Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
He tries to move his left arm, and he bites down, pain cinching his brows. “Fuck,” he curses.
From behind him, I clutch his waist and slide my arm around him in affection. He almost leans into me, remembering who I am. Being honest here, he’s still a marble statue.
“Let me help you.” I shine a light on his shoulder.
“It’s just sore.”
“Your shoulder is dislocated.”
Maximoff breathes through his nose and then grasps the sink ledge again. “Is that your professional medical opinion?” he asks. “Just by looking?”
“MAXIMOFF! MAXIMOFF!” they grow louder outside.
“Yeah.” I stay behind him. “Also, you’re a stubborn smartass. Point this at your shoulder.” I pass him my phone.
He uses his good hand and directs the light. He watches me through the mirror.
“You can pop it in?”
“I can.” I gently place a hand on the back of his shoulder, another on his elbow. Bracing his forearm with mine. His pulse is racing.
My stomach overturns. Wanting him to just calm. Relax. But he’s hurt, and I know I’m at fault.
“MAXIMOFF! MAXIMOFF HALE!”
“I have to tell you something,” I say seriously.
“If you’re trying to distract me, it’s not going to work—”
“I kissed a crew member.”
“What—”
I click his shoulder back into place, and he lets out a long groan. “Fuuuck,” he curses, and one breath later, he’s glaring at me.
My brows lift. “I was kidding.”
He breathes stronger but shakes his head. “You couldn’t joke about literally anything else?”
“Nothing else would’ve worked.”
He exhales. “And you’re a fucking asshole.” His arm curves around my shoulders.
“That too.” I clutch the back of his neck, the light dancing around us as we shift. “I’m sorry—”
“Not your damn fault,” he says, voice firm, and he subtly eyes me for any injuries. Seeing that I’m okay. “My old bodyguard would’ve done worse.”
Yet, I should’ve done better. “You’ll need to ice the shoulder, and you should call my father to look at it if the pain gets worse.”
His brows furrow. “You just looked at it.”
“Ligaments protect the shoulder joint, and four tendons are connected to your rotator cuff. If you tore any of those, you may need surgery. My father is more experienced. He’ll know.”
It surprises me when I think, I wish I knew more than Edward Nathaniel Keene.
My father has been wishing that too.
17
MAXIMOFF HALE
Cleveland FanCon is cancelled from hotel power outage.
Even on route to the next tour stop—Chicago, here we come—the news headline gnaws at me. The hotel confirmed that the power blew, and technicians couldn’t fix the issue for at least 24-hours.
Security called the FanCon a wash. Ending the event early—it’s an irremovable knife in my chest.
No promised Q&A. Majority of fans never met us. Some spent a lot of money just traveling to Cleveland.
And we fucked them over.
I tried to resolve the problem. I made calls, talked to the crew, and I could’ve shifted the event to another conference room in a nearby hotel.
Akara and Thatcher refused. We haven’t done prep for a different hotel, they said. It’s not possible.
I’m supposed to move on and forget Cleveland’s mishap. Think of this like trial-and-error, Akara told me. The Chicago FanCon will be better.
I can’t just forget. These errors I make hurt people—and I’m not okay with that.
“You need to brainstorm,” Farrow tells me while he crunches his abs in a sit-up.
We’re in the second lounge with Janie, a U-shaped couch back here. Pretty quiet since half the bus is asleep in their bunks.
Farrow isn’t working out on the ground. He’s lengthwise on the gray couch. I sit so damn close that his bent knees steeple my legs. My hand has been sliding down his thigh, and my other forearm rests on his kneecap while I cup my phone.
My childhood crush doing sit-ups right up against me—that should without a doubt be the best damn distraction from bad press. Sweat glistens his inked skin, pirate tattoos peek from his black Adidas V-neck, and a piece of white hair keeps falling to his brown lashes. Causing his fingers to constantly push the strands back.
Jesus, it’s unnatural how hot he is. And how fucking attracted I am to him. And still, my mind derails and circumnavigates to Cleveland. To a colossal fuck-up.
He lifts his body in a crunch. His face a centimeter from my face, and he eyes my phone. The screen is popped up on a news article that I’ve read a billion times.
The H.M.C. FanCon tour in Cleveland was a massive technical disaster with no backup plan. Maximoff Hale was unprepared to handle an event of this magnitude. If this is any indication of how he runs H.M.C. Philanthropies, it’s clear he’s too young, unprofessional, and inexperienced to be the CEO of a corporate company.
Farrow skims the words in point-two seconds and then chucks my phone behind his head. It hits a pillow and thuds on the floor.