Page 19 of Lovers Like Us

Jane rests her chin on her fists. “I couldn’t care less what the media or public thinks of me anyway.” Her gaze lowers though. Clearly caring aboutsomething.

I know she’s still upset that our parents doubted us for a split-second. I’ve been trying to understand their perspective so it’ll make more sense, but it’s not that easy. For either ofus.

“Mom was crying,” Beckett tells his sister, “and you know, Mom. She says she only sheds tears for the ones she loves. She really felt like shit for not believingyou.”

“Good,” Janesnaps.

Beckett continues, “She also told Dad they needed to cut out their hearts for the betrayal and gift each to you in a glassjar.”

Jane tries not to smile. “Encore mieux.”Evenbetter.

Farrow glances at me. “Did your parents sayanything?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “Just that they’ll be heretomorrow.”

4

FARROW KEENE

“Weather reportsa white-out blizzard at zero-nine-hundred hours.” Thatcher’s voice resounds throughcomms.

I pull out my earpiece while I ascend wooden stairs to the second floor. It’s pushing 5 a.m. after a never-ending Omega meeting where we all planned security for the tour. I thought I left Thatcher in the fuckingkitchen.

Now he’s in my eardrum. With the volume high, I still hear him. “Be alert if you’re driving to the lakehouse—”

I swivel my radio’s knob, and his voice cuts off. Security agreed to spend the night at the main house and not security’s cabin a mile out. There are plenty of vacant rooms, but I choose the one withMaximoff.

Quietly, I slip inside the bedroom and expect to find him sound asleep. He’s upright, leaning against the log headboard. Maximoff types relentlessly on his laptop. Dark crescent moons shadow hiseyes.

He looks spent, but he’s still forcing himselfawake.

I frown and slam the door shut behindme.

“Hey,” he greets, not flinching. Not looking up. He props his phone beneath his ear. Listening to a voicemail or something equivalent since he doesn’tspeak.

I sidle to the bed and unclip my radio from my waistband. I wrap the earpiece cord and set it on the night table. “A call or notification wake you up?” I ask and rest a knee on the bear-printedquilt.

Maximoff lowers his phone and returns to his laptop. “Never went to sleep.” He tries to catch a yawn andfails.

“Okay, enough.” I push his computer closed. He rubs his eyes and doesn’t try to reopen thelaptop.

I step back, keeping an eye on him, and I find black drawstring pants in myduffel.

When I unzip my pants, Maximoff hones in on my tattooed fingers. Especially as I fish the button through.He likesthat.

My lipsrise.

He tears his gaze off me, neck slightly reddened, and he rotates his strained deltoids, computer still on his lap. “You’ve been awake for just as long,” hesays.

“And I’m not the one that looks likeshit.”

Maximoff bites down to fight a small smile, which sharpens hisjawline.

I skim his striking features from afar, my blood hot, and then I step out of my pants and into the drawstringones.

“We’re not the same,” I remind him, lifting the elastic band to my waist. “I’m used to vigilant nights. Sometimes they even excite me.” I kick my duffel aside. “But clearly, sleeplessness isn’t your thing. Let go and justsleep.”

Maximoff rakes a rough hand through his thick, dark brown hair. “If I’m going to be out of the office for four months, I have a million-and-one things I need to take care of andschedule.”