Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Maximoff stares faraway in thought.
“Famous ones.” Farrow looks between the two of us with slowly rising brows. “Your inexperience is showing.”
I lean forward. “How so?”
Maximoff is still staring off into space, cracking his knuckles.
Farrow has a hard time pulling his gaze off him, but he tells me, “Love can definitely be a one-way street, and trust me, you don’t want to be the one who drives down it.”
“Did you drive down it?” I wonder.
Maximoff tunes in. “Drive where?”
We laugh.
He blinks slowly into a glare. “I apparated to another dimension.”
“Still in Philly, wolf scout.” Farrow smiles wider and then stands up, just to take a seat on the armrest, but he’s much closer to his fiancé.
Maximoff is a wooden board, but his joints reanimate and he wraps a strong arm around Farrow’s shoulders.
Farrow holds Moffy’s waist, his hand dipped beneath his shirt.
They draw closer.
“What were you saying?” Maximoff asks me.
“One-way streets of love,” I explain. “Farrow said they exist, and I asked if he’s driven down one before.”
“Sure,” Farrow answers. “I thought I was in love at thirteen, and that was not reciprocated in the way I wanted.”
“And then Rowin,” Maximoff says, unearthing a name that causes Farrow to roll his eyes into all seven circles of hell.
Farrow’s ex is hated among all of my family and all of security. I was almost tempted to take a page out of my mom’s retaliation handbook, but it’d be like digging up a buried corpse.
Revenge is pointless, my dad would say.
“That fucker was driving down that road all on his own,” Farrow tells Maximoff. “I was nowhere near it.” His palm encases Maximoff’s sharp jaw, and Moffy runs his hand up to the base of Farrow’s skull.
I can tell they’re about to kiss.
Maximoff mutters something under his breath, and Farrow murmurs back, their lips drawing closer—and like he’s injected with a shot of Best Friend Guilt, Maximoff abruptly tears out of the embrace. Stepping to the side, he winces at himself, his nose flaring.
And he plants his apologetic eyes on me.
I wince at Maximoff’s wince. “Moffy—”
“I’m totally focused on you,” he reminds me.
Farrow is nowhere near annoyed. He’s staring more protectively at Maximoff like he just wants to shield him from all his hang-ups and worries.
“Of course you are,” I say with all my heart. “And I don’t mind if you take a minute or even an hour to kiss the man you love.”
His neck reddens. “But what about you?”
“What about me?”
Farrow picks up his bowl, trying to stay out of our exchange.
Maximoff’s concern is like a hot blanket. Draping over the whole room. “One-way streets of love—you know those are wrong turns. It’s the do-not-enter street.”
I inhale sharply and try to nod.
He’s afraid I’ll be hurt in this process, and from his vantage, this has to be painful. Here he was able to fall in love with a bodyguard who could reciprocate his feelings tenfold.
And in his mind, here I am—his other half—about to head down a one-way road.
* * *
Ten minutes later, a new pot of coffee is brewing and our plan has officially taken beautiful flight. Like a grasshopper springing off the lawn. “He looks promising.” I pass Maximoff a photograph of a twenty-something athlete with auburn hair, butterscotch eyes, and a hooked nose. “He’s a professional football player.”
I printed out his picture from Instagram. He sent me a direct message last night, along with 4,593 other people.
Not all are suitors.
Reyroo3245 told me to shut up and die.
So unnecessary.
I haven’t checked my DMs since 1 a.m., and I’m sure my inbox is severely bloated. But I’m more timid to sink back into that cesspool.
Maximoff examines the photo. “Yeah, what kind of twenty-something plays football instead of owning his own sports team. Can we say, underachiever?”
His impression of Grandmother Calloway is spot-on. Those would be her thoughts.
“And he’s not even the star quarterback.”
Maximoff grabs a pushpin. “She’d probably pale at the word football .”
“Far too much tackling,” I note.
He pins the photo onto a corkboard, which we hung on the brick wall. Next to the adjoining door.
I wonder what Thatcher is up to while he’s over there and I’m here. Is he thinking about our run-in from earlier at all?
“Famous ones.”
We look over at the kitchen.
Farrow rests a shoulder casually on the archway, a red apple between his fingers. “While this entire pseudo Criminal Minds episode is entertaining as fuck, what’s the endgame here?”
I rifle through a stack of printed photographs. “Like I said earlier, if we pick a man who our grandmother would absolutely loathe and bring him to her house, she’ll see that the Cinderella ad failed.”
Maximoff studies the twelve photos on the corkboard. “Hopefully once she realizes the ad didn’t work, she’ll back off Janie and stop trying to play matchmaker.”
Our grandmother can’t slide by without understanding how deep this betrayal goes. I don’t want her to ever pull a tactic like this on any of our siblings or cousins.