Maximoff knows who he is better than most people know themselves. If something felt wrong, he’d be the first to recognize that. And I’m happy he didn’t hesitate.
“You know I’ll stand beside whatever you do,” I say with a smile, tilting my head to run the blade further back. “Unless it’s bullshit. Then I’ll call you out and you’ll stand beside me.”
“What a turn of events,” Maximoff says, no sarcasm present, “the rebel wants someone next to him.”
“Yeah. I want your smartass.” I hold his gaze. I’ve never spent this much time with anyone. Not even my last client. Not an ex or a friend, and if there were extra hours in the day, I’d choose to spend them with this guy.
Fuck, I’m hooked.
Maximoff holsters his fuck me eyes. Just to slick his hair back one last time. He snaps off his gloves, and after tossing them in the trash, he sets a ten-minute timer on his phone. “Need help?” he asks me.
No, wolf scout. I can easily cut my hair myself, but no one has ever asked to help me either. Hell, it’s more than cute.
“Here.” I pass him the clippers, and Maximoff comes up behind me, all confidence. I look at him through the mirror. “Cut from the back of my neck upward, no higher than my ear.”
“Got it.”
I clutch the edge of the sink. Standing in a slight lunge, head dipped, so he can reach my neck without extending his arms high.
Maximoff grips my shoulder to keep me steady. Then he runs the blade across my neck. He’s doing better than a good or decent job. I’d seriously believe he’s trimmed my hair a thousand times before. I remember what his brother said. How Maximoff is a pro at everything on his first try.
Okay, it’s somewhat true.
His forest-greens flit to me in the mirror. Yeah, I’m letting you help me. It’s turning him on.
I stretch my arm behind me and grab his ass, and then he steps nearer, his dick up against my ass. My breath cuts short, fuck—I can feel him hardening.
My muscles sear, veins pulsating. “Someone’s excited.”
“Barely,” he rebuts.
I roll my eyes. “I know what your ‘barely’ hard cock feels like, wolf scout, and that’s not it.”
He tries to glower, but he has serious kiss me, fuck me, cuddle me eyes right now.
I grit down, my dick rousing.
I watch him turn off the clippers, finished, and I brush pieces of hair off my shoulders and into the sink basin. I check out the back of my hair that he trimmed. Yeah, he can do that again.
Maximoff puts away the clippers. “Good?”
“Eh, barely.”
He shoots me two middle fingers and straightens up. Nearing me. I lean my shoulders on the wall and give him a slow once-over. He still needs to wash out his hair dye.
Fuck, I can’t stop looking at him.
My nickname for Maximoff fits him better than he realizes. He’s aggressive, short-tempered and insanely protective of his pack. Like a wolf. Then he’s resourceful, resilient, reliant and responsible. Able to survive any situation.
Those two words embody Maximoff Hale more than any other. And for as long as I’m alive, he’ll be wolf scout to me.
He places a hand on the wall. Beside my shoulder. I unbutton his jeans, and his other hand already dives down the front of my black pants, stroking me—fuck, a groan scratches my throat.
I watch his gaze drift for the slightest second, then focuses more clearly on me.
I rub his very-far-from-barely hard cock. “What were you just thinking?”
He licks his lips. “That I fucking love how you smell.”
This is the first I’ve heard this from him. “What’s the scent?”
His muscles flex, as I change grip. He curses beneath his breath before he says, “Mint…fresh water and man.”
I could push up against him, but the timer beeps and cuts us off. We retract our hands, trying to ignore the unresolved tension for right now. Within maybe a minute or two, he’s buck-naked in the shower, rinsing out the hair dye.
While I wait for him, I grab a Celebrity Crush magazine out of the drugstore bag. He bought the tabloid to see if they mentioned the Charity CampAway that begins in five days.
I rest against the sink and flip through the glossy pages.
Showering, Maximoff rakes his hands through his dark brown hair, watching me while water douses him.
I look up at him and flip another page. “Something you want to say?”
“It’s fucking weird seeing you with a tabloid.”
He doesn’t realize how often I have to search social media and tabloid comments for potential “chaos” and threats.
I turn one more page.
And I land on a Like Us article. I scan the giant photograph of Luna, Xander, and Kinney, the Hale siblings congregated at a booth inside Superheroes & Scones. A fan must’ve taken the photo.
The Like Us articles have been printed in this magazine for years, and they’re relatively harmless. The subtitle is always the same: the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts—they’re like us! They read books. They love movies. They go shopping!
I remember years back seeing the headline Smart Like Us with a photograph of Jane competing in prep school mathletes.
The one I clutch zooms in on Luna, Xander, and Kinney’s new ear piercings. The title: Cool Like Us.
Maximoff asks, “Why are you smiling?”
“They called you uncool.”
Maximoff rubs water out of his face and then reaches his arm out of the shower to clearly shoot me a middle finger.
I almost laugh, but my phone rings on the tiled floor. I already see the caller ID: Alpha Asshole.
Shit.
There’s an 85% chance he’s going to chew me out for shutting off my radio. Coms aren’t even on me right now. So I bypass that headache and just text Price: I’m not on SFA.
He replies fast.
From cams, we can tell that Moffy is home. You need to come help vet CampAway entrants. – Price
I reply even faster: I already spent six hours vetting entrants today. I purposefully signed up for a shift while Maximoff was working at the H.M.C. office.
We need more eyes on this. You’re available, so get over here. – Price
I could easily shut off my phone and act like I didn’t just receive that fucking demand. But if the worst happens at the CampAway—just because I didn’t take an extra three hours to vet the raffle entrants—I’d be more than pissed at myself.
I’ll be there. I send that one text and slip my phone in my pocket. “Maximoff.”
He cracks the shower door. “Yeah?”
“I have to go. Security needs me.” I pull on my black V-neck.
Looks like he’s not the only one giving out rain checks.
35
FARROW KEENE
SPRAWLING green fields bleed into a bright blue horizon, oak and spruce trees jutting to the sky. Leaves are orange and red as the fall season nears an end. From a hill, I spot the glittering lake and canoes stacked on a rack, inner-tubes tied to a wooden dock.
Maximoff uses the acres and acres of land from Camp Calloway, his aunt’s summer camp in the Poconos Mountains, for his December CampAway event.
It’s majestic, serene, but I’m also very much on-duty. I’m not about to be swept up by nature. Not when there are three-hundred raffle guests ranging from eighteen to forty-five in age.