Chapter 10 The Invitation
The Invitation
Jax
Iam well-rested.
This is a sensation so foreign to me that I actually spent the first ten minutes of my shift checking my own vitals to make sure I hadn't died.
I didn't. I just slept. For six straight hours.
In an on-call room with a rattling vent, while the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery sat on the bed bedside me and read about heart valves.
I haven't talked to Maxwell about it.
It’s been two days since the "Perimeter Incident," and we’re doing this weird dance. It’s a waltz of avoidance. He hands me coffee; I don't make a joke about it. I catch him staring at me across the tape line; he pretends he’s looking at the wall.
The air in the Fishbowl is thick enough to chew.
"You are vibrating again," Maxwell says.
I look up from my desk. I’m spinning a pen around my thumb.
"I’m not vibrating," I say. "I’m radiating kinetic potential. It’s different."
"It is annoying," he corrects, not looking up from his phone.
He’s been staring at that phone for twenty minutes. He hasn't swiped. He hasn't typed. He’s just glaring at the screen like it insulted his ancestors.
"Bad news?" I ask, leaning back in my chair. Squeak. "Stock market crash? Succulent prices plummeting?"
Maxwell sighs. It’s a heavy, tragic sound that seems to deflate his entire posture. He drops the phone onto his pristine desk.
"My mother," he says. The two words carry the weight of a terminal diagnosis.
"Ah," I say. "The Ice Queen. What does she want? Another blood sacrifice?"
"She wants a guest list," Maxwell says, rubbing his temples. "For the Annual York Family Christmas Eve-Eve Dinner."
"Christmas Eve-Eve?"
"December 23rd," he explains. "Because the 24th is for the Charity Gala, and the 25th is for... well, usually for brooding in silence, but technically for family brunch."
"Sounds festive," I say, opening a bag of pretzels. "So go. Eat some roast beast. Drink the expensive wine. endure."
"I cannot simply endure this year," Maxwell says. He stands up and walks to the window, looking out at the Trauma Bay. "She has issued an ultimatum. Apparently, my lack of a 'suitable partner' has become a topic of conversation among the Board. She has threatened to seat me next to Timothy Vance."
"Who is Timothy Vance?"
" The son of the CEO of Vance Pharmaceuticals," Maxwell says with a shudder. "He has a degree in Art History, a laugh that sounds like a dolphin choking, and he touches your arm when he speaks."
"Gross," I say sympathetically.
"She is trying to merge our families like a corporate acquisition," Maxwell says miserably. "If I go alone, I am trapped. If I bring someone, I have a buffer."
He turns around. He looks at me.
His eyes scan my face, then drop to my scrubs (wrinkled), then to my boots (muddy). He frowns.
"What?" I ask, tossing a pretzel into my mouth.
"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 like that. 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 to heavy 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 bring you..."
"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."
"And if Timothy the Dolphin tries to touch your arm?"
"You intervene," Maxwell says. "With extreme prejudice."
I lean back, considering.
This is a terrible idea. I am going to hate it. It’s going to be stiff, awkward, and full of rich people judging my table manners.
But then I think about Maxwell sitting there alone, being poked and prodded by his mother, looking for a way out.
"Fine," I say.
Maxwell exhales. "Thank you."
"But I have conditions," I add.
"Name them."
"One," I say, holding up a finger. "You buy the dry cleaning. Two, if the food is tiny and weird, we get cheeseburgers afterward. And three..."
I lean forward, mirroring his posture.
"You owe me," I say softly. "A real date. No parents. No fake. Just us."
Maxwell goes still. He stares at me. The air in the room shifts from business to heat in a heartbeat.
"Is that a condition?" he whispers. "Or a request?"
"It’s a threat, York."
Maxwell swallows. He pushes off the chair, standing up straight. He adjusts his tie, but his hands are shaking just a little.
"Acceptable terms," he says. "I will inform my mother."
"Great." I grab another pretzel. "So, do I need to learn which fork is the salad fork, or are we going for full ‘Raised by Wolves' vibe?"
"Be yourself, Jax," Maxwell says, walking back to his side of the room.
He pauses at the tape line. He looks back at me, and for the first time in days, he smiles.
A real one. "That will be more than enough to terrify her.
We'll still meet later after work to discuss some of the basics, I don't need my soldier bodyguard going into battle without all of the facts. "
"You got it, Princess."
He sits down and picks up his phone. He starts typing, tapping the screen with aggressive satisfaction.
I watch him.
I’m going to dinner with the Yorks. I’m going to be his "buffer."
But as I look at the curve of his neck and the way his shoulders have finally relaxed, I realize I’m not just doing this to annoy his mother.
I’m doing it because the idea of anyone else sitting next to him—Timothy, a Cardio colleague, anyone—makes me want to punch a wall.
I check my calendar. December 23rd.
Operation: Human Shield is a go.
Maxwell
Preparation prevents poor performance.
It is the York family motto. It is etched in Latin (Praeparatio Prevenit Defectionem) above the fireplace in my parents' library. It is why I have spent the last hour compiling a dossier on my own parents.
But intelligence is useless without real-time data.
I pick up my phone. I hesitate. Contacting the inside man is risky, but necessary.
To: Preston (The Spare)
Requesting immediate situational report. What is the current threat level at the Estate?
Code Red. Repeat: Code Red. Mother just fired the florist because she felt the poinsettias looked "aggressive." She is currently stress-eating caviar in the kitchen and threatening to sue the weather for snowing.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
I am bringing a guest. A strategic asset. Is she in a state to receive visitors?
She’s wearing the Battle Pearls, Max. She’s not looking for visitors; she’s looking for victims. Also, Father has retreated to the wine cellar. He claims he is "inventorying the Merlot," but I’m 90% sure he’s down there watching TikToks on his iPad.
Do not let her intimidate you. Maintain your position.
Too late. I told her I’m considering dropping out of prep school to become a DJ named "Trust Fund Baby." She hasn't spoken to me in four hours. It’s bliss. Good luck with your human shield. You're going to need it.
I lock the phone.
Battle Pearls. Aggressive poinsettias.
I look at the binder on my desk. I look at the section titled Conflict Resolution Strategies.
I pick up a red pen. I cross out Diplomacy. I write Survival.
I grab my coat. I need a drink before I meet Jax. Or perhaps a priest.
I'm currently sitting in a booth at The Rusty Anchor, a dive bar that smells of stale beer and regret, holding a three-ring binder.
"You brought a binder," Jax observes.
He is sitting across from me, nursing a beer. He looks entirely at home here. The dim lighting suits him. The scratching of pool cues in the background is his soundtrack.
I, on the other hand, am wearing a cashmere scarf and trying not to touch the sticky table surface.