Page 147 of Lovers Like Us

It’s a bigdeal.

Jane hasn’t really held his hand in front of cameramen since before the Camp-Away. Paparazzi don’t adjust their cameras and fixate on theirfriendship.

Good.The media dropped the rumor, paparazzi followed suit since it’s not profitable, and slowly, the public is gettingthere.

I don’t give a shit what any “fans” think or what tabloids print. What’s most important to me: Maximoff and Jane salvaging theirfriendship.

In the masses, Thatcher shields Jane from lenses and hands. We create a small but effectivebarrier.

Paparazzi have congested the path from our parked tour bus to the venue. We considered dropping the famous ones at the entrance, but fans would just rock the car. And paparazzi shouldn’t even behere.

See, we’re in Salt Lake City, miles and miles away from the disaster zone that was L.A.—but as soon as we left, paparazzi rode our asses down the highway. Basically eating ourexhaust.

“Thatcher, have you ever consideredmodeling?!”

“How tall are you,Thatcher?!”

He towers above the frenzied crowd, but I’m staring at the back of his head. Still, I know he ignores them. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Like hell he’d breakprotocol.

“Farrow—” A hand grabs my arm and tries to tug, but my reflexes kick in. I seize his wrist and twist. He jerks back, and another cameraman attempts to rush forward in thespace.

I shove him. So forceful he trips backwards into another body. Like an unstable cluster of bowling pins, I watch a thirty-something guy go down. His Canon crushes underneath hisass.

“I’m going tosue!”

Sure. Tryme.

At the commotion, Maximoff glances back at me. Jane pushes forward, trying to tug him along. Their hands break, and an unintentional gap forms betweenthem.

“Walk, Maximoff,” I say in a deep voice, my hand on his broad shoulder. I’m not standing out here and mediating this shit. And we’re not holding a press conference in a parkinglot.

A camera lens almost whacks against my jaw. I dodge the blow, but Maximoff looksmurderous.

“Give him space,” hegrowls.

“Walk,” I say sternly, more concerned about Maximoff reaching the venuesafely.

The empty space between him and Jane is already too wide. People start creeping in, and if he doesn’t reconnect with Jane fast, then I need to walk in front of him and clear a path. Thatcher keeps his position ahead of Jane, barreling through themasses.

Before I make a move, Maximoff finally surrenders, and he chargesforward.

His hand clasps Jane’sagain.

Random fingers tug at the hem of my black V-neck. Trying to hook into the waistband of my black pants. Not my favorite thing. Not even close. And yet, I know Maximoff goes through this every single fuckingday.

We reach the venue, and once inside the building, we walk quickly down empty hallways and towards the dressing rooms. At our last security meeting, we made a call to switch FanCon locations from hotels to concertvenues.

Securing the area is easier, and with a backstage, we can easily bring the famous ones on-and-off stage withouthassle.

Photos of 70s rock bands hang on red concrete walls. My boots slightly grip the stickyfloor.

Maximoff slows his pace to walk beside me. “I guess we’ll find out who’s better at dealing with paparazzi,” he says. “Spoiler Alert:it’s—”

“Me,” Ifinish.

He blinks. “In an alternateuniverse.”

“In our reality,” I correct. “Walking through crowds of paparazzi is my thing. They grab. I shove. They yell. Iignore.”