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“Are you?” I ask him.
He goes to speak but chokes on a word.
Be with me.
I shut my eyes tightly. He is with me, and I can’t pressure him for more. When I open my eyes, the torment in his gaze is exactly what I feel. We’re in the same ball-pit of anguish. Flailing around.
He inhales a big breath.
As he exhales, he asks, “Can you promise me something, Os?”
“Anything.”
“Anything?”
I nod, confident that I’d do just about anything in the world for Jack motherfucking Highland.
His soft laugh sounds breathless. “Okay, promise me that whatever happens next, you won’t shut the window on me. Promise that it’s wide open and I’m on the other side with you—that it’s you and me and anyone who tries to come in, you’ll help me keep out?”
Emotion pricks my eyes.
Strongly, undoubtedly, I tell him, “I promise. It’s Oscar and Jack take on Philly, New York, California, the world—you and me, Long Beach.” I point from my chest to his chest, tears threatening to well.
One already slides down his jaw.
He suddenly, mightily, resoundingly bridges the gap—and his lips are on mine. Time freezes. The world recedes, and we clasp each other’s face and kiss and kiss with soul-bearing passion. Hanging on. Like we’re spinning on an axis and headed for the sky.
Agony vanishes. And a feeling I’ve met once or twice in my life washes over me more powerfully than ever before.
Our foreheads touch as our lips break, arms around one another’s shoulders, and we’re not escaping our embrace yet. He’s smiling brighter. I’m grinning stronger. My heart beats outside my ribcage, and I breathe, “You just kissed me in public, Highland.”
In the middle of a sidewalk.
In front of a packed cheesesteak restaurant.
In front of my friends.
In front of paparazzi.
He kissed me.
“You kissed me back,” he says in a smile, as if that’d even be a doubt. “So we can officially say that we’re dating, right?”
I’m so fucking happy.
“Come on, dude,” he breathes, his eyes sparkling with the light that I feel illuminate inside me.
“Oh yeah, I’m dating the hell out of you.”
His heart thumps fast against my chest. I must glance down because he laughs, “You feel that?” His hand rises into my curls.
I nod. I can’t tell if Jack is scared or nervous or… “You regret—?”
“No,” he cuts me off quickly. “I’ve never wanted something this badly in my life, Oscar, and I’ve wanted a lot. I’ve gotten a lot. I just haven’t had you.”
I made a promise, and I’m a hundred-percent committed. Window wide open for him. “You have me now,” I murmur strongly, and we’re about to bring our lips together again when something sails at us—too late to see or catch.
A cold, wet liquid splashes my cheek.
Jack…Jack’s covered in strawberry milkshake. Pink liquid drenches his hair and drips down his temple, his jaw, stains his tie-dye tank and soaks the longboard at his feet.
I shield Highland, swiftly stepping out in front, keeping a protective hand on his chest. I’m not tensing up, not solidifying—too conditioned to stay alert in mayhem, to not freeze in shock. But bodyguard instinct—where was that when he got hit with a fucking milkshake? How did I let that happen?
I drill a harsh glare at the crowd of cameramen, fans, hecklers, and just baffled people trying to order a fucking cheesesteak.
“Homewrecker!” a teenage girl, no older than thirteen, yells behind gathering tears. Her finger is pointed at Jack. A Woody’s cup in her grip, remnants of strawberry milkshake drizzling out.
My head is whirling. My eyes are narrowing. Blood is boiling.
“Oliveira!” Farrow calls, pushing closer with Maximoff to help defend Jack.
No. Not good. As much as I love Farrow, he comes with paparazzi, and tactically, I need to get Highland out of here before another teenager chucks their milkshake at him.
“Redford!” I shout back and raise my arm high, then point down the street.
He understands, and he takes off with his family in the other direction. Paparazzi always trail after the most famous people in the room. In this case, on the street. And every cameraman races after Maximoff’s heels.
Leaving us with this.
“You’re a HOMEWRECKER!” the girl screams the word with every fiber of her being and shrieks a shrill decibel that twitches my face.
Her friend films on a cellphone, also in tears. “Oscar is with Charlie Cobalt! What are you doing with him?!”
The moment the milkshake girl’s hatred aimed solely on Jack, I figured out where their emotions stemmed from.
Oslie.
Oscar + Charlie.
The bane of my fucking love life. And their deep attachment to Charlie Cobalt is now coming at Jack’s expense.
Highland grabs his soaked longboard, and I catch his hand in mine.
“Let go of him!” the milkshake girl cries. “You’re hurting Oscar!”
I thought I was largely desensitized to emotional outbursts, but this one is kicking my frustrated ass into rage territory. “I’m holding his hand,” I growl hotly. “Charlie is my client. We’re not together!”
