By now, you know that the security team is both strangely elusive to me and close like family. Thanks to Farrow, I see glimpses of how security works and how they actually perceive us: the Hales, Cobalts, and Meadows.

Since I’m a celebrity and a client, I probably would’ve excused myself and let them work out whatever they need to alone. But they’re now aware that I’m Farrow’s boyfriend, and these aren’t just his coworkers.

They’re the closest guys in his life. His friends. And if he’s all-in on my world, I think I should be all-in on his.

So I’m staying.

I approach Thatcher Moretti. “When’d you get here?” I ask.

In my peripheral, Farrow nears Donnelly on the couch and lightly kicks his ankle, both speaking under their breaths. Donnelly gestures with his head at me. So they’re talking about me.

If only I had bionic hearing.

Thatcher stands, five inches taller than me. “I drove in about four hours ago.”

We shake hands. I’m sure to most people a six-foot-seven, unshaven Italian-American man with a perpetually stern gaze would be intimidating.

For me, he’s not even close.

Thatcher used to protect my little brother, and talking to him in the past, the topics never diverged from security. He’s as professional as they come and also the biggest thorn in Farrow’s side.

Now he’s a secondary bodyguard to Jane and unofficial chaperone to me and Farrow. A small price to pay to keep Farrow as my 24/7 bodyguard. If the public finds out that I’m dating a bodyguard, it could cause all of SFO to become famous by association.

That can’t happen, and Thatcher said he’d ensure it doesn’t.

“Thanks for voting to keep Farrow as my bodyguard,” I tell Thatcher. “It meant a lot.”

He nods. “I was voting for what you’d want. Personal grievances aside, I’m here for you and your family.”

It reminds me that he wasn’t the only vote. “Where’s Akara?”

“Out for a run with Sulli.” Thatcher twists a knob on his radio. “Last night, Akara and I agreed we’re going to share the lead position in Omega. If you need to inform security about anything, it’s still Akara, Price, and me you should contact.”

The Tri-Force is still intact then.

I bet it’s all the same to Farrow since he’s not a rule-follower anyway.

“Hey, Moffy—” Donnelly is cut off by Farrow’s hand over his mouth.

“Excuse Donnelly,” Farrow says to me, really at ease. He sits on the armrest of the couch. And his bowl of eggs skillfully balances on his thigh. “He has an undiagnosed condition called verbo-emesis.”

My brows furrow.

Oscar swigs a Lightning Bolt! and translates, “Word vomit.”

Huh.

I have no clue what “Hey, Moffy” was about to morph into, but with the surface of my childhood nickname, I’m unfortunately more aware of my age difference between all of them and me.

“Security should only call me Maximoff,” I state here and now.

Farrow lowers his hand from Donnelly’s mouth, and some of the bodyguards exchange furtive glances. And Farrow tries to restrain an amused laugh, but as he looks to me, his eyes almost caress mine in affection.

Alright, I must’ve sounded like a dick.

Or a conceited dick.

An entitled prick.

All of the above? Probably.

Thatcher tells me, “I’ll let the whole team know.”

I nod and try to loosen my shoulders. Just to appear somewhat less domineering.

Boundaries here are blurrier than usual, and I don’t want to be just the client in their eyes. But two milliseconds ago, I made a declaration that sounded more like a dickish celebrity requesting a special menu than a regular guy asking to be treated fairly.

I try to figure out a better plan of action. One that doesn’t include me leaving this damn study. Retreating—that’s not an option.

Suddenly, Farrow stands. Nearing me, but he speaks to Thatcher. “Did you put me on temporary probation from security meetings?”

“No.”

“Then why the hell didn’t I hear about the one where Omega discussed the tour?” Farrow stops beside me and offers me his bowl of eggs.

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

He only peels his eyes off of me when Thatcher responds.

“You were in the bedroom with Maximoff.” He ends there. Like that explains everything.

Farrow glares at Thatcher.

Thatcher glares back, not relenting. This is the equivalent of a silent pissing match.

I gesture to the co-lead of Omega. “Is knocking not in the bodyguard handbook?”

Neither of them moves.

Oscar unwraps a Honey Bun. “You’re still a client who prefers privacy.”

“And you were with your boyfriend, Mof—Maximoff. Fuck,” Donnelly mutters.

They left Farrow in the dark because of me. That’s not fucking happening again. “Thatcher,” I say, and he breaks the glare to acknowledge me. “Farrow’s job comes first.”

“His job is you,” Thatcher emphasizes. “This is complicated—”

“Then let’s un-complicate it,” I say simply. “Anything related to security, you can disrupt me and get him. I’d prefer it. And if there’s any other confusion, just ask.”

I swear I hear Farrow mutter an impressed, “Damn,” beneath his breath.

The whole talk screeches to a halt as the door creaks. Jane and Beckett slip inside. Carrying trays of coffee for everyone. Jane hands me a mug of hot tea, and we all scatter around the study.

Farrow and I are the only two standing. While he leans on a bookshelf—absentmindedly fiddling with a handheld wooden puzzle that he’s already solved twice—I grip my mug of tea. And listen to the conversation veer off into FanCon territory. Logistics.

How the fuck it’ll all work.

Thatcher motions to Jane on a rocking chair and to Beckett on the couch beside Donnelly, and he says, “If you have any acquaintances or friends or…” Thatcher pauses for the word.

“NSA,” Oscar clarifies.

“What?” Beckett looks to Donnelly, his 24/7 bodyguard.

“No strings attached,” I tell my cousin.

“A fuck buddy,” Donnelly explains.

Thatcher cringes a bit, obviously hoping to avoid that word. “If you want them on the bus,” he says to Jane more than Beckett. “I need a list. Names. We have to clear them before they’re allowed on tour.”

A cold draft wafts into the study, snow falling heavier outside.

Becket zips his leather jacket over a black The Carraways band T-shirt, half tucked into ripped jeans. His brown curly hair is artfully styled, and he’s lean and tall, built perfectly for dance. A warm smile toys at his pink lips. He looks older than when I last saw him.

Like he’s met more parts of the world, and he came out better. Tougher.

You know Beckett Joyce Cobalt as a principal dancer of an elite ballet company in New York City. His tattoos and extracurricular activities cause a stir for tabloids. But they also fill seats for shows. You call him the bad boy of ballet and he doesn’t bother proving you wrong.

I know him as my twenty-year-old hard-working, extraordinarily talented cousin, the most calm and the least dramatic of the Cobalt Empire. He has no room for bullshit, and he’ll be the first to say you smell full of it. If he weren’t Charlie’s fraternal twin, maybe we’d find common ground. But if there really are sides in my family, Beckett will never be on mine.

Fair Warning: if you fuck with Beckett, I won’t hesitate to team up with Charlie and rip you limb-from-limb.

Beckett extends an arm. “No fuck buddies for me.”

Donnelly rocks back. “You sure?”

You’ve definitely seen Beckett pick up random girls at NYC nightclubs. You don’t know that he sometimes goes to private sex parties—the only reason I know is because he once told Eliot, who then let it slip to Tom. Who told Jane. Who then told me.

Gotta love family.

“Positive,” Beckett says. “If I’m going to hookup, it’ll be with someone I meet on the road.”

I take a larger sip of tea, and I notice how everyone’s zeroed in on Jane.

She’s quiet and tucks a pink throw blanket around her body. Maybe she’s thinking about her options. I’m about to ask, but Thatcher beats me to the question.

“Do you want to bring Nate?” he asks.

Her blue eyes meet me. “I don’t know.”

Farrow messes with the puzzle. “You can’t smuggle him on the bus, Cobalt. If you want him, we’re all meeting him.”

“What do you think, Moffy?” she asks.

“I think it’s your choice.” I dunk a tea bag a couple times. “But if I have to share space with your Asshole With Benefits, there’s not a chance I’ll be able to hold my tongue.”

She could do light-years better than that fucking douchebag. He cares more about expensive things than about her. I swear he’s complained a million times that our townhouse lacks a pool, hot tub, six-car garage, private guesthouse, etc.—and he’s told Jane that she should move out ASAP.

Beckett eyes me. “He’s that bad?”

I see-saw my hand like so-so. “AWB #2 was definitely worse.”

Jane shoots me a strong look. “Je regrette d’avoir demandé ton avis.” I regret asking for your opinion.

I touch my chest. “Tu connais mes sentiments à propos de Nate.” You know my feelings about Nate.

Beckett turns to his sister. “Est-ce qu’il t’a frappé?” Did he hit you?

Oscar whispers in Donnelly’s ear. I quickly realize that I have no idea which bodyguards are fluent in French. Farrow definitely isn’t.

Jane shakes her head adamantly. “No. Never.”

“He’s just an asshole.” I finish off my tea in one gulp. Literally every bodyguard trains these narrowed, pinpointed eyes on me like I’m withholding security info. “That’s it.”

Farrow tilts his head from side-to-side, considering my words. “Okay, but there’s a range for assholes, and most of us want to know where Nate falls.”

Oscar spreads out two hands to demonstrate the range. “There’s the likable asshole over here.” He waves his left hand before lifting up his right. “Then there’s the abusive motherfucker that deserves to eat cow shit.”

“And die,” Donnelly adds.

“Painfully,” Farrow finishes.

“Funny,” I mutter and notice Jane and her pissed off face: brows pinched, lips pursed, not as terrifying as she wishes she could be. “Janie can tell you where he falls on the asshole range. She knows him better than me.”

“He’s a likable asshole,” Jane announces without a beat, fierce blue eyes pinging to everyone. “He’s only treated me with respect. For the sake of my future orgasms, leave him be.”

Donnelly smirks. “Farrow knows a little something about protecting and serving orgas—”

“No.” Thatcher shuts that down.

Christ, my neck is burning. I’m not embarrassed. No—that’s not a feeling I feel often, and I’m not letting it creep into me.

Farrow studies my reaction, and I try to recover with a sip of nonexistent tea.

Yeah, my mug is empty.

He’s near-laughter.

I’d combat him, but Thatcher speaks. “Back to the main issues.” He focuses on Jane. “About your cats—”

“I’ve taken care of them,” Jane begins with urgency. No emotion attached. Like she’s discussing bus mileage and the trip route. “My sister already agreed to watch all six while I’m gone. My oldest cats and youngest kittens love Audrey, and she loves them fiercely. It all works out well.”

My brows scrunch. “It’s four months, Janie.” She’s never been away from her cats for that long.

“They’re in good hands.”

Thatcher types on his phone. Taking notes. “How’s Licorice doing?”

Jane almost blushes. “Um,” she says, frazzled by the question. “Still skittish from being stuck in the crawl space, but I’m glad you found him.”

“Me too.” Thatcher checks notes on his phone. “The tour should help with the incest rumor.”

Jane clears her throat. “I propose we ban that word.” She means incest.

I grimace. “I second that.”

Heavy silence falls, and Thatcher pockets his phone before looking to Jane, then me. “I don’t know if it’ll mean anything to you two,” he tells us, “but I understand what you’re going through. Years ago, when I was in high school, Banks and I got the gamut of twin questions. Most were harmless but others…” He trails off, and we can easily fill in the blanks.

Banks Moretti is his identical twin, and also the 24/7 bodyguard to Xander.

Beckett nods strongly, also a twin. Also understanding.

Jane and I don’t have to ask for examples or specifics. I stare off for a second—for Christ’s sake, I should’ve realized sooner why Charlie would be at the lake house in support.

Why he’d understand like Thatcher and Banks. Like Beckett.

With zero evidence, the media tried to twist my close friendship with Jane into something perverse. But Charlie dealt with that all the time too.

I was there in high school. I heard guys ask Charlie harmless questions like can you read your twin’s mind and then they’d veer into shitty things like do you sleep with your twin? They’d snicker as they prodded how many three-ways have you had with Beckett? And weird shit like if you’re naked, are you confused about who’s who? Have you touched each other’s…?

Charlie would wear his annoyance. I remember that and how he’d just walk away. Move on. That’s all he could do.

And I know that’s all we can do now.

“Merci,” Jane says to Thatcher.

I nod, appreciative of the support. The rumor will die sooner or later. It has no merit or validity, so I think we’ll be fine.

Jane rests her chin on her fists. “I couldn’t care less what the media or public thinks of me anyway.” Her gaze lowers though. Clearly caring about something.

I know she’s still upset that our parents doubted us for a split-second. I’ve been trying to understand their perspective so it’ll make more sense, but it’s not that easy. For either of us.

“Mom was crying,” Beckett tells his sister, “and you know, Mom. She says she only sheds tears for the ones she loves. She really felt like shit for not believing you.”

“Good,” Jane snaps.

Beckett continues, “She also told Dad they needed to cut out their hearts for the betrayal and gift each to you in a glass jar.”

Jane tries not to smile. “Encore mieux.” Even better.

Farrow glances at me. “Did your parents say anything?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “Just that they’ll be here tomorrow.”