Page 70 of Lovers Like Us

Maximoff hands me the basket, and I ask, “How are youdoing?”

“Good.” He nods and flashes a smile at his line. The fans erupt in cheers, and then he turns to me and whispers, “How are Sulli and Beckettdoing?”

“Sulli’s just mismanaging time, and Beckett is getting asked to lift girls forpics.”

“Like balletlifts?”

“Yeah.”

“His arms are going to be sore.” Maximoff scrutinizes his cousins in a quicksweep.

“That’s what Donnelly keeps telling him, but he’s having trouble telling the girlsnosince they paid to behere.”

Maximoff nods and asks me, “How much longer do you think?” He cranes his neck,searching.

“Fourhours—”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” He zeroes in on Charlie’s empty space. True to Charlie Cobalt form, he’s left the building. Oscar is gonetoo.

“You’re glaring,” I warnMaximoff.

Before the line coordinator ushers someone forward, Maximoff says to the crew member, “Give me asecond.”

He grabs his water off the floor and then fully faces me. Back turned to the fans. His caustic glare could drill holes into thewall.

Charlie touches a raw place inside of Maximoff that I’ve never seen anyone else reach. Not even a heckler. It’s another level of hurt and frustration andspite.

“He’d better be in the bathroom,” Maximoffsays.

I want to wrap my arm around his shoulders. But I pull against that natural impulse. I may as well yank against a taut bungee cord. It just makes me want to snap forward that muchmore.

I chew my gum and do what I can to help. Clicking my mic, I ask Oscar where he’s at. I share the answer with Maximoff. “They’ll be at the other hotel until the Q&Astarts.”

“He said he’d stay and help Sulli if he finishedearly.”

I frown. “You two talked? To eachother?”

“Texted.” He hands me his phone, and I skim their short back-and-forth that goes something likethis:

If you’re done early with pics, can you stick around and distract some of the fans in Sulli’s line? It’ll make her less stressed.–Maximoff

Okay.–Charlie

I look up atMaximoff.

His eyes flash hot. “Tell me he got sick. Food poisoning or some flesh-eating bacteria? Maybe an emergency phone call? Or no, wait, Charlie doesn’t ever have an excuse. He’s just bored, and he bolted,right?”

I sense something deeper and more painful. He told me in more detail about the yacht fight with Charlie. And how Charlie bailed on him a week before his freshman year atHarvard.

With no explanationwhy.

I put a hand on his broad shoulder—and a six-foot-seven devil nearly blows out my eardrum. Fucking hell. I let go, my noseflaring.

Maximoff rubs his face. Trying to shelter his anger from thefans.

“Take a five-minute break,” Isay.

“No. No, I’m fine.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.” He puts his fist to his mouth, and the toughened look he wears also begs,closer.