“Maximoff—”
He steals the phone out of my hand. Basically, I let him have it. I’m not here to cultivate secrets and lies between us. Do I wish he wouldn’t have to see that account? Yeah.
Will I willfully keep him in the dark? Never.
Maximoff swipes out of the lock screen, and the @maximoffdeadhale Instagram account is already popped up. Almost instantly, his head swerves to me. “It’s a fucking troll account.” He tosses the phone on my lap. “It’s not a big deal.”
I cock my head, watching him smash the pillow again to lie back down. “You just saw visual depictions of your death, created by someone out in the world, and you feel fine?”
He yawns into his bicep and then clutches my gaze. “I get death threats every damn week. They’ve never been serious.”
“Someone took the time to photoshop your head off your body, and that doesn’t seem serious?” I honestly wonder if he hears himself. When I was his mom’s bodyguard, I saw plenty of fucked-up graphics.
Like pie charts poorly estimating Lily’s sex partners, her head photoshopped on rabbits, slut typed a hundred times on her face—but not her being murdered.
Not like this.
Maximoff brushes a hand through his disheveled hair. “Sounds like a normal Sunday through Saturday to me.”
I nod a couple times. “At least now we know you’re desensitized to your own death.”
Maximoff rubs his jaw. “Maybe I am, but you don’t need to worry about troll accounts and my plausible death with no sleep at whatever a.m.”
“It’s my job,” I remind him. I deal with this so he doesn’t have to. “I’m flagging this fucking account to be taken down.” And that’ll be the end of that. My gut instinct says differently, but I let it go for now.
Just as I report the account, an aggressive knock raps the door.
Maximoff slides off the bed at the exact same time as me. The knock practically electrocuted him into action. We exchange a look that says, I’m answering the door. Stay back.
He’s too stubborn to listen, and I love seeing him try to catch up to me too much to let him go ahead.
We bolt to the door and race to be the first. I’m already out in front. “I thought you planned to sleep,” I say, about to grab the doorknob.
His arm bangs into mine, but I clutch the knob first, smile widening.
Maximoff barely steps back, squeezing his build against my build. “I thought I told you that I open my own doors.”
“Number 52 on your list of rules. I remember.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “I remember everything…but see, this is our door.”
His forest-greens drop to my mouth and my lip piercing. He also layers on a half-hearted glare. “Pretty sure for my things to become your things, we’d need a legal binding agreement.”
Shock ratchets up my brows. “Marriage?”
“No,” he says definitively, shutting that down.
I roll my eyes. I know he’s exaggerating his point, but he’s more defensive than usual. “Technically, you don’t own the lake house,” I tell him. “So it’s not even your door.”
Maximoff groans and sends a daggered glare to the ceiling.
“Was that glare meant for me or the light fixtures?”
“The lights,” he says. “This is for you.” He gives me a middle finger.
I laugh a short laugh, and just as he tries to reach for the knob, I turn it and swing the door open.
Oscar Oliveira stands on the other side, brown hair curly and damp like he just showered. He steadies a cream cheese bagel near his mouth.
Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, Maximoff looks ready for hell and back. His resolve is fucking sexy.
I tell Oscar, “I didn’t sign up for the Oscar Oliveira Wake Up Call.” I lean on the door frame.
Oscar’s eyes drift from me to Maximoff, who stands rigid only one-foot away in boxer-briefs. His muscles are front-page-worthy, his defined V-line disappearing beneath his waistband. His lips are a little reddened from earlier, and his usually combed hair is wild and unkempt.
Mine isn’t much different. I smooth my hair back with two hands.
Oscar fastens his gaze on me, not able to restrain a smile. “It’s almost growing on me. You two…together.” He bites into his bagel. “Though I didn’t realize you like them young, Redford—”
“You don’t realize a lot of things, Oliveira,” I cut him off, “still, we try not to hold it against you.”
He laughs into another bite.
Maximoff stands sturdy, layering on authority like he’s commanding a boardroom. “I’m not young or naïve,” he says, his firm tone instantly quieting Oscar. “And if you’re here just to shoot the shit, tell me. Because I could be sleeping.”
Okay, that was hot.
Oscar wipes cream cheese off the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “I’m here as a courtesy.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Oscar licks his thumb, but his expression is more serious. “Lily and Lo just got here.” He looks at Maximoff. “Your parents said they’d wait until you woke up to talk, but I thought you’d appreciate an extra warning.”
“Thank you,” he says, grabbing his jeans from the floor.
“No problem.” Oscar flashes a wince at me. “Boyfriend’s parents are already pissed at you, Redford. I don’t envy your position.”
I’d say parents love me, but I’m not a liar or a kiss ass. And I’m painfully certain that I’ve fallen onto Loren Hale’s permanent shit list.
5
MAXIMOFF HALE
Whatever I planned to say, whatever I thought I’d feel—it all just disappears when I see my dad. He paces from the living room fireplace to the window. Pauses. His hand balls in a fist. He glances towards the kitchen.
Looking. And longing for something.
Not someone.
I’ve seen that craving before. A look that screams, just one drink. For as long as I’ve been alive, he’s never fed that demon. Never sipped alcohol.
Never broke sobriety.
But he’s looking again.
I stand on the second floor balcony that oversees the living room with vaulted ceilings and skyscraping windows. Sunlight pierces leather furniture and wooden floors, and outside, snow dumps hard in the cold morning.
I can’t help but think about everything I unloaded on him at the Charity Camp-Away. When he didn’t believe me about the rumor, I yelled at him in a way that I never do. I showed my disappointment. I iced him out.
Wounds are still open. Freshly cut. And what if I pushed him? What if I caused him hurt so deep that he’d want to numb it with whiskey?
My chest is on fire.
I death-grip my phone, and I loosen my clutch at the sight of a rugged and brooding Ryke Meadows. My dad’s half-brother who’s one year older.
Any anger I had at Ryke’s reaction towards my boyfriend—it takes a backburner right now. I’m glad my uncle is here in case my dad needs him.
Connor Cobalt saunters confidently past the leather couch to reach my dad and Ryke. I didn?
?t think my uncles would join my parents at the lake house, but as they place a hand on my dad’s shoulder and speak toughly but calmly—I realize they’re here for him.
They’re his support. And my dad isn’t okay.
“Moffy,” Connor says and angles his body towards the balcony. All their eyes meet mine.
Spotted.
My dad rubs the back of his neck. His cheekbones as sharp as ice, and brows pinched in a multitude of tangled emotions. “Can we talk?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
We all agree to take a short hike to the hot tub. Apparently the blizzard is moving east, so we just have to deal with five inches of snow and counting.
After putting on winter gear, the four of us trek up a snowy ridge. Weaving through skeletal maple trees. Ryke and I gain a good amount of distance on my dad and Connor. Both out of earshot.
So I ask him, “Did he relapse?” I should’ve kept my phone on. I should’ve talked to my dad. I should’ve called him and not acted like a fucking punk—
“No,” Ryke says, our gazes attached for a painful second.
“He almost did,” I infer, my breath smoking the air. Guilt crushes my ribs.
“It’s not your fucking fault,” he tells me. “Your dad would never put this on you.” I feel his narrowed gaze, but I just stare straight ahead.
I lick my chapped lips. “I keep thinking about what happens if I accidentally break my dad down. I keep thinking of how it’ll tear apart my mom, my sisters—God, Xander…”
“Stop here.” Ryke clutches my arm. And he means to literally stop. Fir trees flank a log hut, visible on the ridge’s highpoint. The hut covers an eight-person hot tub.
My dad and Connor reach our spot on the trail.
“Everything okay?” Connor asks us.
“Go ahead.” Ryke motions to the hot tub. “We’ll catch up in a fucking second.”
I can’t even look at my dad, but I sense them nodding in agreement. When they leave, Ryke faces me.
I pull up the hood to my green Patagonia jacket. He wears a similar style but a darker shade of green. Right now, I don’t give a fuck. The media isn’t around to write up articles about our similarities, but even if they were, I don’t care anymore. Compared to what else is on my plate, it’s insignificant.
I don’t care if you know how much I love him.