Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
#FarrowKeene just admit that you’d rather only help famous people in a lush job than do what every other doctor has to do and go through the grueling process of residency. You either couldn’t hack it or didn’t want to. Just say that and be done.
My eyes narrow at the phone screen. “Fuck them,” I say. Farrow isn’t the only doctor who practices without being board-certified. There are plenty doing good work at clinics, private practices, and the hospitals that don’t require it.
Farrow deletes the messages and blocks the number. “I’m not as angered by the tweets as I am by the fucking prick who took the time to text them to me…” he trails off, the doorbell ringing a second time. Followed by knocking.
We forget about the texts and focus on this issue. More urgently, Farrow dials the owner’s number, phone to his ear.
I stand off the sunbathing cushion and head into the airy bedroom. Natural light streaming inside. For hanging here all day, all night, the villa is pretty clean. Bed made, clothes in drawers, and wet towels drying on hooks.
I rake back my windswept hair and put on gray sweatpants.
My weatherproof duffle-suitcase lies unpacked next to a birch dresser. I can almost picture the square black ring box in the front pocket—and then the doorbell buzzes.
Again.
Almost incessantly.
That’s not the owner. My head swerves as Farrow rushes into the bedroom.
“The owner isn’t here,” he says quickly, putting on black joggers, elastic band to his waist, and my brain is reeling.
I’m pretty sure there’s a natural disaster on the other side of that door, and I think, my family. My family.
My family.
My goddamn family. I’m rigid, wading deep in crisis mode, and I grab my charged phone off the dresser. I power it on. “My family would’ve called you if they couldn’t get ahold of me?” I ask him.
Farrow lifts his brows at me. “A hundred percent. It’s not them, wolf scout.”
Knocking returns, more impatient sounding this time.
I get that my family was instructed not to come here, but there’s always an asterisk that says, unless there’s a dire emergency. If they were in trouble and needed me, I’d welcome them to interrupt everything. Like a birthday, a honeymoon, a fucking rocket takeoff to Mars.
I don’t have time to comb through the hundreds of missed group chat messages. Because the doorbell jingles again.
Farrow leans on the dresser. “I’m going to call security.” His jaw tics, irritated without a radio, which would be faster.
“Maybe the media knows we’re not in Tahiti and our location leaked.” I already know it’s unlikely before Farrow tells me.
“It’d be all over the news.”
And it’s not.
After the umpteenth doorbell ring and urgent knock, I start walking down the narrow hall. Towards a sky-blue door with a chalkboard sign that says welcome in Greek.
Farrow jogs to catch me, his inked fingers in my waistband. Pulling me back. “Wait, wolf scout.” He gives me a hard look that says we’re not doing this shit again.
Again.
Nate.
My stalker.
It’s why he’s overly cautious. Why he hasn’t bombarded the front door himself. And I can see it eating at him, having to grip onto a cell instead of a gun.
I stand like I’m ready for whatever hell exists on the other side. A war, a hurricane, I can handle it. “Bruno is at least fifteen minutes away. If that is my family, I need to answer it now.”
Farrow speaks into the phone while staring right at me. His gaze says, I’m with you; don’t go alone. “We’re fine. Someone’s at the door,” he tells security. “We’d just like a couple guys out here. Yeah, thanks.” He hangs up and then nods to the door. “I’m going first.”
He’s already passing me, his stride long and fast.
I’m right by his side.
“Stay behind me,” Farrow instructs.
I don’t remind him that he’s not my bodyguard. He still has the experience from training and being on-duty for years. But putting Farrow in danger—it’s never been as easy as putting myself in harm’s way. He’d say the exact same.
So I don’t slip behind him. I stay by his side. He has no time to call me stubborn, another fist raps the door.
Farrow puts his hand on the knob. “Who is it?!” he yells, his voice commanding and threatening all at once. My pulse pounds hard.
Silence ekes out the other end, and that…yeah, that sends my blood cold.
Farrow hisses at me, “Back up. I’m not messing around anymore.”
I glower. “You don’t even have a canister of pepper spray.” I reach for my knife on my ankle—I don’t have a fucking tactical knife on me. Or a switchblade. I feel more unprepared. And I’m not even positive what I’m supposed to be preparing for.
Farrow extends his arm over my chest. Keeping me a foot or two behind him. “I don’t need a weapon,” he whispers lowly. “You’re safe; I’ll be safe. Just stay back. Or this door stays closed until Bruno gets here. And I know neither of us will like that.”