Chapter 20 #2
"You’re nervous," Jax grins. "Don't be. You’re the hero, remember? You saved the Trauma Cowboy."
"I did not save you," I mutter. "I merely prevented you from freezing to death due to your own lack of self-preservation."
"Same thing."
He reaches out. In the middle of the crowded foyer, surrounded by the elite of the city, he takes my hand.
His grip is warm, rough, and solid.
"Ready to storm the castle, Princess?"
I look at him. I look at the doors to the ballroom.
"Ready," I say.
We walk in.
The room goes quiet. I don't think I’m imagining it. The chatter dies down. Heads turn. The spotlight is instantaneous.
Everyone knows. The story of the blizzard rescue was in the Times this morning. "Top Surgeons Risk Lives in Dramatic Bus Rescue." There was a picture of me gripping the gurney, covered in snow, looking at Jax like he was the only thing on earth.
We walk through the crowd. The sea parts.
"Dr. York!" A donor I have avoided for three years rushes forward. "Incredible work! Just incredible! And this must be the famous Dr. O'Connell!"
Jax smiles. It is his "Patient Relations" smile—charming, disarming, and entirely fake.
"Nice to meet you," Jax says, shaking the man’s hand with a grip that I know could crush bone. "Please, call me Jax. 'Dr. O'Connell' makes me sound like I pay my taxes on time."
The donor laughs nervously.
We move through the room. It is a gauntlet of handshakes and back-slapping.
"They love you," I observe as we grab glasses of champagne from a passing tray.
"They love the story," Jax corrects, taking a sip. "They love the idea of the rough-and-tumble vet and the posh surgeon. It’s a Hallmark movie, Max. We’re just the actors."
"I am not acting," I say, looking at him.
Jax’s eyes soften. "I know."
"Maxwell."
The voice cuts through the noise like a scalpel.
I turn.
My mother is standing there.
She is wearing a silver gown that looks like it is made of liquid mercury. She is flanked by two Board members and, for some reason, the Mayor.
She looks at me. Then she looks at Jax. She looks at his boots. She looks at his unbuttoned collar. She looks at our joined hands.
For a second, I brace myself. I wait for the criticism. I wait for the "unsuitable."
But then, she looks around the room. She sees the donors watching. She sees the admiration in their eyes. She calculates the social capital.
Catherine York smiles. It is terrifying.
"Maxwell," she says, gliding forward. "And Dr. O'Connell. We were just discussing your... heroics."
She extends a hand to Jax.
"You scrub up well, Dr. O'Connell," she says. "Although the boots are a bold choice."
Jax takes her hand. He doesn't kiss it. He shakes it firmly.
"Tactical choice, Mrs. York," Jax says smoothly. "In case the shrimp cocktail turns violent. One can never be too careful."
The Mayor laughs. The Board members laugh.
Catherine’s smile tightens, but she doesn't let it drop.
"Indeed," she says. "Well. Don't monopolize the Mayor, Maxwell. We need his approval for the new wing."
She turns to go.
"Mother," I say.
She stops.
"Jax is not a prop," I say quietly. "And he is not a PR stunt. He is my partner."
Catherine looks at me. Really looks at me. She sees the steel in my spine that she didn't put there.
"I know, Maxwell," she says, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "Your father made that... abundantly clear."
She glances at Jax again.
"Try not to break him, Dr. O'Connell," she says. "He scratches easily."
"I’ll buff out the dents, ma'am," Jax promises.
She nods once and sweeps away.
I let out a breath.
"That went well," Jax says. "She didn't even threaten to sue me."
"Progress," I agree.
"Hey." Jax nudges me. "Target acquired. Ten o'clock."
I follow his gaze.
In the corner, comfortably ensconced near the VIP bar, are Alistair and Preston.
It is a tableau of pure, unadulterated York rebellion.
Alistair is holding a tumbler of scotch, looking like a king surveying his slightly disappointing kingdom. Beside him is Preston. My little brother is wearing a tuxedo, but over it, he is wearing a brand-new, stiff leather motorcycle jacket. He is also wearing sunglasses. Inside. At night.
"Oh god," I groan. "He looks like a failed audition for The Matrix."
"He looks cool," Jax corrects, grinning. "Let’s go say hi."
We walk over. Alistair sees us coming and raises his glass.
"Ah," Alistair booms, his voice carrying over the string quartet. "The conquering heroes return! And look, O'Connell, you’re wearing the boots! Excellent. Very 'revolutionary chic.'"
"Good evening, Alistair," Jax says. "Preston. Nice jacket."
"Preston," I say, eyeing his sunglasses and the stiff leather motorcycle jacket he has chosen to wear over his tuxedo. "It is 8:00 PM. We are indoors. Are you suffering from a migraine, or just a lack of fashion sense?"
Preston ignores the insult entirely.
"I’m incognito," Preston says, lowering the glasses to wink at Jax. "Mother is on the warpath. She’s trying to set me up with the debutante daughter of the Zinc Mining CEO. I need an extract plan."
He looks at Jax with sudden intensity.
"You have the Jeep, right? It’s parked out front?"
"Valet has it," Jax says, sipping his champagne. "Why?"
"I need you to stage a kidnapping," Preston says seriously. "Just grab me, throw me over your shoulder, and yell something about 'National Security.' Alistair will cover the legal fees."
Alistair nods in agreement, looking delighted. "I would pay to see that. It would ruin the debutante's evening, which is a bonus."
"I can't kidnap you, kid," Jax laughs. "I’m pretty sure that violates my Hippocratic Oath. Or at least the hospital bylaws."
"Fine," Preston sighs, sliding his glasses back up. "Then teach me how to hotwire the Mayor's limo later. It’s the long black one. I think I can fit through the sunroof."
"Preston," I warn.
"Relax, Maxwell." Preston shrugs. He runs a hand down his leather lapel. "And about the jacket... Father says it disrupts the visual harmony of the event. It’s a statement piece."
"The statement being 'I am eighteen and have a trust fund,'" I point out.
"The statement being 'I have a lock-pick set in the inner pocket,'" Preston counters, grinning at Jax. "Thanks for the tip on the tension wrench, Jax. I broke into the wine cellar this afternoon."
"Preston!" I snap.
"Relax, Maxwell," Alistair waves a hand. "He didn't steal anything. He just rearranged the vintages to confuse the sommelier. It was hilarious. The man nearly cried when he found the Merlot in the Pinot section."
Alistair claps Preston on the shoulder.
"The boy shows promise. I’m thinking of letting him handle the hostile takeovers next quarter."
"Please don't," I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. "One agent of chaos in the family is enough."
"Nonsense," Alistair says cheerfully. "Chaos is a ladder, Maxwell. Besides, we’re celebrating! I just won a bet with the Bishop."
"You’re betting with the clergy?" Jax asks.
"He bet that Catherine wouldn't let you two in the door," Alistair says. "I gave him three-to-one odds. I am now the proud owner of a very rare bottle of holy water. I plan to use it to make a martini. I shall call it 'The Absolution.'"
Jax laughs, a loud, genuine sound that makes several donors clutch their pearls.
"You’re terrible, Alistair," Jax says.
"I am liberated," Alistair corrects. He leans in, his eyes twinkling. "By the way, O'Connell, I saw the Betting Pool numbers in the faculty lounge."
"You were in the faculty lounge?" I ask, horrified.
"I own the building, Maxwell. I go where I please. Anyway," he turns back to Jax. "The spread on you two lasting six months is tightening. I put ten thousand on 'Indefinitely.' Don't disappoint me. I hate losing money."
"No pressure," Jax says dryly.
"None at all," Alistair agrees. He checks his watch. "Now, if you’ll excuse us, Preston and I are going to go stand near the ice sculpture and make loud, disparaging comments about its structural integrity until it melts. It annoys your mother."
"Have fun," Preston says, sliding his sunglasses back up. "Dr. Dreamy."
Jax chokes on his champagne.
Alistair and Preston clink glasses—Preston is definitely drinking real champagne—and saunter off toward the ice sculpture, looking like the world’s most expensive partners in crime.
"Your family," Jax says, wiping his mouth, "is absolutely insane."
"They are acquiring character," I say weakly. "It is a terrifying process."
"I like them," Jax decides. "Especially Preston. The kid’s got potential. If the whole 'Spare Heir' thing doesn't work out, I could use a spotter in the field."
"You are not taking my brother into a combat zone."
"The Gala is a combat zone, Max. Look at those shrimp forks. They’re lethal."
The band starts to play. It’s a slow song. Jazz.
"Dance with me," I say, desperate to escape the sight of my father poking the ice swan with his cane.
Jax freezes. "Max. People are watching."
"Let them watch," I say. "I want to inspect the perimeter of the dance floor."
Jax grins. "You’re using my lines against me."
"Is it working?"
"Yeah. It’s working."
He puts his glass down. He takes my hand.
We walk onto the floor.
He pulls me close. His arm wraps around my waist, his hand splaying warm and possessive over the small of my back. I rest my hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the wool.
We move.
We are not the best dancers in the room. Jax leads with a bit too much force, and I am stiff. But we fit.
I look around the room. The chandeliers are sparkling. The elite of the city are watching.
I don't care.
I look at Jax. I look at the scar on his forehead from the crash. I look at the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles at me.
"What are you thinking, Chief?" Jax whispers.
"I am thinking," I say, leaning in to brush my lips against his ear, "that I have never liked the chaotic variable. But I am willing to make an exception."
Jax laughs. He spins me, a move that is entirely showy and ridiculous, and pulls me back into his chest.
"Merry Christmas, Max," he says.
"Merry Christmas, Jax."
We keep dancing. The music plays. The snow falls outside.
And for the first time in my life, everything is exactly where it is supposed to be.