword through his heart before he broke his morality.
“Mine are better,” he retorts.
“We’re going to need an unbiased judge.”
Moffy glances at the door. “Janie isn’t home yet.”
“I said unbiased.”
“Find someone who doesn’t know me, and then we’ll talk.” He’s aware that’s impossible. Then he asks, “Is my list still in your back pocket?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll want to take it out and write this down.”
His list was thorough, but he definitely left out significant details concerning sex. I didn’t even see any mention of NDA’s on the paper, but he has to have those if he wants to fuck strangers and not have his underwear stolen.
I say, “I can memorize whatever you have to tell me.” I’ve already memorized his 132 rules in the car, and I briefly skimmed the eight pages. Steady hands, sharp mind—I graduated top of my class at medical school, which enraged half the faculty. I didn’t “look” the part. I heard “take out your piercings” and “cover your tattoos” daily.
And they nearly shit themselves when I got neck and hand tattoos my second year. Still, I graduated in the top one-percent.
Maximoff doesn’t prod me to grab a piece of paper. He barrels ahead. “At some point,” he says, “not tonight because I’m still digesting this new arrangement—”
“Relationship,” I correct, and his shoulders instantly lock. It definitely annoys the fuck out of him that we’re attached somehow.
He steps over my comment. “Soon I’ll go out to a nightclub, and I’ll find someone to fuck. It’s just about sex, NSA”—no strings attached—“a one-night stand, and I need you to remember this next part.”
“What?”
“You can’t tell me no.”
My nose flares, and my eyes roll in the slowest wave. “You can’t be serious?” His glare says he is. “Moffy—”
“Maximoff,” he corrects, which makes me shake my head and almost roll my eyes for the thousandth time. Everyone in his family and security uses his nickname. No one but the media and public stick solely to calling him Maximoff. I assume he’s lumping me in with tabloids to try and piss me off.
He motions to me. “For a guy who has such a great memory, you forget to call me by my full name a hell of a lot.”
“Maximoff,” I say with extra flair, and he flips me off with both hands. I barrel ahead with the real issue. “All security would tell you no if they sensed someone with ill-intent wanting to sleep with you. And I’d tell you be smarter than that.”
He’s a billionaire celebrity. Half the population either wants his money, fame, or dick. Most of the time, all three, and some are willing to cross lines for it. Someone could drug him. I could overhear shit-talk that he doesn’t hear.
The list is endless.
He considers my words for barely half a second. “You have to trust my instincts like Declan did.”
My gum is stale in my mouth. “I’ll trust your instincts until they fail you. How about that?”
“Fine. Because they won’t fail me.” He heads to the door and leaves my room.
5
MAXIMOFF HALE
ONE HAND ON THE WHE
EL, I drive towards a grocery store. I raise my phone to my lips with the other and speak into a notes app. “Laundry detergent, eggs, dish soap—”
“Lawndo egg soup,” the automated voice reads back.
Are you fucking kidding me? I glare at my phone.
Farrow’s amusement is palpable in the passenger seat. “Brake.”
“Dammit.” I slam on my brakes before I bulldoze into a white sedan. Two days of Farrow as my bodyguard and I’m already feeling the effects.
Scatterbrained.
Rattled.
Sexually tensed up.
I haven’t had sex in 48 hours. I masturbated in the shower this morning, and I tried so goddamn hard not to imagine him. Hot water pelted my squared shoulders, my head dipped forward while warmth doused my brown hair. My left hand was closed into a white-knuckled fist against the tiled wall. My right hand stroked my throbbing cock that stood at hard attention.
Begging for a release.
One fantasy plays on a loop, no matter how much I say off. Turn off. Farrow enters the shower right behind me. Fog steams the glass doors. Layering the stifling heat.
His commanding, assertive presence pushes up against my muscular back. Then his strong arm extends around my build, and his large palm encases my white-knuckled hand on the tiled wall.
He holds tight. Water cascading over the sharp planes and valleys of his muscles. My gaze travels along his inked skin. His soft lips skim the base of my neck. To my ear.
Where he whispers in the deepest, most gravelly voice he owns.
“Maximoff.” Farrow snaps his fingers at my face—shit.
I yank myself out of a fantasy. Coming to the present where I’m driving. Where I’m gripping my phone way too tightly in one hand. Where Farrow is staring at me like I’ve just flown to an unknown dimension. How did I even fall into that shower scene again?
I was just trying to remind myself to forget it. Forever.
Farrow opens his mouth, and before he asks where I mentally departed, I beat him to the punch.
“I was thinking about Janie.” What the fuck is wrong with me? Jane, really? I restrain the urge to cringe. She may be my best friend, but she’s also my cousin. Swiftly, I add, “You know, I’m on my way to see her.” At the grocery. That part is true. We do almost everything together.