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)
Farrow stares deeper.
“What?” I ask.
“I was on that boat.” Farrow pauses, his jaw tensed. “It’s just hitting me that while I was laughing and drinking, you were below the deck getting beat to shit.”
I let out a sharp breath. “I did worse to them—”
“You’re not a trained fighter, and it was three-on-one. You were probably on the ground.”
He’s not wrong. “I held my own.” I study his protective gaze, and I realize he wishes he could’ve been there for me. “You want a time machine?”
Farrow almost cracks a smile, but the gravity of the situation keeps him more serious. “What are their last names?”
Jane picks at her avocado mask. “Ray and Clark were both awarded scholarships to swim out of state. They wouldn’t have a Philadelphia IP address.”
“Jason Motlic would,” I say. “He stayed in Philly.” I look to Farrow. “You can put his name on the list.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t reach for a notebook or his phone or anything.
“So it’s an imaginary list.”
Farrow arches his brows. “My memory is better than yours. I don’t need to type out and print eighty-four lists.”
I make a face. “How do I like you, man?”
“I think you mean love,” he teases.
Don’t fucking smile. I lick my lips again and again, and before I reply, I notice Janie lying down on the other side of the couch. She kind of tucks her knees to her chest. Something she only does when she has cramps.
“Ça va?” I ask. Are you okay?
“Oui.” She splays the back of her hand on her forehead.
“Si tu ne te sens pas bien, je peux te trouver quelque chose.” If you don’t feel well, I can find you something.
“I weather this storm every month. I can manage on a bus.” She blows out a measured breath. “Peaches McEntire.”
My brows scrunch. “No way.”
Farrow starts another rep of sit-ups. “Peaches is a fruit or a…?”
“Girl,” I explain. “She’s our age, and we were all counselors at Camp Calloway together. She was even a troop captain in Wolf Scouts.” I look at Jane, her cat pajamas wrinkled. “And she’s nice.”
“She was hopelessly, madly in love with you, and she was a passionate person. She could’ve felt scorned when you told her you just wanted to be summer camp friends. Don’t you remember, she stopped speaking to you after that?”
I sigh heavily, frustrated that I may’ve hurt someone unknowingly. “Maybe.” I glance at Farrow as he crunches upward. “You can add Peaches to your brain.”
He’d probably reply, but Thatcher breaches the second lounge.
We all go quiet.
The security team has no clue that Jane and I know all about the @maximoffdeadhale account. Farrow has “gone rogue” in the team many times before, so it’s not exactly a new dilemma.
Farrow looks more annoyed by Thatcher than anything.
The Omega co-lead pretty much ignores me and Farrow, and he takes a seat near Jane’s feet. She scratches her neck and props herself on her arm. “Thatcher,” she greets.
“Jane,” he greets too, like they haven’t seen each other all day. When clearly they have.
I give Janie a weird look, but she’s tuning me out. I turn to Farrow, but he’s zeroed in on the interaction.
“Thought you might need this,” Thatcher says as he hands her a hot water bottle.
Jane gawks in surprise, fingers to her avocado-masked cheek. She clears her throat slightly. “Merci.” She nods to him.
He nods back and leaves without another word.
“What the fuck was that?” I whisper.
Farrow glares at Jane. “You can’t like him.”
“She doesn’t like him,” I say to Farrow. “She would’ve told me.”
Jane is still staring at the spot where he left. Blue eyes enlarging like a god granted immortality to her cats. “He must’ve seen my Instagram story. I said that I had cramps and forgot to bring a heating pad on the bus.” She glances at the hot water bottle that’ll help her cramps.
“She likes him,” Farrow says in pissed disbelief. “Jane.”
“Who? What?” She finally turns to us and our words seem to register. “No, no.” She shakes her head a few times. “I just find him beautiful to look at. Like an Italian painting. He’s exquisite, don’t you think?”
“No,” we say together.
Jane smiles coyly. “Liars. You both know he’s handsome.”
I don’t say anything and remove my ice pack. Is Thatcher fucking hot? Scruffy, muscular, six-foot-seven and domineering. Yeah.
He’s hot.
He could probably star in movies if he wanted to. But Farrow hates him, and Thatcher is dropping off my favorites list.
Farrow narrows his gaze on me. “I’m waiting for you to say he’s ugly.”
“I’m waiting for you to say the same fucking thing.” I pull my Batman shirt over my head.
“He’s ugly,” Farrow says distantly, skimming the cut of my biceps and six-pack. Mostly, he hones in on my shoulder blade.
“Agreed,” I lie and motion to Jane. “And?”
“He’s handsome and sweet, and that’s all that’s happening.” She sends us a look that says, do not badger me on senseless things, and she curls back up and tucks her hot water bottle to her stomach.