Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
24/7.
I lower my chair legs and shift forward. Shit.
I’m ensnared without a fucking trap even being set.
“So let’s rewind,” he says. “Say that you hypothetically finished your year internship and started your residency, where would you’ve wanted to end up? Surgery or—”
“Emergency medicine.” I fiddle with the saltshaker again. “But I didn’t have a choice.”
His brows knot. “What do you mean?”
I frown. “You really don’t know?” By his sheer confusion, I realize that he never figured it out. I edge forward, arms on the table. “Maximoff…I was going to become your concierge doctor.”
12
MAXIMOFF HALE
I stiffen, my face padlocked of emotion. Except for my sharpened cheekbones. My first thought: avoiding Farrow was always going to be unavoidable. In every alternate universe, I’m stuck with him.
My second thought makes me cringe.
“What?” Farrow asks, his fingers absentmindedly nudging his silver rings. He notices how I’m eyeing his hands. His know-it-all smile fucking kills me, and I swear he’s one second from saying, do you like that?
And I think, too damn much.
I’m not sharing the intimate details of my second thought. How his father checked up on me when I was eleven and had a rash on my dick. From chlorine irritation. Imagine if that Dr. Keene had actually been Farrow—cringe with me.
I gesture to him. “I had a mild stroke at the thought of you being my doctor.” I feign surprise. “If only you were my doctor, you could actually save me right now.” My mouth falls. “What an idea.”
“You wouldn’t be talking if you had a stroke.”
I wear my irritation, and he laughs on cue, loving to pop whatever humor I cast into the world. It shouldn’t turn me on, but most people just placate me. Farrow does the opposite.
When his laughter fades, he stares at me with a peeking smile.
I bite into an ice cube, my stomach tossing in a weird way. Almost excited. “What?” I ask now.
“You want me to save you?” His brows rise with his barbells.
“I’d rather die,” I say instinctively.
“Maximoff.” He stretches closer to me. Over the table, and his voice drops to the deep, rough octave that strokes my cock. “As your bodyguard, I can’t let that happen.”
My gaze latches intensely onto his. And his brown eyes plaster onto my green. So strongly that I’m drop-dead positive we’re forcing ourselves not to look lower. Not to our lips, not to our bodies. Not to any forbidden place that’d cause disaster.
I try to master restraint, but my eyes say what my mouth can’t.
Kiss me.
He reads them.
I know he reads them, and our chests collapse and rise in heavy unison. Jesus Christ.
I can’t.
We can’t.
But I think, fucking kiss me.
Just do it.
Farrow moves his hand. To put his earpiece back in, and then he sits his ass down. “They’re coming inside, behind you.”
I turn my stiff neck, and sure enough, Janie walks through the entrance with Quinn out in front. Headed towards the table. She wears a pastel purple tulle skirt and a striped top that put her on Celebrity Crush’s Worst Dressed list this morning. She didn’t care.
I blink once, and they’ve already reached us. Jane collapses on the chair beside me, and I wrap my arm around the back of hers. I push beyond whatever the hell just happened with Farrow. I have no other choice but to move forward.
Janie very subtly glances between Farrow and me, but thankfully says nothing about any lingering tension. “Dis-moi qu’ils ont du café,” she whispers, hands in prayer formation. Please tell me they have coffee.
“Je ne sais pas.” I don’t know.
Quinn takes a seat beside Farrow and says, “Another reminder that I really need to read that French textbook Akara gave me.”
Jane’s eyes glimmer with curiosity and she places her chin on her fist, elbow to the table. “And how is that going?”
“Bien.” Good. Quinn shrugs. “It’d be easier if you two just switched to Portuguese.”
I’d tell Quinn that we don’t know Portuguese like him, but I’m super-glued to the fact that he’s actually learning French. I look at Farrow. “Did Akara give you a French textbook, too?”
“No. Because he knew it’d go straight into the dumpster.”
“I’m glad we’ve found the location of your apathy,” I tell him.
Farrow laughs. He tosses a fry in the basket and then eyes me, mostly.
My neck is on fire, and I keep rubbing my jaw.
Quinn scans the table for food. His stomach audibly grumbles. I slide the basket of fries away from Farrow and to Quinn. Farrow makes a face at me. Like I just passed his cellphone off to a stranger.
“Do you not know what sharing looks like?” I ask.
Farrow slides the fries back between me and him. “Quinn needs to learn how to order his own food.”
Quinn doesn’t let Farrow bother him. “Where’s the waitress?” he asks.
“Yes, please, coffee coffee,” Jane says. “One sugar, dollop of cream, and strapped to an IV.”