I can’t change that fact.
Alpha, Omega, and Epsilon have a motto: stay ahead of the media. It’s impossible to stop tabloids, but we have to be aware of everything that could potentially hit the press and cause harm.
Before I grab the doorknob, I click my mic again. “I’ll get back to you.” The second I open the door to Maximoff’s living room, a calico kitten darts past my ankles.
I swiftly turn and catch Jane’s pet. Walrus claws the hardwood, but I lift the little thing and raise the kitten’s face to my face. “Naughty, naughty.”
The kitten paws my nose. I smile and tell the cat, “You’re not allowed to escape, you little bastard.”
Walrus meows.
Jane stressed, “Do not let the little kittens in security’s townhouse. It’s not kitten-proof. They’ll wedge themselves in nooks and crannies.” I’m not about to lose a kitten.
Once I enter the adjoining living room, I release Walrus and he darts beneath the rocking chair. No one’s on the first floor. I kick the door shut, and voices echo down the narrow staircase.
I lean on the brick wall, eat my eggs, and scan the cramped area. The decorated version of my bare place: a pale pink Victorian loveseat, frilled pillows, a rocking chair, pastel blankets, glass teacart, two-person café table by the kitchen archway, and at least twenty family photos on the mantel.
The ugly granny style screams Jane Cobalt.
Their house also has a distinct smell of brewed coffee, tea, floral candles, and cat.
Stairs creak, and Jane emerges first, dressed in pale-blue silk pajama shorts and tank top. She carries a bottle of oil and only notices me when she steps off the last stair.
“Farrow.” She smiles and gives me a curious once-over. As though she’s the one who caught me with a bottle of oil.
“Jane,” I greet, eating another scoop of eggs. If she had a “guy friend” in the house, I’d already know about him. She has no time to respond. Maximoff skips two stairs at a time, coming in hot.
He pulls his white shirt off his head, his hair disheveled, body ripped, and his gray drawstring pants hang low on his waist.
My lips rise and rise. He hasn’t seen me yet, and he’s going to flip the fuck out the moment he does. I eat my eggs like popcorn.
Jane watches me really keenly, but I have nothing to hide. I’m unapologetically me. Every day, all day.
“Ready, Janie?” he asks, combing his hair back with a quick hand. Then he looks up. And sees me. He solidifies, his jaw tensing and eyes widening.
“I missed you too,” I quip and finish off my eggs. My smile growing as his irritation scrunches his features and daggers his eyes.
Maximoff drops onto the first floor. “It’s been two minutes since I last saw you.”
“Thirty-three,” I correct and watch Jane plop down on the loveseat and unscrew the bottle of sweet almond oil. I have a feeling I know its use. I focus on Moffy. “Security wants more information about the Camp-Away.”
Realization hits him, and he nods. “You’ll have to wait. I promised Janie a massage, and she comes first.”
“Giving or receiving?” I ask.
His brows jump, and he licks his lips, turning his head slightly. He rubs his sharp jaw.
I smile, my body tightening, but I ignore the feeling. “The massage, wolf scout. Are you giving or receiving it?”
“Receiving,” he says more easily. “Jane’s trying out massage therapy.”
She ties her wavy hair into a low pony. “If you two need to talk about the Camp-Away, I can wait—”
“No.” Maximoff shakes his head repeatedly. “I’m focusing on you right now. Your ambition, your goal, remember?”
Jane nods and reads the ingredients on the back of the oil. Her blue eyes lift to me. “I can give you one after Moffy.”
“Let’s see how this one goes, first.” I set my empty bowl on the nearby café table.
Maximoff gestures to the rocking chair. “Take a seat.” He orders me mostly because he has to sit down, and he hates when I tower above him.
“I’ll stand.” I pass between him and the rocking chair to reach the fireplace mantle.
“And you think I’m the stubborn one?” He sits next to Jane, and she kneels on the cushion behind him.
I skim his family photos. “I never said you had a monopoly on stubbornness.” I pick up a framed picture of Maximoff doing a backflip off the Hale’s yacht, Jane in the corner pointing at him with a pretend-surprised face. I flash the photo at him. “Whatever you can do, I can do better.”
“Such fighting words,” Jane says, squirting oil on her palms. “As the third, unbiased participant in the room, I volunteer myself to be judge of any competitions.”
“I think you mean biased participant.” I set the photo back. The two of them are together in nearly every picture on the mantle.
“I can be unbiased,” Jane says, and she begins to knead Maximoff’s tight deltoids. He grips the back of the uncomfortable Victorian couch for support.
I watch him while I ask Jane, “Who’s better at boxing?”
Jane pauses and opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.
I help her, “F-A-R—”
“M-O-F-F-Y,” she spells rapidly and exhales a breath like she escaped death by betrayal. “Aunt Lily says the truth will set you free, and I couldn’t agree more. I feel so much better.” She focuses on the massage again, using her knuckles on his back.
Maximoff smiles at me. Like he one-upped me.
“I don’t know why you’re so happy. She just proved she’s partial to you.”
Maximoff gives me a look. “You can’t, even for a second, admit that maybe, just maybe, I’m better than you at your own sport.”
It’d take great effort to tear my gaze off his. “Your humility is waning.”
“Your superiority is worsening.”
I break into a huge smile, but my lips lower as Maximoff bears on his teeth, almost wincing. He glances briefly at Jane and tries to peer at her knuckles that edge towards his spine. His shoulders stay in their usual rigid, locked position.
“Try to relax,” I suggest, nearing the loveseat. “Or do you need how to instructions?”
He glowers. “The only instructions I need are how to make you shut the fuck up…” he trails off and stifles another wince. Jane can’t see his expression.
“You’re too close to his spine,” I tell Jane, and I reach out to her wrist. “Can I?”
“Please.”
I shift her hands to his traps, muscles lateral to his shoulder blades. I close her fingers, oiling my hands, and as soon as she starts kneading his muscles again, she asks, “Better, Moffy?”
“Yep.” His collar is tight, and when he glances at me, then intakes a sharp breath, I realize that my closeness is the cause.
I sweep his stringent posture: Maximoff Hale, shirtless, muscles oiled, and being massaged beneath novice hands.
He’d feel better beneath mine.
He winces, “Fuck. Jane.” She pinched his nerve.
She raises her oiled hands. “Sorry.” Jane searches for something. “Merde,” she says shit in French. “Hold on, Moffy. I’m going to pop up the video again.” She nods to me, then the coffee table where her phone lies. “Farrow, would you mind?”