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)
Outwardly, I’m stoic.
Inwardly, I’m kicking my ass into another galaxy for not being more careful. My muscle throbs like a dull hammer. Just so you understand, I’m not dropping my arm.
I plan to hold my boyfriend.
So I’m fucking holding his shoulders. Sex is already challenging with the sling. I don’t want to eliminate the forms of physical affection that I can finally, finally do in public.
As we near the pizzeria, Farrow sweeps my build a couple times. Trying to study my state of being. He must’ve felt my body tighten. Flashes blink on my face like strobe lights in a horror film. So there’s no way he’s reading the pain that I barely reveal.
“Why hasn’t Loren tweeted about your relationship like Lily?!”
My sore muscles bind at the mention of my parents. Farrow’s carefree stride never grows panicked or pissed.
He knows my dad isn’t enthusiastic about any couple relationships online. Not even his own brother’s. He mockingly calls my uncle and aunt raisins.
On the semi-flipside, my mom overcompensates and will tweet fifty times a day about us:
#Marrow for life!
This is what love looks like #Marrow
Proud mom #Marrow
Fans created our couple ship name, and it really stuck after my mom used it.
“Does Loren not approve of your relationship—”
I cut in, “He does approve.” My dad is just overprotective, and I think he feels like a better dad if he gives my significant other a hard time.
“I love you!! I love you!!”
Farrow picks up his pace. Purposefully so that my arm will fall off his shoulder. When it does, he swiftly catches my hand, and I lengthen my stride. In line with him again.
I replay his smooth as fuck movement over and over and over. My blood starts pooling south. I’m agitated and unbelievably hot. Probably because I’m annoyed. Annoyance turns me on. Christ, that’s a weird thought.
We ascend a couple cement steps to the pizzeria. A glass entrance in sight. Last-ditch questions erupt in the air. Most about my parents and Farrow.
But our heads swerve back at this one:
“Did Farrow force you to quit the auction?!”
I glower. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
All of them thirst after that topic. Too many voices jumble.
“Slow down,” Farrow snaps at the paparazzi.
They let the middle-aged photographer speak. “Celebrity Crush published an article tonight. Maximoff would never quit a charity event, and you’re the only thing that’s different in his life.”
“The only thing that’s different? I got into a fucking car accident!” I yell, my neck straining. “Because your friends sped after my little cousin’s car on a goddamn highway!”
“They weren’t our friends!” They all disassociate.
Farrow rolls his eyes.
We’ve both seen these faces before. Paparazzi in Philly are a tight network of people who call each other when they spot someone in my family. Then they rush out and capture a money-shot.
I’ve always tried to empathize with them. And I get it.
This is their job.
But this is my life.
And they need to know… “It was my choice to quit the auction,” I almost growl, needing to defend him. “Not Farrow’s. If anyone is territorial in this relationship.” I motion back and forth between his chest and mine. “It’s me.”
Farrow tilts his head at me, his eyes raking me up and down. And he says, “I’m just as territorial of you, wolf scout.”
He’s not letting me take all the heat to protect him.
We are a publicist’s worst nightmare. Setting fire to our public images out of stubborn love.
Tony’s Pizza smells like greasy cheese and beer, and after a half hour, it’s completely packed. Rowdy kids in soccer jerseys span a long checkered-cloth table and help drown out the paparazzi outside. So do the mounted televisions that air the Stanley Cup and NBA playoffs.
But not much can distract my stupidly in love brain from him.
“It’s not that bad,” I say while I pick black olives off my slice of supreme pizza and look up at Farrow, whose brows rise the longer I defend my motorcycle’s capabilities.
Our table is against the wall, and behind Farrow, an orange neon sign hangs that says true love with a pizza between the words. I keep skimming him.
All of him.
He sits slightly sideways. His tattooed arm hangs casually over the back of his wooden chair, and he set the sole of his boot on the empty seat next to him.
Farrow Redford Keene is infuriatingly cool, and God, I can’t believe he’s mine.
I’ll never get over it. To think that I’d be here one day. On a public date with the only guy I’ve ever truly needed or wanted—it’s a dream.
He watches me checking him out, and then his gaze drops down my naturally rigid body in a sweltering wave.
I’m aware that I look ready for an Armageddon. I always fucking do. But I think about how Farrow is attracted to that part of me. To every part of me. I’m already comfortable in my skin, but he makes me love who I am times infinity.