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)
I almost groan, trying not to crack a smile. He’s irritating four-fifths of the time. The one-fifth makes me almost break into a weird grin. I give him a look. “Did I say that lightsabers were attractive?”
“In so many words.” Farrow stacks his beer cans in one hand, like he’s about to leave. But he hones in on my bloodied chest from my nosebleed.
I lick my lips again, inhaling a deeper breath. Something powerful surging into me. Stay.
“Farrow!” a guy calls from inside the galley. Farrow keeps his gaze on me.
I keep mine on him.
Then he walks backwards to the yacht door, towards that voice. “Need anything, wolf scout?”
Yeah.
I shake my head. “No.”
His gaze drops to the black shirt in my hand, and his smile stretches wide. “Keep it.”
“What?”
“My shirt. I don’t need it back.”
Holy…shit. I have no time to protest or offer to return the shirt—he already exits into the galley.
You’ll never believe this, but I’m smiling. I laugh to myself, my chest swelling with a better, lighter feeling. I glance back at the shut door, then the dark horizon. Ocean ripples below, calling me, to free me.
Fuck it.
I run. Onto the sunbathing cushions, and I leap and dive off the bow. Water cocoons me like a hug and a welcome home.
1
MAXIMOFF HALE
Hurrying, I pull on a plain green shirt in a lake house bedroom. My elbow catches a bear-shaped lamp—I reach out too late. Fuck.
Glass crashes on the hardwood and shatters.
I quickly squat, barefoot, and pick up the larger shards. All things considered with my family issues, a broken lamp isn’t a big deal.
I can handle it.
As I gather the pieces, Farrow lowers to a crouch and helps collect the sharp glass—also while fitting in his earpiece. A radio is already clipped to his black pants.
I open my mouth to protest. To say, I got it.
But I stop myself and just watch him. My tattooed-childhood-crush-turned boyfriend. We were just watching The Fast and the Furious on my laptop. I paused the movie only fifteen minutes in.
Because both of our phones rang unceremoniously. I should already be halfway downstairs. But I’d much rather be dealing with a broken lamp with Farrow.
He sweeps the tiny slivers into his palm, his focus on the fragments near my feet. And the more I watch him, the more I think, lucky me.
Seriously, I’m damn lucky.
A few hours ago we hiked the top of a mountain.
I told him I loved him.
He said he loved me.
Adrenaline still pumps hot in my veins from the moment, but the current fallout from the media clings to me like a backpack of cement. He’s the only one I’d even consider unbuckling the backpack for and passing half the weight.
When I eye his silver-ringed fingers, he catches me staring. I lift my gaze higher to the tattooed swords on his throat, then his strong jaw and amused lips.
His brows spike.
I stay quiet. My pulse pounds hard. But my mind speeds in undiscovered directions—I can’t stop thinking about everything and anything, past and present—and I’m not even sure how to start speaking.
Farrow waits for me to say something.
Anything.
When I don’t, he stands. “Watch your feet, wolf scout.” He scours my tensed build. Reading me well.
“I got it.” I stand and we dispose of the broken glass in a small trashcan.
Farrow brushes his palms clean before combing his hands through his dyed-black hair. “You going to tell me what you’re obsessing over?” He leans casually on the wooden dresser.
I’m a rigid statue in comparison. I’m not used to unloading on people, but for some godforsaken reason, I want to unload on him. I know he can carry it.
I take a short breath, and I blurt out, “What about you? How are you doing?”
Jesus.
Christ.
That’s not what I meant to tell him.
“At the moment,” Farrow says matter-of-factly, “I’m watching my boyfriend deflect by asking me how I’m doing.”
I nod, arms crossed. “He sounds like a real keeper.”
“He’s something,” Farrow teases and checks the time on his phone. He steps away from the dresser and walks backwards to the door. Away from me.
I have serious déjà vu from the yacht four years ago.
“Last chance.” His voice is deep, rough but paradoxically smooth.
Last chance to speak about what’s on my mind. Phone calls summoned both of us downstairs. Me, by Jane. Him, by Akara.
Farrow looks straight into me. His strong gaze clutches me tight while caressing me. Silently prodding me to speak but softly reminding me that he’s always protected my thoughts and feelings.
“Wait,” I say.
He stops and lounges his shoulders on the door.
“I’m thinking about how Jane just called and said, come downstairs to the kitchen. We need to talk, Moffy.” I gesture to Farrow. “I get that I’m not an expert on relationships, but I know friendships and we need to talk is never a good fucking thing.”