“Coffee’s just a means to an end,” he fake-growls, doing a terrible—and pretty fucking adorable—imitation of my voice. He grins as he asks, “Why does everything that comes out of your mouth sound so badass?”
“I couldn’t tell you, Mads. Conversely, why do you insist on wearing that goddamn jacket? I could see you from three blocks away.”
He pulls it around himself, sticking out his tongue. “It’s comfortable, like my very own man-overboard suit.”
My gut tightens, loving how he plays with me. Jesus, Edgerton. Get your shit together.
Putting on a stern look, I play it straight. “You’re a billionaire. We could be in your penthouse right now, having one of your staff serve us far better coffee, and you could be wearing cashmere, which I assure you feels better than this parachute safety material you’re sporting. Bonus, I wouldn’t be losing hair worried about this damn stalker popping up again.”
He eyes my hairline, then reaches up and fluffs it with elegant fingers. It’s all I can do not to lean into his delicate touch.
“Whatever. I bet your hair is afraid of falling out.”
I bat away his hand, the exact opposite of what I really want to do. He’s the mouse to my lion, always soothing me in ways he doesn’t even realize.
His grin widens as he continues to abuse me. “I’d bet real money you’re on an elimination schedule and you time your flatulence down to the second. Blinking is strictly regulated, and one assumes your breathing is on military time. I’m sure it pisses you off that you have no control over your heart rate,” he teases, placing his hand against my chest and tapping out a rhythm far too sedate for what his touch does to me.
“I just farted, and you had no idea.”
He claps, his mouth open with laughter. “Anthony, was that a joke?” He reaches into his enormous, ridiculous coat and draws out the pen and small notepad he carries everywhere. Clicking the pen, he licks the tip—probably because he saw it in an old black-and-white movie—and starts writing.
“Tuesday, midday, Anthony cracks a joke. Moderate humor…decent execution.”
“Moderate? You’re the one who brought up flatulence. I was merely working with what I had.”
He scratches out a line. “Fine. Advanced humor. But I maintain the execution was average at best. You managed not to fuck up a joke that I pitched perfectly down the middle.”
Fighting a grin, I take his pen and notepad, flipping to a clean sheet. “Dr. Madhuban Laghari. Technology chops: genius. Fashion chops: non-existent. Attitude toward his own safety: appalling. Jokes: immature at best.”
“Oh, you’re on a roll now, big guy. Next, you’ll be doing open mic night at Slapsticks.”
“Tell you what, let me put a man on you, and I’ll do it.”
Mads scrunches his nose and snatches the notepad. “Look, I know Rand cooperated with you when you were on his watch, but I saw him go from running in the park every day to taking a damn underground tunnel to work because your security team deemed it so. He might be okay with that closed-off life, but I came to New York to be around everyone.” Sighing, he continues, “Not that it matters. I got megarich and now I’m spending a small fortune to essentially separate myself from the general population.”
“That must be so hard for you,” I deadpan. He glowers at me and I hold up my hands, realizing that he’s serious. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, Mads.”
He scoffs. “That’s how you security types justify invading our lives, Anthony, without any regard for privacy. When I was fourteen, I watched my bodyguard hand my homophobic father the diary in which I’d written my most intimate thoughts about the boy I had a crush on. Believe me, I learned my lesson.”
I start to retort, but he waves me off. “Within a month, I was put on a plane by myself, shipped to a country I’d never been to before, and enrolled in a private school my father had me pick from a list. So no, I will not let you put a body on me.”
No wonder he doesn’t trust me; he’s had to depend on himself for far longer than he should’ve. Fuck, I wish I could pull him into my arms.
Focus, Edge.
“But you’re not that kid anymore, Mads.”
He clenches his jaw. “Sorry, friend. Those are the terms of our agreement, deal or no deal.”
Even though it frustrates me, he was genuinely scared today. I need to stop piling on.
“Okay. Deal. But I get to nag you about this at least once a week,” I tease, hoping for a smile.
“Every other week and never on poker nights,” he sniffs, taking an imperious sip of his ridicu-latte.
“Fine.”
I'm happier than I let on to see his humor intact. He's doing a shit job of covering up how afraid he actually got, though I'm glad I finally understand why he's so stubborn about having coverage.