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)
Farrow comes closer. “We’re fine with it, Lo. She’s harmless to us.”
“Totally invisible,” I add. “And I’m pretty sure security is going to be all over her.”
Security Force Omega is Farrow’s family, and they won’t let the media or untrustworthy guests fuck-up our wedding day.
But I have to ask again, “She’s stopped harassing you? It helped?”
Ryke nods in confirmation.
“Yeah, she did stop,” my dad says. “It’s helped.” Clear as day, appreciation pools in eyes. “You both shouldn’t have had to do that, but I’m selfishly happy you did. Thank you.”
We nod, and my dad hugs Farrow.
When he embraces me, my dad pats my back for an extended beat, and we hold on longer while he whispers, “I love you, bud, and I’m grateful for you every goddamn day. And I can’t wait to see you marry the man of your dreams.”
It’s a phrase that stays with me.
Man of your dreams.
Because for the longest time, I never dreamed about a future where I’d have anything more than one-night stands and bachelorhood.
But God, Farrow is the biggest present daydream and future dream, and if I look back, I know he was a past dream too. I’m trying not to swoon, even as my uncle and dad leave for the shed. To pour out the whiskey in the grass.
Ryke lowers the bottle to his side and wraps an arm around my dad. “That was fucking mature of you, little brother.”
“Maybe my new therapist is rubbing off on me.”
Farrow tenses.
I hold his hand and lower my voice. “Should we tell him before the wedding—about Kaden? Because if we don’t, Kaden will be flying to Capri with my mom’s therapist.”
Farrow rolls his eyes. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
He combs his other hand through his hair. And we watch Ryke dump the alcohol. I’m conflicted, but I think Farrow is a billion times more so. He always puts me first.
“I’m wrestling with this,” he admits to me, his voice a deep whisper.
I turn into his chest, practically eye-level. “What does your gut say?”
“Wait. Don’t jump the gun out of jealousy and territorial shit.”
My mouth does this weird thing.
His eyes brush over my lips. “You’re smiling.”
“Am I?” I smile more. “It’s just…I didn’t realize you were jealous. I just thought you were being protective.”
His mouth stretches upward, his knowing smile confusing me.
“What?” I ask.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been jealous of other dipshits with you or who’ve hit on you, but it’s cute that you think it is.”
I’d usually have a good response, and I have noticed his jealousy other times before—but he makes me think there’ve been a million more instances that I’ve missed. “When? Where?” I sound too damn eager.
“You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”
“Mine will take a solid century.”
He grabs my wrist and checks the time. “We have seventy-years until we die, give or take.”
Yeah.
I can work with that.
19
FARROW KEENE
I don’t love keeping things from Maximoff, but today’s “covert op” called for a little white lie. And I’m not alone in this.
Thatcher Moretti delivered the same line to Jane this morning—that we have an important security meeting to attend—so we’ve made this bed together. However uncomfortable it is.
He turns the SUV (a security vehicle) on a back-alley street, so narrow that the car barely fucking fits. I could roll down my window and touch the wall easily.
I scoop a spoonful of microwaved oatmeal. “I think this might be a pedestrian alleyway.”
He side-eyes me. “You really care I’m driving through it?”
“No, I do not.” I lean an arm on the door and eat my lunch. Security chatter soft in my earpiece. I’m listening in for anything from the temp that’s guarding Maximoff today.
The car bumps over warped asphalt. “How’s our tail?” Thatcher asks.
I check the rear windshield over my shoulder. “Paparazzi are definitely gone.”
“We’re good to go then.” He drives back on the actual road.
Cries escalate in the backseat, and he glances at Ripley through the rearview mirror. Five-months-old now, he does his normal screaming routine, this time buckled securely in a car seat.
Thatcher strengthens his grip on the wheel. “You had to bring your baby.”
I roll my eyes and grab Ripley’s yellow parrot from his diaper bag. “Maximoff is working, and I’m not dropping Ripley off with someone else. So yeah, this had to happen, Mom.” I give him a look. “Where’s your cat anyway? She deep-throat Ben’s cockatiel yet.”
Thatcher cringes. “Don’t say that around Jane.”
“I’m not; I’m saying it around you.” I unsnap my seatbelt and pass Ripley his stuffed animal. He quiets, the trick working for now. “Let’s make a deal,” I tell Ripley. “When you can talk, just promise me you don’t name that parrot anything wolf scout suggests. Give me that, at the very least.”
Ripley lets out a giggle.
I’ll take it.
Returning to my seat and food, Thatcher glances at me, then the road. “Do you really want to know where the cat is?”