“Farrow, what’s your opinion on kale?!” The obnoxious, over-enthused paparazzi point Canons in my face, fighting for a money-shot and bobbing up and down like Chihuahuas needing to piss.

A cameraman to my right screams, “Farrow, what’s your workout routine like?!”

“Back up!” I yell like a threat. Maximoff stands directly in front of me, and I shove bodies back, not allowing anyone to edge too close.

He walks closely behind Jane. She dips her head, cat-eye sunglasses block the flashes, and she reaches back and clasps Maximoff’s hand.

It’s a big deal.

Jane hasn’t really held his hand in front of cameramen since before the Camp-Away. Paparazzi don’t adjust their cameras and fixate on their friendship.

Good. The media dropped the rumor, paparazzi followed suit since it’s not profitable, and slowly, the public is getting there.

I don’t give a shit what any “fans” think or what tabloids print. What’s most important to me: Maximoff and Jane salvaging their friendship.

In the masses, Thatcher shields Jane from lenses and hands. We create a small but effective barrier.

Paparazzi have congested the path from our parked tour bus to the venue. We considered dropping the famous ones at the entrance, but fans would just rock the car. And paparazzi shouldn’t even be here.

See, we’re in Salt Lake City, miles and miles away from the disaster zone that was L.A.—but as soon as we left, paparazzi rode our asses down the highway. Basically eating our exhaust.

“Thatcher, have you ever considered modeling?!”

“How tall are you, Thatcher?!”

He towers above the frenzied crowd, but I’m staring at the back of his head. Still, I know he ignores them. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Like hell he’d break protocol.

“Farrow—” A hand grabs my arm and tries to tug, but my reflexes kick in. I seize his wrist and twist. He jerks back, and another cameraman attempts to rush forward in the space.

I shove him. So forceful he trips backwards into another body. Like an unstable cluster of bowling pins, I watch a thirty-something guy go down. His Canon crushes underneath his ass.

“I’m going to sue!”

Sure. Try me.

At the commotion, Maximoff glances back at me. Jane pushes forward, trying to tug him along. Their hands break, and an unintentional gap forms between them.

“Walk, Maximoff,” I say in a deep voice, my hand on his broad shoulder. I’m not standing out here and mediating this shit. And we’re not holding a press conference in a parking lot.

A camera lens almost whacks against my jaw. I dodge the blow, but Maximoff looks murderous.

“Give him space,” he growls.

“Walk,” I say sternly, more concerned about Maximoff reaching the venue safely.

The empty space between him and Jane is already too wide. People start creeping in, and if he doesn’t reconnect with Jane fast, then I need to walk in front of him and clear a path. Thatcher keeps his position ahead of Jane, barreling through the masses.

Before I make a move, Maximoff finally surrenders, and he charges forward.

His hand clasps Jane’s again.

Random fingers tug at the hem of my black V-neck. Trying to hook into the waistband of my black pants. Not my favorite thing. Not even close. And yet, I know Maximoff goes through this every single fucking day.

We reach the venue, and once inside the building, we walk quickly down empty hallways and towards the dressing rooms. At our last security meeting, we made a call to switch FanCon locations from hotels to concert venues.

Securing the area is easier, and with a backstage, we can easily bring the famous ones on-and-off stage without hassle.

Photos of 70s rock bands hang on red concrete walls. My boots slightly grip the sticky floor.

Maximoff slows his pace to walk beside me. “I guess we’ll find out who’s better at dealing with paparazzi,” he says. “Spoiler Alert: it’s—”

“Me,” I finish.

He blinks. “In an alternate universe.”

“In our reality,” I correct. “Walking through crowds of paparazzi is my thing. They grab. I shove. They yell. I ignore.”

Jane looks back to ensure we’re following. Maximoff nods, and her freckled cheeks pull in a smile at him, then me.

We turn a corner, and everyone comes to a stop. Dressing room is in sight, but at the other end of the hall, Beckett, Charlie, and their bodyguards approach. And the additional guest: Jack Highland.

They all took the east side entrance while we took the rear.

We were the diversion.

“How’d it go?” Thatcher asks Akara.

I open the dressing room door, and we all spill inside.

“Only a few fans and one paparazzi,” Akara says. “You?” His head swings to me, and I give Akara a look like we got fucked. On purpose. Being the diversion, Thatcher and I volunteered to be fucked in this instance.

Yet, I was hoping that the paparazzi would’ve given up their quest around Nevada, but the majority made it to Utah and subsequently to our faces.

“More than a few,” Thatcher answers while he surveys the dressing room: black leather couches, silver sofa chairs, a plastic foldout table, and two wooden vanities. We’ve assessed the room already, and no one is in here but us.

Tour crew hangs out in Dressing Room B, but assistants left individually wrapped sandwiches, drinks, chips, and baskets of cookies on our table. Most of us must be hungry because we go for the food.

“Are you guys alright?” Sullivan asks and unscrews a bottle of Ziff. Her green eyes ping from Thatcher to me. Not her cousins.

I unwrap a sandwich. “I’m fine. It was nothing.” I peer beneath the sub bun: turkey, ham, lettuce, tomato, Monterey Jack. Eh, it’ll do.

Maximoff tosses me a mustard packet.

My lips start to rise, but then the bane of my career speaks.

“It was manageable,” Thatcher agrees, but it won’t last long. He chugs his water and then turns to me. I take a seat on the couch’s armrest, biting into my sandwich.

Maximoff stays standing near me, but he’s in a conversation with Jack. Discussing the upcoming Q&A. The producer takes notes on a spiral pad.

Thatcher motions at me with his water bottle. “I heard someone mention suing.”

I lick mustard off my thumb. “You heard that, really?” I ask seriously. “I’m shocked you could hear anything over all the questions about whether you’ve modeled.”

“What happened?” Thatcher layers on a stern, ‘I am your superior’ voice.

“Someone got in my way.” I take a large bite of sub sandwich and watch Thatcher wait for me to add more. I roll my eyes, chew, and swallow. “I gently pushed a guy aside, and he fell. Shit happens.”

“Farrow—”

“I haven’t even been sued yet,” I argue. “And even if he did sue me, we’ve all been there.” I gesture to Akara, Donnelly, and Oscar, all eating their lunch.

Quinn is too new to have been slapped with a lawsuit.

Thatcher is glaring, as though I’m not digesting the severity. And he’d be right; I don’t see the importance. Because there is none. Being sued has always been on the bottom of the security shit list. It’s not even considered a mistake.

Everyone knows this.

I pick a tomato out of my sub and eat it. My nonchalance is pissing him off. To the point where he snaps, “Could you stop and look at me?”

“I am looking at you,” I say easily while still eating.

Our exchange steals Maximoff’s attention. He quiets, watching with furrowed brows.

Thatcher tightens the cap to his water bottle. “It’s not good timing for any of us to be in a lawsuit.”

I’m in a no-win situation. It’s clear he’s just singling me out because I’m me.

The push-ups after I broke a rule only built one rung of a bridge between us. If he wants me to change who I am to prove that I care, he can go fuck himself.

Akara sinks on a chair and peels an orange. “Thatcher, he has to do his job. We can’t be afraid to get sued.”

“Agreed,” Oscar says, hand halfway stuffed in a Fritos bag.

I raise my brows at Thatcher. Waiting for his response.

He stares me down.

I don’t blink. “Yes, Mom?” I ask him.

Thatcher expels a deep breath. “This is new territory for all of us…we’re trying to figure it out.” His tone is softer than normal.

I overturn his words in my head. Some of us are used to swimming with the rough current rather than fighting for life jackets and rafts. Thatcher likes his rules, and we’ve all been thrown in rapids where it’s better to use our judgment than set boundaries that could cost us.

I’m not the problem. I’m on his side. I’ll be there when all the rafts sink and no life jackets are found. His personal hate towards me is just fucking with his best judgment.

I stare at him a second longer. “That sounded like an apology,” I tell Thatcher.

“It wasn’t.”

I eat the rest of my sandwich and lick my thumb. “We’ll agree to disagree.”

A head pops in the room. The crew manager. “Thirty minutes until pictures.”

We may’ve survived the paparazzi, but we still need to deal with hundreds of emotional and adoring fans at the meet-and-greet. And this time, we’re not sure who they’ll be screaming for.

* * *

I’m calling it.

Out of the thirty-plus FanCons so far, the Salt Lake City one has to be at the bottom. It’s not even a bad event: no power outages, no successful groping hands, minor heckling, and a sold-out concert venue. All in all, Maximoff Hale would definitely call this FanCon a victory.

I’m calling it weird as fuck.

Half the attendees in the concert theater aren’t focused on the famous people. Maximoff and his cousins sit on stage for the Q&A panel, and the audience is distracted.

Phone cameras aim at the five of us. We’re on the ground. Guarding either side of the stage near the stairs.

I put on aviators at the next camera flash.

Fans should be more obsessed with Maximoff and his cousins than security. They’ve been famous since birth. We’ve been news for a week.

One is not like the other.

I remember Akara’s “suggestions” before we started the event.

Don’t engage if they ask for photos.

Don’t engage if they ask for an autograph.

Do not answer any of their questions.

Basically, shut up and do your job.

Easy.

I rest my boot on the second stair. Oscar leans into my ear. “That girl keeps staring at you.”

I don’t look. My eyes are on my boyfriend who waves to the audience as Jack Highland introduces him.

The audience cheers and whistles.

“Is she wearing an Adidas crop top?” I ask Oscar.

“Yep.”

“She’s been following me all day,” I say.

“I’d say you have a fan,” Oscar tells me, “but really it’s just Maximoff’s fan being confused and following you.”

I pop my gum in my mouth and flip him off. A few cameras flash at me.

Fuck, I’m not used to that yet. With paparazzi, I can pretend cameras exist purely for Maximoff. In the venue, surrounded by fans, it’s more obvious where their attention is trained.

I catch Maximoff staring at me, and my mouth slowly stretches.

He cracks his knuckle, licks his lips, and diverts his gaze. I want to tell him he can stare at me all day. Every day.

Jack mans a podium on stage and angles the mic to his mouth. “First question.”

In the audience, an assistant passes a mic to a girl in the aisle. A line is already cued up for questions.

“Ummm…this is for Jane.” The preteen pushes her glasses. “If you could date any of the bodyguards, who would it be and why?” She mumbles a thank you and darts to her seat.

Jane’s eyes go utterly wide.

“Fuck,” Oscar curses beneath his breath.

Jack Highland is fast. “Good question.” He smiles sincerely. “But we’re not answering any that involve bodyguards today. Next up?”

Maximoff noticeably eases. I’m just glad he had the bright idea of bringing Jack on tour to moderate.

I hook my aviators on my V-neck.

The assistant hands the mic to the next fan in line.

A short boy clears his throat. “Before I ask my question, I’d just like to say that I totally agree with the Jane-Farrow ship. Jarrow forever!” He pumps his fist in the air to moderate applause.

I roll my eyes, and photos snap my reaction. Probability that I’m a gif tomorrow = high. Someone even shouts, “Oh my God, he doesn’t like Jarrow!”

Jane lifts her mic to her pink lips. “Farrow is a lovely person.”

Maximoff raises his mic. “But he’s taken.”

Gasps flood the room, and my smile is killing me.

Oscar whispers in my ear, “Boyfriend’s territorial.”

I’m enjoying this.

“Taken by who?” the boy asks.

“That’s for Farrow to know,” Jack Highland says, his charisma softening the words. “Remember, we’re all here for Maximoff, Jane, Charlie, Beckett, and Sulli.” He waves his mic, and the crowd cheers for them. Many shout I love you to the famous ones.

The boy puts his lips too close to the mic. “Jane, who would you ship yourself with?”

“Happiness,” Jane answers.

“Is that the name of a bodyguard?!” someone shouts.

“It’s a noun,” Beckett says with a what-the-fuck face.

Jack speaks to the boy. “There are no ships with bodyguards. Next non-bodyguard related question.” He motions for the assistant to pass the mic to the next in line.

“But-but.” The boy white-knuckle grips the microphone. “What about Sullivan and Quinn? Quinnivan is a real thing, right? Or Maximoff and Donnelly? Maxelly?”

I choke on my gum.

Oscar pats my back, and I cough hoarsely into a fist. That one isn’t funny. I’m not shipping him with anyone but me.

Maximoff is laughing hard, and he lifts his mic. “Cute,” he tells the boy.

The boy looks infatuated. “Thanks…I love you.” In his daze, the assistant pries the mic out of his hands, and a line coordinator ushers him to his seat.

Maximoff steals a glance at me, his lips upturned.

I smile more.

No one calls out Maximoff and me as a potential pairing, but we haven’t discussed what would happen if they did. SFO is already on unsteady grounds, and if we make a major mistake on tour, we’ll all lose our jobs. There’s no need to rock that boat.