Page 99 of Alphas Like Us

“Who said I was a shit piano player?” he combats. “Maybe I’m the best there ever was, the goddamn best piano player of all pianoplayers.”

My brows rise. “You’re definitely the most conceited pianist.” Every time I saypianist, he grimaces a littlebit.

He nears me while I rest my knee on the velveteen bench. He skims my hands that hover above thekeys.

“So you can’t play either,” Maximoff concludes since I’m prolonging this and he’s impatient ashell.

“And you just admitted that you can’t play,” I point out and sweep him in a slow-burning once-over.

He’s trying fucking hard not to smile. He licks his lips, eyeing my mouth. “I didn’t saythat.”

“I love when you pretend to have amnesia.” I smile as he breathes out heavily in agitation, just wanting me to hurry this shit up. But I could bask in this moment for hours onend.

“Farrow,” hestarts.

I bang on the keys harshly. Shrill chords jumble and pitch the air. I watch his smile take shape like he beatme.

“You like that?” I askhuskily.

His forest-greens pour through my brown eyes with so manyyeses, and I’m tempted to drawcloser—

“Farrow.”

That’s notMaximoff.

With no urgency, I retract my hands from the piano, the room deadening. Maximoff rigidly faces my father, and I glance over at the oldman.

He stuffs his hands into khaki slacks, sporting a warm smile. His brown hair is tied back in a small pony, graying at his temples, and his forehead is lined withage.

Part of me almost wishes I could be a resentful bastard. Rub salt in his wounds before I give him what he’s wanted for so long, but I’ve never really enjoyed being needlessly bitter. That shit just isn’t for me, and if I can help it, I try not tobe.

His eyes flit to the welt on my cheekbone. The one that Thatcher gifted me. My father doesn’t say anything about it, and I bet he’s assuming it’s from the hazards of securitywork.

“Let’s talk on the patio,” he suggests. “I’ll grab a fewcigars—”

“No, we aren’t going to be long.” I drop my boot to the ground. My father contributes a lot of money to Philadelphia General, and they’ll easily let me restart my residency where I left off, so I’m not going to ask him to pull strings when my last name alreadywill.

Nepotism. It’sreal.

My father glances at Maximoff and hones in on his bandaged shoulder. “How’s thathealing?”

“It’s alright,” Maximoff says, not intimidated. By anyone. He keeps eye contact until my father has to lookaway.

I’m about to speak, and then my father tells me, “If this is about Rowin, I hired him onto the med team because I’ve built trust with him. In thanks because ofyou—”

“Stop.” I shut my eyes for a long, annoyed beat. “Don’t tell methat.”

“Then tell me why you’re here,” he says, cordial. Non-confrontational. He ambles to the kitchen bar and yanks open the fridge. Maximoff and I follow so we won’t have to shout across the hugeroom.

I rest my sole on the rung of a barstool. “I came by to tell you that I’m finishing myresidency.”

My father pours a glass of ice water for my boyfriend. Digesting my words slowly like he didn’t hear me well. He scrutinizes my earpiece and mic to myradio.

“This is my last week of security. I’m going back after that,” I explain. “I don’t need anything from you right now, but I’m doing this because I want to be a conciergedoctor—”

“You will be.” His face brightens like I’ve given him all he needs to die a happy fuckingman.

He never asks why I’ve had a sudden change of heart. I didn’t expect thewhyto be important to him, and that’s perfectly fine by me. He makes it easier to stay at adistance.