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.

“Thanks,” I say dryly.

“Fuck them,” he tells me with raised brows. “Calling you young and unprofessional is a cheap shot, and those journalists will take it every time.” He lowers his back and rises in another sit-up. “That’s the truth. I’m not blowing smoke because I’m dating and fucking you.”

He lowers again, casual and cool. Acting like he reported a simple weather forecast.

Fuck me. I feel my smile try to take shape.

“Je suis d'accord avec lui, Moffy,” Janie says, sitting on the couch’s other long side. Mirror propped on her thighs. She applies an avocado mask, her hair twisted in a pink towel.

I agree with him, Moffy.

My mouth inches upward a bit more. I’m trying my best to let go, but some things are clinging to me like fucking tar.

I adjust my ice pack on my sore shoulder and remember what Farrow said about brainstorming.

So I lower my voice, ensuring Beckett, Charlie, and Sulli won’t hear me. “I’ve thought about people who’d want to create a murder account,” I tell him, “and I came up with absolutely nothing.”

Farrow increases his sit-up pace. “Not one name?”

He already said he’s taking care of the one-night stand NDAs, and he’s been waiting for lawyers to send him those contracts. I only need to help brainstorm other people. Like a high school rival, a pissed off neighbor, or a scorned college student.

I picture…no one. Not really.

I did deal with my fair share of harassment in high school. Like the snide comments about my mom, the dick drawings, and accusing me of being a bastard. Some guys hated me because they needed someone to hate. But I can’t see them, years later, wanting me dead.

“If they exist,” I tell Farrow, “I don’t know about them.”

His muscles flex on his way up.

“Janie?” I ask.

She cleans her hands on a towel and shuts her mirror. Blue eyes on me, she offers her complete attention. “You were always sweet to people and well-liked. And very famous. Many people had a crush on you in high school. Even the neighbors.”

Farrow rolls his eyes.

I give him a look. “Come on, if I’d been around your age growing up, you would’ve had a crush on me too.”

“And there goes your humility.” On his way up, he twists to the right, near enough to kiss me.

Kiss me.

His mouth quirks before he leans back down. Such a tease.

I lick my lips. “Just stating the truth.”

Amusement rests behind his eyes. “The truth is that you would’ve ‘wanted’ me to have a crush on you.” He rises. “And you always, always would’ve been infatuated with me.”

“That’s already bullshit since I’ve never been infatuated with you.”

He lets out a short, dry laugh before his smile expands. “Weren’t you the one who dreamed of me taking your virginity in a shower?”

I blink.

Yeah.

I feel like he flipped over whatever metaphorical board game we were playing. Chess? Backgammon? Candy Land?

I feign confusion. “Was that you and me? Could’ve been another guy who looks like you.”

“No one else looks like me,” he says in that matter-of-fact voice that grips my body. He rises to his knees and twists…away from my face. He’s smiling wide, still teasing the hell out of me.

It’s working.

I swelter inside out, and I keep a hand on my ice pack to cool off.

Jane points her phone at us and snaps a candid photo of me and Farrow.

I tell Janie, “That better be evidence that he looks more infatuated than me.”

“Memories.” She examines the photo. “And from what I can see, you share equal infatuation.”

I gesture to Farrow. “There it is.”

He pushes back his hair, and our eyes caress in a powerful moment.

I inhale—and I break eye contact. My phone vibrating on the floor. Jane just texted me the picture. Perks of extra phone security, I now have photos of my boyfriend without fear of hacks.

But I leave my phone where it is and reroute back to the topic. “If Janie can’t even think of someone who’d make a murder account, then we’re doomed.”

Farrow crunches up. “You’re telling me no one was jealous of you? You’re a wealthy, attractive celebrity who swam competitively.”

I stare off, thinking.

“Moffy.” Jane perks up in a sudden thought. “Jason, Ray, and Clark.”

“Who?” Farrow asks, noticing my darkened frown. He stays upright, his arm on the back of the couch.

“Guys on the swim team with me,” I answer. Remembering the yacht, the summer bash, from years ago. My cheekbones sharpen. “The last time I talked to them, we beat the shit out of each other.”

Farrow sweeps my features. “I need more than that.”

“Before I fought with Charlie on the yacht,” I say, “I overheard them talking about my mom in the master cabin. And I went off.” I shake my head a few times. “I was almost in a blackout rage, okay? I’m not proud.”

Farrow stares deeper.

“What?” I ask.

“I was on that boat.” Farrow pauses, his jaw tensed. “It’s just hitting me that while I was laughing and drinking, you were below the deck getting beat to shit.”

I let out a sharp breath. “I did worse to them—”

“You’re not a trained fighter, and it was three-on-one. You were probably on the ground.”

He’s not wrong. “I held my own.” I study his protective gaze, and I realize he wishes he could’ve been there for me. “You want a time machine?”

Farrow almost cracks a smile, but the gravity of the situation keeps him more serious. “What are their last names?”

Jane picks at her avocado mask. “Ray and Clark were both awarded scholarships to swim out of state. They wouldn’t have a Philadelphia IP address.”

“Jason Motlic would,” I say. “He stayed in Philly.” I look to Farrow. “You can put his name on the list.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t reach for a notebook or his phone or anything.

“So it’s an imaginary list.”

Farrow arches his brows. “My memory is better than yours. I don’t need to type out and print eighty-four lists.”

I make a face. “How do I like you, man?”

“I think you mean love,” he teases.

Don’t fucking smile. I lick my lips again and again, and before I reply, I notice Janie lying down on the other side of the couch. She kind of tucks her knees to her chest. Something she only does when she has cramps.

“Ça va?” I ask. Are you okay?

“Oui.” She splays the back of her hand on her forehead.

“Si tu ne te sens pas bien, je peux te trouver quelque chose.” If you don’t feel well, I can find you something.

“I weather this storm every month. I can manage on a bus.” She blows out a measured breath. “Peaches McEntire.”

My brows scrunch. “No way.”

Farrow starts another rep of sit-ups. “Peaches is a fruit or a…?”

“Girl,” I explain. “She’s our age, and we were all counselors at Camp Calloway together. She was even a troop captain in Wolf Scouts.” I look at Jane, her cat pajamas wrinkled. “And she’s nice.”

“She was hopelessly, madly in love with you, and she was a passionate person. She could’ve felt scorned when you told her you just wanted to be summer camp friends. Don’t you remember, she stopped speaking to you after that?”

I sigh heavily, frustrated that I may’ve hurt someone unknowingly. “Maybe.” I glance at Farrow as he crunches upward. “You can add Peaches to your brain.”

He’d probably reply, but Thatcher breaches the second lounge.

We all go quiet.

The security team has no clue that Jane and I know all about the @maximoffdeadhale account. Farrow has “gone rogue” in the team many times before, so it’s not exactly a new dilemma.

Farrow looks more annoyed by Thatcher than anything.

The Omega co-lead pretty much ignores me and Farrow, and he takes a seat near Jane’s feet. She scratches her neck and props herself on her arm. “Thatcher,” she greets.

“Jane,” he greets too, like they haven’t seen each other all day. When clearly they have.

I give Janie a weird look, but she’s tuning me out. I turn to Farrow, but he’s zeroed in on the interaction.

“Thought you might need this,” Thatcher says as he hands her a hot water bottle.

Jane gawks in surprise, fingers to her avocado-masked cheek. She clears her throat slightly. “Merci.” She nods to him.

He nods back and leaves without another word.

“What the fuck was that?” I whisper.

Farrow glares at Jane. “You can’t like him.”

“She doesn’t like him,” I say to Farrow. “She would’ve told me.”

Jane is still staring at the spot where he left. Blue eyes enlarging like a god granted immortality to her cats. “He must’ve seen my Instagram story. I said that I had cramps and forgot to bring a heating pad on the bus.” She glances at the hot water bottle that’ll help her cramps.

“She likes him,” Farrow says in pissed disbelief. “Jane.”

“Who? What?” She finally turns to us and our words seem to register. “No, no.” She shakes her head a few times. “I just find him beautiful to look at. Like an Italian painting. He’s exquisite, don’t you think?”

“No,” we say together.

Jane smiles coyly. “Liars. You both know he’s handsome.”

I don’t say anything and remove my ice pack. Is Thatcher fucking hot? Scruffy, muscular, six-foot-seven and domineering. Yeah.

He’s hot.

He could probably star in movies if he wanted to. But Farrow hates him, and Thatcher is dropping off my favorites list.

Farrow narrows his gaze on me. “I’m waiting for you to say he’s ugly.”

“I’m waiting for you to say the same fucking thing.” I pull my Batman shirt over my head.

“He’s ugly,” Farrow says distantly, skimming the cut of my biceps and six-pack. Mostly, he hones in on my shoulder blade.

“Agreed,” I lie and motion to Jane. “And?”

“He’s handsome and sweet, and that’s all that’s happening.” She sends us a look that says, do not badger me on senseless things, and she curls back up and tucks her hot water bottle to her stomach.

“Lean forward,” Farrow says.

I do, my elbows on his knees that still steeple my legs. He has a better view of my shoulder. He presses on the muscle.

I bite down. Christ, that feels tender and sore.

“Raise your arm.”

I stretch my arm upward. The muscle is pretty tight. I rotate my arm—that’s really tight.

“You need to keep icing it,” Farrow says.

I nod. Calling his father for advice opens a can of worms, and I’m not sure how much longer I should wait.