Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
And his many tattoos are on full display. Blood-red swallows fly through the mast of two pirate ships, symmetrical near his collarbones. Between them, half of a skull is inked on his sternum. A candle burns at his wrist, smoke billowing up his forearm and bicep to swarm another skull and crossbones on his shoulder.
Plus more. All black and gray except for the colorful birds. All striking.
His body is an art piece, and he knows it.
Look up.
I need to look up, and the moment my eyes hit his eyes, he’s full-on smiling that know-it-all smile. His barbell lifts with his brows. He definitely caught me checking him out.
I scribble a giant zero on my piece of paper and flash it to him.
He rolls his eyes, his smile out of this fucking world.
Jane narrates, “At twenty-seven, he’s the second oldest bodyguard in Omega. A maverick and an Aries, Farrow can make a delicious egg and bacon sandwich.”
Beckett gives Jane a what-the-fuck face.
Jane shoos her brother. “He’s the most medically savvy and also professionally MMA-trained. Farrow,” she says as he stops and takes a candy cane from Donnelly, “who is your favorite celebrity?”
He speaks into the candy cane. “Everyone but Maximoff Hale.”
God, I’m smile-grimacing. There’s something seriously wrong with me.
“Boo,” Sulli says.
“That’s two zeroes,” I tell Farrow.
His lips quirk. “I think you mean two perfect tens.” He sits at the booth, and his tattooed fingers push his white hair out of his eyelashes, too sensually. Fuck me.
“No.” I lick my lips. “I meant zero plus zero. Which equals a load of nothing.”
“And look at that,” he smiles wide, “your honesty merit badge is gone.”
I’d react somewhat differently than cringing, but my head and stomach feel weird. Like dizzy? I don’t know yet. I tear my gaze off his, but I sense him studying my features.
“Oscar Oliveira,” Jane announces.
He emerges in red silk boxers, and he baby-oiled his golden-brown skin, his abs shiny and more defined.
“Cheater,” Donnelly boos.
Oscar struts down the hall. “You were never going to win, Donnelly.”
I sip my eggnog. I can’t tell if the taste is off or not. Did I give Sulli the right mug? I did…I’m not drinking alcohol. I’m not.
Right?
“…a thirty-year-old Taurus,” Jane narrates, “and Yale graduate, this former pro-boxer likes snack breaks and not very much surprises him. Nothing catches this man off-guard.”
Oscar halts and flexes a bicep.
“Oscar,” Jane says, “if you were a candy bar, what candy bar would you be?”
“Snickers. You’re not yourself without me.”
Laughter, and Donnelly drums the table. I stare at my mug, fixed on the creamy liquid. I drank alcohol blares in my head on high alert.
A lump lodges in my dry throat.
“Maximoff.”
“What?” My head swerves—Farrow is right next to me. On the couch. Jesus Christ. I didn’t even see him walk over here. It’s not like he had far to go but…I’m fixating on stupid things. Avoiding my reality. I drank alcohol.
I go rigid.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers.
“Quinn Oliveira,” Jane announces, drawing my attention for a second.
Holy shit. My eyes widen. Quinn is only wearing a red bow. The plastic kind used for gift-wrapping, but it’s large enough to cover his package. He holds the bow so it won’t fall.
He must’ve drawn the worst style.
Sulli’s jaw unhinges. “Fuuuck.”
Quinn laughs and walks more stiffly than the other guys. Farrow and I take our eyes off him at the same time. My head is spinning.
I hand Farrow my mug. “Sip this.”
“The youngest bodyguard is a lovely Gemini and vegetarian,” Jane narrates. “He’s Brazilian-American, a former pro-boxer and the little brother to Oscar. You’ll want to bring this stud home to your parents.”
Oscar and Donnelly clap, and Akara drums the steering wheel.
Farrow takes a large swig of eggnog. “It tastes fine.”
“What?” It can’t. I motion for him to sip again.
He frowns, confused. I’m fucking confused, and I need Farrow to solve this riddle, mystery, whatever-the-fuck I’m dealing with because I can’t see the answer.
“Quinn,” Jane says, “which bodyguard in Omega inspires you the most?”
He hoists the candy cane. “Akara Kitsuwon.”
Akara waves in thanks from the driver’s seat.
Oscar claps. “My little bro, a kiss ass.”
Quinn lets out an aggravated sigh, and he ends up sitting next to Jane.
Farrow swigs the eggnog and says, “He’s joking with you, Oliveira.”
“I’m over it,” Quinn mumbles.
Jane clears her throat. “And lastly, we have Thatcher Moretti.”
Farrow takes a third sip. “It’s not spiked.”
I lean back. Trying to relax at that news, but I still feel weird. I take off my beanie and pull my sweatshirt off, boiling hot.
Oscar whistles.
I turn my head. Thatcher walks like a six-foot-seven brick wall in a red jockstrap. The fabric cups his dick. Nothing left to the imagination.
“Um,” Jane loses thought, “Thatcher…Moretti is a twenty-seven-year-old…and he’s quite tall.”
“The end,” Farrow says.
“No,” Jane rebuts, but Thatcher has already stopped at the counter. “Merde,” she mutters. “Thatcher, if you were stranded on an island, what would you bring?”