"It is a machine," I say softly. "The heart. It is valves and pressure gradients and electrical impulses. It is logical. If it breaks, there is a reason. If I fix it, it works."
I look down at my hands.
"People are messy," I admit. "Emotions are messy. But the heart... the heart is just a pump. I can understand a pump."
Jax reaches across the table. He covers my hand with his again. This time, I don't need to be told to relax. I turn my palm up, interlacing our fingers instinctively.
"You’re wrong, you know," he says.
"About what?"
"It’s not just a pump, Max," he says. His thumb rubs over my knuckles. "It’s where you keep the good stuff. The courage. The fear. The part of you that covered me with your own sweater when I was cold."
I look at him. My heart—my logical, mechanical pump—does a traitorous flutter.
"That isn't medically accurate," I whisper.
"Maybe not," Jax smiles. "But it’s true."
He finisheshis beer.
"Okay," he says. "I think I’m ready. I know your favorite color, I know your daddy issues, and I know you’re a secret romantic who watchesCasablanca."
"I am not a romantic."
"We’ll see." He stands up. "Come on. Let’s get out of here before you catch hepatitis from the table."
I stand up. I grab the binder.
"You really think we can pull this off?" I ask.
Jax looks at me. He winks.
"Max, we hacked a robotic surgery protocol in three hours. We can handle a dinner party."
He opens the door for me.
"After you, partner."
I walk out into the cold night air. I feel prepared. But not because of the binder.
Because of him.
Chapter 11
Clean Up
Maxwell
There are crimes against humanity, and then there is the garment Jax O’Connell is currently holding up in front of me.
"It’s a classic," Jax says defensively, shaking the hanger.
"It is an abomination," I correct him.
We are standing in the living room of Jax’s apartment. It is exactly what I expected: a converted loft with exposed brick, minimal furniture, a guitar in the corner, and a distinct lack of coasters.
I stare at the suit. It is black. It is shiny. It is, I suspect, one hundred percent polyester.
