Max opens the envelope. He slides the silver key into his palm.
"A key?"
"To my place," I say. "I know it’s messy. I know the radiator clanks. But I want you to have a place where you don't have to be the Chief. Where you don't have to be a York. You can just be Max."
Max stares at the key. His hand is trembling.
"You still want me?" he whispers. "After I tried to manage your life?"
"Max, you just saved my life. I think we’re even. Besides..." I smirk. "I need someone to organize my sock drawer. It’s a disaster zone."
Max laughs, and a tear spills over. He leans down and kisses me. It’s gentle, terrified of hurting me, but full of desperate need.
"I accept the mission," he whispers against my lips.
He climbs into the bed next to me, careful of the wires. He rests his head on my shoulder.
"Vital signs are stable," Max murmurs, listening to my heart. "Sinus rhythm."
"Vital signs?" I ask.
"Perfect," he says. "Absolutely perfect."
I close my eyes. I have broken ribs, a concussion, and I know way too much about Alistair York’s boarding school days.
But I have the key in his hand. And I have Maxwell York in my arms.
Best Christmas ever.
Chapter 20
Black Tie Gala
Preston
There are three things you need to know about being a York.
One: Emotions are considered a tactical error, akin to wearing brown shoes after 6:00 PM. Two: Money doesn't buy happiness, but it does buy excellent soundproofing, which is vital when your mother is currently screaming at a florist about the "aggressive" shade of the hydrangeas. Three: Being the "Spare" is actually the best gig in the world because nobody cares if you eat cereal for dinner, listen to industrial techno, or plan to major in "Vibes."
I am currently sitting on the counter of the kitchen in the York Estate, eating dry Froot Loops out of the box and watching the apocalypse.
"It is a disaster!" Mother shrieks, throwing a linen napkin onto the island like a gauntlet. "A catastrophe! The centrepieces are wilting, the lighting designer is trying to make us look like a nightclub, and the guest of honour is a... acowboy!"
Father is sitting at the kitchen table, reading theWall Street Journaland drinking coffee from a cup that costs more than my car. He looks delighted.
"He’s a surgeon, Catherine," Father corrects without looking up. "And a war hero. The press loves him. ThePostcalled him 'Dr. Dreamy.' I believe that is a good thing. Though I would have gone with 'Dr. Steamy,' personally."
"Alistair, be serious!" Mother hisses. She begins pacing, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the marble. "He has tattoos. Visible ones. He drives a vehicle that looks like it was scavenged from a war zone and then set on fire."
"Itwasscavenged from a war zone," I chime in, crunching a red loop. "That’s the aesthetic, Mother. It’s called 'post-apocalyptic chic.' Very trendy. You wouldn't understand."
Mother turns her laser gaze on me. "Preston, get off the counter. You look like a gargoyle. And stop eating that chemical dye. It will rot your brain."
I don't move. "My brain is already rotted. I watched three hours of reality television this morning. I’m pretty sure I lost the ability to do long division."
Mother flinches. "Do not joke about your potential."
That’s the thing about Maxwell. For thirty-six years, he’s been the Golden Child. The Perfect Son. He did the grades, the medical school, the prestigious specialty. He let Mother dress him and Father manage his trust fund. He was boring.
