I wipe my hands on a napkin, heat gathering in my chest.
I love Maximoff, and even after being doxxed and my privacy obliterated, I’m okay with the media attention. There are very few things in my life that have scared the shit out of me—and I’m barreling into one of them.
I tell them, “I don’t want to be a gay icon. And being on the cover of Out Loud or any other gay magazine is one giant fucking step in that direction. I can’t be a spokesperson for the community.”
Being gay has always been a major part of my identity, but it’s not the first, second, or sixth thing I’d lead with when describing myself. It’s a part of me. Not all of me. And these magazines and the public, they’ll hang onto that one piece until it’s all they know. All they see. I don’t want it to happen. I’m more than my sexuality.
“No one’s asking you to speak for an entire community,” Oscar tells me. “You just continue being you, and that would do a lot for a lot of guys.”
“Okay, but I can do that without being on a cover of a magazine.”
Oscar nods. “Sure.” He seasons his eggs, and I know that sure is the worst kind of sures. It’s like you’re right, Farrow but you’re also so fucking wrong.
I roll my eyes halfway around the store.
Mid-chew, Donnelly says, “You’re already my gay icon.” He throws up a hand gesture that means love you.
I toss my balled napkin at his face.
Donnelly smirks and chucks a handful of blueberries at me and Oscar. I dodge them, and we have a mini food fight.
Once that dies down, I ask, “How’s the new apartments?”
Akara rented out new places for SFO. Oscar has his own studio in New York. Donnelly, Quinn, Banks, and Akara live in a two-bedroom flat in Philly. And Thatcher is still rooming with Jane back at the Cobalt Estate.
“Fucking amazing,” Oscar says. “I already sent Kitsuwon a gift basket.”
“Literally?” I ask.
“Yeah, but I might have eaten all the cookies out of it. He didn’t notice.”
Donnelly and I laugh, and our laughter suddenly submerges under loud, caustic shrieks.
“Fiancé’s here,” Oscar says.
My mouth curves upward, and soon, a force of nature enters like he’s Atlas bracing a world on his shoulders.
And when his eyes meet mine, his muscles begin to loosen. His chest rises in a breath that I can almost feel expand my lungs.
I smile more. “Look what the wind threw up.”
His eyes redden. He remembers saying that to me. Years ago in this store. The first day I became his bodyguard.
Maximoff clears a ball in his throat. “I could’ve sworn I heard that before from someone way hotter and smarter.”
“Sounds like your fan fiction.” I lean back against the window. “Need help jogging your memory?”
“No,” he says with firm confidence.
Damn.
I give him a once-over, and he’s about to come over but our attention veers to Banks. The six-foot-seven bodyguard edges back to the door he just locked.
“Moretti, you’re not staying?” I ask.
Maximoff frowns, not knowing this either.
“Can’t.” Banks sticks a toothpick in his mouth. “Akara wants me to pick up Sulli and drive her here. Between Maximoff and her, I’m getting used to the smell of chlorine.”
“You can grab a plate before you go,” Maximoff says.
Banks wavers. “I gotta push out.” He nods to me. “Happy birthday, man.”
I nod back in thanks, and after he leaves, I draw back my legs and Maximoff takes a seat beside me. His hair is damp and gray tee molds his abs.
I crunch up to him and clasp his jaw, his skin smooth from a close shave.
We kiss, and I break from his lips to nod towards the buffet trays. “We need to go over the definition of low-key.”
He smiles. “You like it?”
My eyes caress his eyes before I lean to the side, my jaw brushing against his jaw. And I whisper against his ear, “Love it.” I kiss him again. Emotion blisters my lungs.
I’m about to lean back, but Maximoff fists my black V-neck. “Wait, man.” His voice is a low whisper.
My legs are tented over his lap. I search his strong gaze for worry or fear or any fucking thing, but he’s not that readable right now. “You okay, Maximoff?”
“Yeah.” He rests his forearm on my kneecaps and whispers, “Did you ask them?” He must’ve expected to walk into a best man celebration. He already asked Jane yesterday to be his best woman. There were tears and hugs and lots of French. He wasted zero time, and clearly, I’m dragging my feet on this.
Oscar and Donnelly are chatting about the best bachelor party locations. So they’re definitely not eavesdropping.
“Did I ask them,” I repeat and suck in a breath. “Not yet.”
Wrinkles line his forehead. “Christ, really. Aren’t you the one who invented the Band-Aid method?”
I shake my head with a smile. “Did not invent that, no.” I prop my elbow on his shoulder, our mouths a breath apart. “This is harder than I anticipated.”
He stares at my lips. “Nothing’s hard for you.” His brows knit. “Except”—his eyes fall to my cock—“you know, whenever you’re around me.”
I raise my brows. “Because I carry a constant hard-on throughout the entire day.”
“So you’re admitting it.”
“Yeah, that’s not what I said, smartass.” I lean back, and he fists my shirt again, drawing me nearer. I smile and slide my plate of breakfast closer to Maximoff.
“But seriously, Farrow…” His voices drifts off for a second. He watches my hands as I fuck around and slide raspberries on my fingertips.
I almost laugh. He’s too easy.
He glares, but he’s grinding back a smile. “Fuck.” He rolls his stiff neck, then whispers to me, “I didn’t realize that this would be a big deal for you.”
“I’m trying not to make my friendships complicated.” I stare at him and suck a raspberry off my fingertip. “I like uncomplicated.”
He’s hooked to my movements. But he manages to say strongly, “I’m complicated. You like me.”
“I love you,” I correct him and eat the raspberry off my pinky.
He nods.
“It’s just hard,” I say again. Maximoff is right. He’s a complicated guy living in a complicated world, and I enjoy every chaotic, high-speed second. I don’t understand why I’m nervous to complicate my friendships.
But I’m sure one of his favorite philosophers is telling him the answer. He stares into me. “I can help you.”
I know you can. But it’s not just ripping the Band-Aid. It’s what comes after. So I whisper, “Another time. Later.”
He nods again, his steadfast demeanor a comfort.
“Hale,” Oscar calls. “Vegas?”
Donnelly pipes in, “Yea or nay?”
Regardless of who’s the best man, all the guys on SFO want to plan my bachelor party together.
I stay close to Maximoff, his hand in mine, and with his free hand, Maximoff grabs a piece of bacon off my plate. “You guys can do Vegas for Farrow’s bachelor party. But mine has to be better suited for my family that’s under-twenty-one.”