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)
Fuck.
Me.
I flex, my muscles blazing.
His smile stretches. “I have a PhD in Maximoff Hale Studies.”
I compose myself and give him a look. “How’d you earn that degree? By following me around?”
“By beating you at everything.”
My brows bunch in agitation.
He notices, and the corners of his lips lift more.
I need to hand him the paper, but I don’t want this to end yet. “There is no such thing. So you actually earned a degree in Liars 101.”
He whistles. “He can’t even put me in a higher level than basic 101.” He eyes the paper and sets the peanut butter jar aside. “Give me.”
I hand him the paper.
He barely skims it and his brows rise. “This is called a wedding itinerary.”
“That’s what I fucking said,” I combat, and I rub my mouth. Christ, I feel my smile. “All the details are there.” The upside to the tour ending early, I can attend my parent’s vow renewal.
He’s fixated on some portion of the itinerary.
“What?” I look at the paper upside-down, and the words Maximoff Hale, no date, no plus one stands out. “My assistant typed that.”
Farrow puts the paper in his back pocket, still at ease. “Not a big deal, Maximoff.” He eats another piece of banana off the blade. “I’m going to the wedding as your bodyguard. It’s what I am.”
I frown, thinking. He’s more than a bodyguard to me, but he knows that. So then why does something feel off?
My eyes descend, and I just now notice Thatcher written in Sharpie on the banana peel. I’m less surprised that Farrow is eating Thatcher’s food than I am by this, “Who writes on fruit?”
“Hall monitors,” Farrow says as he slices the banana. He tosses the peel on my iron café table. “And I have to live with one.”
“Sucks you don’t have a boyfriend to crash with.” I draw towards him, our legs knocking.
Farrow eats the last slice of banana, and his other hand clasps my neck.
I’m the first to grab him by the shirt, then wrap an arm around his shoulder—he spins us in a swift maneuver.
My back thuds into the closed door. God. Breath flames in my lungs.
Farrow sheaths the knife in his black leather belt. “You’re not my boyfriend then?” He eyes my lips in a way that says, I won’t kiss you. I won’t fuck you. Unless you tell me I’m yours and you’re mine.
It electrocutes every fucking part of me. His weight pins me to the door, and my cock begs for more hot friction.
“You must’ve lost your boyfriend,” I say, my voice low.
Bleach-white hair hangs in his lashes. Our mouths edging close, he whispers, “You failed Liars 101, wolf scout. Because he’s right in front of me.”
Kiss me, man. I can’t wait. I clutch the back of his head and kiss him deeply. Hungrily, our mouths crash together. I spin him around, his back to the door. When I think I have the lead, his hand slides down my back, and he grabs my ass.
Fuck. I groan against his lips, and he smiles against mine.
Someone clears their throat. Behind us.
Great.
I pull back, but I play as cool as I fucking can and stand straight. This is my townhouse. I live here. We kissed. He grabbed my ass. On the PDA scale, this is minor level.
Farrow rests his shoulders on the wood. A lot more naturally at ease than me. But that’s normal.
Who saw us?
My dad.
He stands in the doorway, light rain pelting the street behind him. A box labeled Luna from Thebula is in his arms, biceps cut and features sharp-edged. His brows are cinched like he’s slowly processing something. Maybe that Farrow and I are really a couple. Or maybe he’s just stunned to see me with anyone.
He looks good though. Healthy, not edged or antsy.
He opens his mouth to speak, but voices escalate behind him. We all listen, but from where I stand, I can’t see anyone.
“If I go in there it’s going to be real,” my mom says. “Maybe we should all have breakfast first. Anyone hungry? I could eat a waffle. Daisy?”
“Chocolate pancakes,” my aunt says.
“She’s not moving to fucking New York or across the country,” Uncle Ryke retorts. “It’s nothing to fucking agonize over.”
“Easy for you to say,” my mom replies. “Sulli wants to live at home for another year. My daughter is leaving. OhmyGod, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry this fast. I’m already crying. Rose—”
“Chin up, shoulders back,” Aunt Rose snaps icily. “What our gremlins don’t know is that they’re ours forever. No matter what geographical location they run off to and whether they like it or not.”
My dad swings his head back and calls out to my aunt, “Take your talons off my kids, Cruella.”
“Bite me, Loren.”
“Weak,” my dad retorts.
Farrow almost laughs, and I smile. God, I love my family