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)
Jane rests a hip against the counter in a momentary pause. She smiles brightly at something that I can’t see. Maybe the phone in Maximoff’s hand.
I shouldn’t want to be that phone. I shouldn’t want to be the receiver of Jane’s vibrant energy or any fucking thing that belongs to her mind or body, but I keep thinking, look at me.
She turns her head.
And looks right at me.
I’m not shifting away. Our gazes latch for a solid beat, but I stand about four meters from her position. Roughly fifteen feet apart.
Her blue eyes slowly dance over the stoic lines of my face, then my clothes: gray crew-neck and red flannel.
As though remembering earlier. The kitchen.
My towel.
Her flushed neck and shortened breath.
Don’t go there, Thatcher.
“Hey, do any of you need anything at the grocery?” Sulli asks them, her voice audible through the phone speakers.
“I’m alright,” Maximoff says. “Jane?”
She misses the question. I’m distracting my client. Fucking unprofessional. I try to wrench my gaze off her.
“Jane?” Maximoff asks again.
“Hmm?” Blush stains her freckled cheeks, and she dashes further into the kitchen. Disappearing from my view. I hear her say, “Both houses need milk.”
I sense another pair of eyes on me.
Not Jane
Not Maximoff.
But Farrow—he’s been sitting and lacing up his black boots at the iron café table. He’s less than two meters away from me, and his threatening glare feels even fucking closer.
I take another step back.
Intimidation is vital to be a bodyguard on the team. I’d be more concerned if he couldn’t do it that fucking well.
I shouldn’t have punched him.
My jaw tightens.
Regret surges, biting. It’s hard every time I see Farrow. Because it’s nearly impossible not to think about my mistake.
I could’ve handled so many things better than I fucking did.
I should’ve apologized earlier. But for weeks, I couldn’t get the words out, not without feeling like I should’ve been fired.
Seeing him just reminds me how badly I blew it. How much hurt I caused, what I deserve in return, and all the debts I feel like I can never repay.
Farrow knots one of his laces. Our clients are still talking, but their chatter muffles now that they’re deeper in the kitchen.
The sound of brewing coffee cuts the air in half.
Say something to him.
I’m not quiet because I can’t think of what to talk about. We have a lot in common. We like a lot of the same shit. Same interest in martial arts, Philly sports teams. Same taste in music. How he jokes around—constant ribs and digs at his friends, I used to be around that a lot in the military.
I hate it over comms.
But in person, it brings back good memories.
We have more in common. Worse things, and sometimes I wonder if he’s realized that I’ve known he’s been experiencing some form of PTSD.
In Greece, I had to hand a bottle of water to Banks to give to Farrow. I didn’t think Farrow would’ve accepted it from me, but I could tell he was mentally thrown back. He doesn’t speak to the team about it that much.
I’m not one to talk. I can barely say the word out loud. Shouldn’t be that way, but it is.
In the end, I’m quiet because I can’t unlock my jaw. It’s like I’m made of cinderblock, and almost no one possesses the right tools to chisel me open.
Not even me, at times.
And all that has ever divided Farrow and me is me. He’s done nothing.
Comms crackle in my eardrum. Good thing. I zero in on work and listen to the Omega lead speak.
“Akara to Thatcher, Farrow, and Quinn—we’re at the grocery. Is there anything specific you want?”
I touch my flannel collar and press my mic. “Check to see if they have a stop leak additive. Jane’s Beetle is leaking oil again.” Ophelia rubs up against my ankles and purrs. I reach down and scratch behind her ear, she tries to bump her head into my hand, enjoying it. I do a quick sweep of the room and locate the cats.
All but one is in sight. Licorice can be shy, and he’s the most skittish. It’s made me more concerned about him. But there are plenty of places he could be hiding.
“Copy,” Akara responds.
Static buzzes, waiting for Quinn’s response.
I look right at Farrow while he stands up—done tying his boots—and I’m positive he’s silenced his radio.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
I drop my arm to my side. “SFO is at the grocery. You need something?”
“No,” he says with the casual shake of his head. “I’m good.” He quickens his pace towards the fireplace.
I spot movement a fraction of a second after Farrow does. Because the fireplace had been at my back.
He snatches Walrus, a calico cat, off the mantel. Plus, he catches a picture frame that teeters off the ledge.
He’s vigilant, always a skilled set of hands, and constantly on guard, even if he’s cracking jokes, smiling, or lounging on furniture like the world isn’t on fire when it’s actually up in fucking flames.