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I’ll take your advice and not sell. Keep the 30% in my Roth IRA and the additional 20% we spoke about in mutual funds. I ? —

The preview ends, and no matter how much clicking I do, I can’t get in without the password.

What in the fresh hell?

Does this guy have the wrong email address? What would Maverick have to do with mutual funds and IRA accounts? I don’t even know what exactly those are. I mean, I do, but not much. I’ve heard of them, though.

A clattering sound echoes down the hall.

Jerking up, I close the laptop. “Maverick? Are you okay?”

My voice carries down the hallway before I follow, placing my hand on the door handle. A million questions race through my head—ones like: What if he’s fine and just rolled off the bed? What if he sleepwalked into the nightstand? Will he be upset if I go into his room?

I’ve never gone into his room. It’s like willingly walking into the abyss. I don’t know what’s behind that door, but I know it won’t be good for me if I cross the threshold.

But what if he’s hurt?

He didn’t look good.

“Maverick? Just yell that you’re fucking fine, and I’ll leave you alone.”

I add the word fucking because that’s how he would say it. Not that he was fine but that he was fucking fine and to go away. I’m being realistic here.

“Ains—” My name sounds strained from behind the door and much like come in and check on me . Don’t you think?

Twisting the knob, I ease it open. “Maverick,” I warn. “I just want to check—Oh my God!”

I sprint to Maverick’s side, finding him on the floor, half propped up against the footboard of his bed. His face is ghostly white and sweat soaks his clothes.

“I’m fine.” He tries to wave me off, but he can’t even lift his hand.

“Sure, and I’m a supermodel,” I agree, lifting my hand and placing it on his forehead. “You’re not running a fever. What’s wrong?” This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. “Should I call an ambulance?”

He grunts out a firm, “No.”

I should have known. “Tell me how to help you,” I plead. I’m scared he might die right in front of me .

He shifts and casts me a worried look.

I glare. “Now is not the time to worry about your fucking image! I won’t say anything, I swear. Please let me help you.”

Maverick’s eyes close, and I put my hand in his. I’m just about to shake him when he says, “Breathe with me.”

“What?”

His face pinches. “I need to hold my breath, but I need you to count the beats, so I know when to stop.”

He places his hand on his chest.

“Is it your heart?” I ask, more afraid than I was thirty seconds ago when I thought he had a cold or something.

“Please stop asking questions.” He groans.

“Fine,” I agree, willing to do anything at this point to help. “Do you need me to just breathe normally? You don’t want me to do the pregnant-labor-y type breathing?”

For just a moment, he tries to be the Maverick I know. “Do you know how to do ‘labor-y’ breathing?”

“Well, no, but I could look it up if that’s what you need.”

The internet has everything.

His slow head shake is pitiful. “No. It isn’t what I need, but I appreciate your willingness to do what it takes.” It’s not a thank you for helping or talking or getting in his way, but it is an acknowledgment. He appreciates me and loathes asking for my help.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath, not for his sake but for mine. I need one relaxing breath before I start. “Ready?” I ask him.

I don’t wait for his nod. I’m already pulling in a breath and exhaling, hoping I’m doing it at the pace I normally would and not faster since I’m nervous.

Maverick watches me for a few seconds, and then I see his chest rising with mine, but it’s too fast. He can’t pace his breathing with mine.

“I need to hold my breath,” he grates out. “Count for me?”

I nod hesitantly. “Maybe we should go to the hospital instead?”

“No. ”

Okay, so he’s going to die on the floor. Check.

“What do I need to count to?”

His chest is rising and falling rapidly. “Ten.”

I can do that.

I start counting and watch in horror as Mav holds his breath, clenching his fist as if he’s bearing down. Finally, he lets go and exhales a burst of air. “I can’t get it to convert.”

For the first time since knowing Maverick, he looks afraid.

“I don’t know what you mean about converting,” I add, “but I think we need to call for help, Mav.”

“Don’t call me that,” he barks between short pants.

I scrunch my nose. “Why?”

He manages, “Only my friends call me Mav.”

I almost smile. We are friends. He can fight it all he wants, but friends don’t let friends lose a game of Millionaire.

“Okay. I’ll rephrase. I think we need to call for help, Dummy .”

In the midst of dying, he manages to roll his eyes before his head falls back against the footboard. “We can’t call anyone.”

“Why?” I mean, what the hell? “The apartment is clean, and I can stash whatever you want to hide in my room. Please let me call someone.” I want to add dummy again onto the end of my plea, but I refrain. I am serious—this is serious. We need help.

“I’ll go to the hospital if you will take me,” he says with horror-stricken eyes like he can’t believe he suggested such a thing. “Just you, though. You can’t tell anyone.”

Of course. Whatever. “I’ll take the fact that you do actually have a heart to the grave,” I return, crossing my heart.

I stand to get my bag and keys. “But, Mav . . .” I don’t care that he doesn’t want me to call him that. I don’t have time to say his whole name.

His eyes are heavy, and he looks exhausted. “Yeah?”

“You promise you aren’t going to die on me?”

He’s still shaking, but he stares at me, locking eyes. “I promise I won’t die on you.”

With that, I race off and grab my keys and bag, snagging a pair of Mav’s sweats that ended up in my laundry—fine, I stole them—and one of my larger T-shirts, shoving them in my bag. When I get back to Mav, he’s standing, looking like a sick mess.

“Lean on me,” I tell him, wedging myself under his arm.

He looks at me like he’d rather fall down the steps and die before using me for help, but I grab his arm anyway and force him forward.

He eventually goes with it, and it’s not that terrible.

We hustle as much as one dying man can hustle, taking the steps excruciatingly slow until we reach the bottom and my car.

I open the door to the passenger side. “Get in,” I order him.

The frown I’m used to seeing makes its appearance.

He doesn’t move.

“Fine.” I put my hands up. “Be a stubborn ass.”

I trot around the front end of the car and watch as Mr. I-don’t-need-your-help slams his door shut and opens it back up himself.

I smile. He’s so ridiculous.

When he’s finally in and settled, I speed off to the nearest hospital, trying to ignore his shitty remarks.

“I would have been better off dying in the apartment. At least then, my family would have a body to bury. The way you’re driving, and your history with fire, we’re sure to end up a pile of ash. ”

“You were better off calling an ambulance about an hour ago, smartass. Why did you wait so long?”

He doesn’t look so smug now. “I can usually convert the rhythm on my own.”

I glance over, catching his sweat-soaked face still strained.

“This happens a lot?” I ask.

“Occasionally.”

He would never admit exactly how often.

“Do you take medicine for it?” Clearly, he knows what he’s supposed to do when this happens.

“No.”

“Why not? Do they not have medicine to treat”—I wave my hand between us—“whatever this is? ”

“I treat it conservatively.”

My eyes narrow in his direction.

He mimics me but adds, “I should have put you up in a hotel. What was I thinking?”

He was thinking I was pretty fucking awesome, and he would eventually need my help.

“All right, Maverick. We’re going to stop your heart for just a moment. You might feel a little weird, but everything is going to be fine.”

Okay, so maybe I’m not much help to him. I might pass out.

When we arrived at the hospital, Maverick was rushed into a room, his shirt cut from his body, and wires upon wires were stuck to his beautiful chest. I followed along in a daze, not sure what I was supposed to do.

“Can we try the techniques again?” Maverick asks. His voice shakes with exhaustion.

They’ve been doing different things like asking him to blow on his thumb and bear down, but nothing has worked.

His heart is still beating too fast. The doctor called it supraventricular tachycardia.

I don’t know precisely what all that means other than a spelling nightmare, but I gather it’s a faster than normal heart rate for us non-medical people.

“How long has he been this way?” The doctor who seems to know Maverick looks at me.

“You’re asking me?”

He nods, pointing at Maverick. “This one only gives me half the truth.”

I want to grin so bad. He nailed Maverick perfectly. But instead, I cast a wary look at Mav. He’s where my loyalty lies. He’s my genie in the apartment and . . . my friend .

The corner of his lip twitches and his eyes beg me to keep quiet. “I can’t lie,” I whisper. “This is your life we’re talking about.”

His eyes squeeze shut. Maybe they shut from acceptance or maybe they shut because he’s plotting my death. The world may never know.

“At least half an hour,” I answer the doc.

He frowns, nodding simultaneously. “I’m sorry, Maverick. It’s been too long.”

Maverick doesn’t answer him. No one does. Instead, the doctor starts calling out orders, and everyone moves, including me. I edge closer to the door as the nurse draws up the medication. I’m not sure if Maverick wants me in here, especially since I ratted him out to the doctor.

Maybe I should wait in the lobby. I think that’s a good idea.

“Ains.” Maverick’s raspy voice stops me.

I turn, expecting him to pull a card from his pocket. “Yeah?”

He twists his head away, and I almost think he didn’t mean to call me, when I see his hand. Outstretched from the mattress, his palm lies face up, inviting me to him.

Of course, I go.

When my genie needs me, I’m going to be there for him like he was for me.

Interlocking our fingers, he turns his face, holding my gaze. And then, I hang on, gripping the hand of the man who pretends not to be my friend until his heart stops.