"No," Maxwell mutters to himself. "Impossible. She would eat him alive."
"Hey," I say, offended. "I’m right here. And I’m indigestible."
Maxwell walks back to his desk. He leans against the edge, crossing his arms. He studies me like I’m a complex surgical puzzle.
"Jax," he starts.
"Max," I reply.
"Do you own a suit?"
I choke on my pretzel.
"A suit?" I cough, pounding my chest. "I mean... technically? I have one. From a funeral three years ago. It smells like mothballs and regret."
"It can be dry cleaned," Maxwell decides. "What are you doing on the evening of December 23rd?"
"Working," I say immediately. "I picked up a shift so O’Malley could go to his kid’s pageant."
"I will pay O’Malley double to take it back," Maxwell says. "I need you."
The words hang in the air.I need you.
He doesn't mean it likethat. He means he needs a tactical asset. But my heart does a traitorous double-tap anyway.
"You want me to go to dinner with your parents?" I ask slowly. "Max, look at me. I’m a trauma surgeon who listens toheavy metal and eats vending machine debris. Your mother looked at me like I was a cockroach on her Persian rug. I am not exactly 'York Family Material.'"
"Exactly," Maxwell says. A small, dangerous smile curls the corner of his mouth. "You are the nuclear option."
"Excuse me?"
"If I bring Timothy, she wins," Maxwell explains, pacing now. "If I bring a colleague from Cardio, she will grill them on their publication history. But if I bringyou..."
"The cockroach," I supply helpfully.
"The barbarian," he corrects. "You are loud. You are unpolished. You have tattoos."
"I’m feeling so wooed right now."
"You are impervious to her," Maxwell says, stopping in front of me. He leans down, resting his hands on the arms of my chair, trapping me. "She cannot shame you because you do not care. She cannot intimidate you because you have seen worse things than a disapproval in a Chanel suit."
He’s close. I can smell the sandalwood again.
"I need a shield, Jax," he says softly. His blue eyes are intense, pleading. "I need someone who can walk into that lion’s den and not get eaten. I need you to sit next to me, drink her scotch, and keep her away from me."
I look at him.
I see the panic behind the control. I remember the way he looked when she was in the office—like a little boy waiting to be punished.
I hate her. I haven't even had dinner with her yet, and I hate her for making him look like this.
"So," I say, trying to keep my voice light. "You want me to be your fake date."
Maxwell winces. "I prefer the term 'strategic companion.'"
"Fake boyfriend," I clarify. "We hold hands? We gaze into each other’s eyes?"
Maxwell’s gaze drops to my lips. "If necessary to maintain the ruse."
