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)
He blinks rapidly.
“You’re okay,” I assert.
He turns around and bolts to the nearest stall. Kneecaps skidding to the floor. I follow quickly, bending down behind him. He sticks two fingers in his mouth. Maximoff.
I rub his back in circular motions, and the contents of tonight fill the toilet.
“You’re okay,” I whisper.
His body heaves.
I wish I’d been here earlier.
I’m here now.
Several more minutes pass, he’s white-knuckling the toilet, and he starts puking up bile.
“Relax, there’s nothing left to vomit.” I squeeze his shoulder. “You’re okay. Just back up.” I reach over and flush the toilet.
He falls back on his ass and slumps against my body and the stall. I have a protective arm around his shoulders, and I touch the back of his skull in affection. “You’re okay.”
His knees are bent, palms rubbing over them. Horror-stricken eyes meet mine. “Am I drunk?”
“I don’t think so.” I scan him quickly. “How many glasses did you have?”
“Five.” His reddening eyes fix on the ceiling. “Some temp bodyguards were tasting them for me.”
I’m fucking pissed at these green dipshits. “Not all five cups were spiked. At least one was nonalcoholic.” The one I tasted.
He cringes. “I should’ve been drinking water. I always drink water at bars.” He groans. “But of course, I just wanted tonight to be fucking special and different.” Both hands rise to his head and he threads his fingers through his hair in distress.
“You’re allowed to order a lemonade. The temps should’ve been able to tell the drinks were spiked. That’s their job, Maximoff.”
He keeps shaking his head. “I’m not…I…fuck.” He takes a deeper breath, staring at Sharpie on the stall, then right at me. “I’m not sober.”
Those three words stale the air.
“How do you feel?” My voice is deep and soft.
“My head throbs.” He grips my thigh, turning more to face me, and our bent knees knock together. His tongue wets his dried lips. “Everything’s kind of fuzzy. But not like the time I had the pot cookie. I hated that feeling. It was like having the stereo in my head turned up too loud.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “This feels like it’s cranked down. Everything’s soft.” He blinks slowly, his eyes bloodshot.
“It’s okay,” I remind him.
“Farrow…I don’t want to like it.” Fear cracks his voice.
“Hey.” My hand encases his jaw, and his chest rises in a deeper breath and I tell him, “You had, maybe, two spiked glasses, which isn’t much, and you puked up a lot. There’s nothing to like.”
He nods strongly and then he lets out a weak laugh. “I guess you can kiss me.” He grimaces into a pained wince.
We’re both near tears.
I don’t kiss him. I pull Maximoff against my chest, my pulse drumming hard, and we clutch each other around the shoulders. Not letting go.
He mutters something about leaving.
I’m going to get him out of here.
27
MAXIMOFF HALE
Our Key West rental house has a tiny private beach. Mangroves and orange trees fence the property from neighbors. Grass juts up in the white sand, and the moon casts a bright glow over the water, lapping softly against the shore.
Kayaks and canoes are piled up on a rack, and I’m on a lounge chair on this beautiful beach. Trying to soak in the peace of tonight and how Farrow is straddling the lounge chair behind me, massaging my tensed back. His knuckles run down the tight muscles. His thumbs work fucking wonders on my traps.
I almost loosen up.
And after a while, I look over at him. “Lean back.”
He doesn’t even joke about it. Farrow just eases back against the partially inclined lounge chair, and he stretches out his feet. Knowing I’m not looking to fit between his legs.
We’re pretty much side-by-side. But to make room, his calf is hiked over mine, and our shoulders overlap. Mine atop his.
I’m holding a baby monitor, and Farrow shifts my hand so he can see the screen. Ripley is curled up in a crib. He sleeps through the night now.
I can’t wait to give him a hug in the morning.
Yeah, I’m thinking about everything but what happened.
Farrow runs his fingers through my thick hair, and we stare out at the dark ocean. I fit some of his silver rings on my fingers and slide them off in my palm. My hand tightens in a fist around them.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His rough and silky voice just calms me.
I blink back the sentiment that sears my eyes. “I think…” I shake my head, scrounging up deceased words that I’ve been killing all night. Something wet drips down my jaw. It’s weird being able to cry so easily now.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
I inhale a stronger breath and slide his rings on my fingers. “I’ve always been sober, and I don’t care about some gold card sobriety award. But people will mention it, and I can’t lie and like…” I pinch my eyes. “I’m going to have to tell my family.” I sit up, so my eyes are on his. “How do I keep explaining this night without ruining it? Because I loved so damn much of our bachelor parties, and this is a stain that everyone will see. I don’t want our wedding month to be synonymous with me drinking alcohol.”