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)
My car clock blinks 8:12 a.m. before I shut off the ignition. Farrow already unclips his seatbelt and tucks the folded papers into his back pocket. He acts like he’s just visiting, but my bodyguard is moving in.
That’s right.
This isn’t a welcome to my life sitcom. This is a you’ve joined my life drama or possibly, a horror story.
It’s too soon to tell which.
At least we’re not about to be roommates. Above this garage are two identical townhouses that sit side-by-side and share an adjoining door on the first floor. All for easy access.
Security stays in the right townhouse.
Jane and I stay in the left one.
Farrow barely even takes a second to digest his surroundings. I know that he knows he’s moving in—there are two suitcases and a black duffel in my trunk to prove it.
I unbuckle. “Do you need anything else? I can pick up something for you at the store.” I almost groan at myself. Why the hell am I asking Farrow this? I’m on automatic and someone needs to switch me to manual, quick.
He pauses, his hand on the door handle. As he glances at me, his lips rise. “That’s cute that you’re pretending you can go to the store without me.”
“I wasn’t pretending.” I pocket my keys and push open my door. “I just omitted the fact.” For my own sanity. I’m highly aware that Farrow is now obligated to follow me everywhere. Highly aware. I can’t exactly pretend that this twenty-seven-year-old tattooed guy is some random barnacle that attached itself to my ship.
He’s my fucking co-captain right now.
And I’m not thrilled.
In case I didn’t make that vitally clear.
We climb out of the Audi and shut our doors in unison. I pop the trunk, and while I grab his largest suitcase, I tell him, “I retract my offer.”
“That’s too bad,” Farrow says in a serious tone, slinging his duffel on his shoulder, “I forgot shampoo and conditioner.”
“You can borrow mine—Jesus fucking Christ,” I growl at myself, wanting to be an asshat to him for at least two seconds.
Farrow laughs like he won. “I just now remember. I have shampoo and conditioner.”
I glare and remove his second suitcase while holding the other. “You’re an asshole.”
“You’re pure of heart. What else is still the same?” Farrow tries to take the larger suitcase from me.
I tug it out of his grip. “I can carry it for you.”
He gives me a look. “You’re not earning a valor merit badge. I can carry my own shit.” He adjusts the strap of his duffel. “But to be kind, I’ll let you roll in the little one.”
“Oh thanks,” I say dryly and then I shove the little one in his chest and keep the larger one.
We’re two alpha males, and it becomes extremely apparent during these pointless fights. Where we want to carry the heavier suitcase.
I’m just used to helping out, especially since I have a large extended family and I’m the oldest guy. And Farrow—his whole job, his whole upbringing has been about duty and aid towards others. We’re like lightning and thunder, inherently different but alike enough to share the same sky.
Farrow doesn’t argue for the larger suitcase.
So I shut my trunk. “You remember which is which?” I nod to the two entrances. He’s been here before as my mom’s bodyguard.
Farrow keeps his gaze on mine. “Left door goes to Azkaban. Right to Mordor.”
I stare at him like he just grew antlers. I’m the one who cracks the pop culture references. Farrow doesn’t even like fantasy.
He tolerates it like someone who hates mayo and eats it on a turkey sandwich.
“You’ve been hanging around my mom too long?” I question. I have comic-book-loving, pop-culture-obsessed parents. The coolest. I’m sure the two Meadows girls and the seven Cobalt children would protest and say their parents are cool, but there’s no comparison.
Hands down, mine are the goddamn best.
Farrow slowly licks his bottom lip into a smile. My muscles contract, and I try to focus on his eyes and not his mouth. Not his mouth.
“No,” he says. “It’s an inside joke with the whole security team.”
I’m surprised he’s sharing this with me. “Seriously?”
He nods, and we head to the right door. What he called Mordor. “I was told that this one started with your little brother. His bodyguard repeated the joke to another bodyguard, and it spread.”
I could see Xander making a comment about Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings. Easily.
We head up the few stairs, and I wait on one below him and place the suitcase on its wheels.
Farrow searches for his key in his pocket. “Declan didn’t talk to you that often, did he?”
I go still, my apprehension filling the garage. In hindsight, I wonder if I was supposed to make a greater effort to know my bodyguard personally. Was I being rude? What if all that time, he wanted me to pry into his fucking life, and I thought I was just respecting his space.