Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Looking for something?” Farrow asks while splitting his attention between me and my mom, our lines moving forward at the same rate.
“Just my phone.” I rake my hand through my thick hair. “It’s fine. I know where it is. I just needed to make a list.”
“A list,” Farrow repeats, too amused, like I’m the most uptight, do-gooder he’s ever met. “Of course you were about to make one.”
I feign confusion. “Because I’ve shared so many lists with you before.”
He has gum in his mouth, and he slows down chewing while another smile spreads. He’s the epitome of nonchalant coolness—and I’m never telling him that. “I just meant that you’re the list type.”
Great. “So I’m more prepared than you.”
He seesaws his hand. “Not really.”
I grimace.
He laughs.
I gesture to him. “Try remembering a billion food orders without a list and see how you’d do.”
Farrow fixes his earpiece, his laughter softening. “I can remember a lot more than you.” He speaks before I protest. “You don’t need to write this shit down. Just tell me the food order. Whatever you forget, I’ll remember.”
That last part blasts on repeat in my ears.
Whatever you forget, I’ll remember.
My chest swells, and I face forward some. “I don’t want to distract you, man. You’re working.” Ahead in my line, I spot a couple teen girls snapping photos of me. Usually I don’t mind when fans approach, but I’m hoping they wait. Just so I can keep talking to him.
“You’re not distracting me, wolf scout.”
I glance back.
We stare at each other in a more intense beat. I’ve heard so many professors call me a distraction lately, that just hearing him say that—it feels better than he’ll ever know.
Farrow lifts his brows. “I can remember your little list and protect your mom at the same time. No problem.”
My little list. I blink slowly, annoyance rising, but I’m almost smiling too. I think about whether I should take him up on his offer.
It feels like just yesterday he was only the son of the concierge doctor. Last time we really talked, he came to Harvard when I called his dad about a cut that needed stitched.
I opened my dorm and found Farrow standing there with a med bag.
Not long before that, we ran into each other on the yacht at a summer bash. We barely said anything, but the interaction is permanently etched.
These split-second, freeze-frame moments are on my brain constantly and keep mounting higher. Like right now.
This instant.
I can’t shake Farrow, and it’s not just that I’m physically attracted to him. Every time I’ve been knocked down lately, he’s appeared…and I wanted him to stay.
I’m wading in the same feelings that breathe strong air into my hollowed lungs. But I didn’t come over here to receive metaphorical or literal CPR from Farrow.
While he’s away from security, this is my shot—and no, I’m not asking him out. Morally, ethically, I won’t cross that line with my family doctor’s son and my mom’s bodyguard.
“I’ve got it,” I say definitively. “You don’t need to help me.” My chest tightens.
“You sure?” He keeps his gaze on me. “I don’t mind.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I take off my olive-green backpack, unzipping the main compartment. We step forward as the line shortens.
Teenagers have departed, leaving my parents in full-on PDA-mode. My dad hugs my mom from behind and gives her a wet willy. She squeals.
I smile, their love apparent and visceral. If one of the younger kids were in view, they’d say, “Gross.” But I’m just happy that my parents are happy and healthy and together.
I dig inside the backpack, and I barely look up. Fuck. The teen girls are slinking up to me, chocolate-dipped apples in hand. My stomach sinks.
Dear World, do you have the worst timing or what? Sincerely, a bummed human.
I hate making fans feel badly, especially when these girls are already pretty tentative. It’s not like they know what they interrupted. Christ, Farrow has no clue either.
Slipping my strap back on my shoulder, I smile warmly enough that they approach more confidently.
“Can you take a selfie with us?” the girl in a cropped sweater asks.
“Yeah, definitely.” I hold her phone since I have longer arms. They gather around me, and after I snap a few, they skip away, giddy and giggling.
Farrow blows and pops a bubblegum bubble, eyeing my backpack while I hold the thing again. My mind has blanked on literally half of what my family ordered.
I’m going to have to make multiple trips.
I rummage inside, sifting past a couple philosophy books. “I’ve been meaning to return something to you.” An avalanche of nerves flip-flops my insides. I stay more stoic as I find and hand him a folded black shirt.
The black shirt.
The one he threw off the yacht so I could staunch my bloody nose on the marina’s dock. All after a fistfight with Charlie.