Page 80 of The Rebel King

“Hey.” I walk up beside him on the balcony and proffer the sweatshirt. “It’s cool out here.”

He grunts but accepts the hoodie and slides it over his head. It rumples his hair even more, and wearing the Berkeley sweatshirt, he looks so unlike the businessman the world knows. He looks more like he did the day we met when he was still a master’s student.

“You’re mad?” I ask after a few moments of silence.

Exasperation edges his sigh. “What did Kimba say?” His eyes narrow on my twitching lips. “Oh, God. Do I even want to know?”

My best friend has a way of making even the darkest times a tad brighter. “She said she knows we’re in mourning and having lots of grief sex.”

“Wow. That’s appropriate.”

“But she asked when I’ll be emerging from what she calls the ‘cry hump’ stage of grief.”

“Cry hump?” He chokes a little on his chuckle. “Like—”

“Like dry hump, yeah, but with tears, according to her definition.” I pause. “When did you last speak to Millie?”

He sighs heavily, his shoulders drooping a little like they’re carrying Millie’s grief. I know in some ways they are and he does.

“A few days ago, briefly. I could tell she didn’t want to talk. She and the twins are staying with her parents in Connecticut. I told her I’d come see them soon.”

He leans his elbows on the rail and scans the horizon, rolled out like a vibrant mural splattered with teal, chartreuse, forest green, and turquoise—a painter’s dream. We’ve learned each other differently, deeper here, and I understand his reluctance to leave it. Beyond this ranch, there are danger and cynicism andthe demands of a crumbling world. Here, he’s my only focus, and I’m his.

It’s just us.

The world belongs to us, and we have the sky to ourselves, but I know we can’t stay here forever.

“I’m sorry for my initial response,” he says. “Of course I know we have to go back at some point. I’ve actually been doing a lot of soul searching these last three weeks about what I want to do when we return.”

“Meaning?”

“I’ll still run my business, of course,” he says. “But I’ve been wondering about Owen’s legacy, trying to figure out how I keep it alive, extend it.”

“What are you considering? Like a scholarship fund? Something that supports one of his causes?”

“You know…” He chuckles, shakes his head. “For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to do next, but you said something when we were in Amsterdam.”

“Talk about a throwback. Which of the many brilliant things I said do you mean?”

He rolls his eyes but caresses the skin at my wrist. “You said you felt like a missile ready to fire with no launch codes.”

Hearing my own words in my ears again, I remember how that felt. That girl was so earnest and naive and young and principled in a way I’m not sure I can ever be again. Not like that. Those words sprung from untried convictions. The purity of idealism untouched by compromise. I still know what I believe, but I’ve learned what it takes to not only fight my battles but win as many of them as possible.

And I’ve learned every battle isn’t worth fighting.

Maxim’s phone buzzes in the pocket of his sleep pants, and he answers. After listening for a few seconds and issuing monosyllabic responses, he disconnects the call. Blowing out a long breath,he slides the phone back into his pocket, a frown plastering his handsome features.

“What is it?” I ask, my shoulders and back exercising muscle memory, tightening with concern like they haven’t the past three weeks.

“Not what. Who.”

“Then who?”

He stares back at me like he’s resigned to this world slipping away from us. “It’s my father.”

CHAPTER 33

MAXIM

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