Home > Headstrong Like Us (Like Us #6)(2)

Headstrong Like Us (Like Us #6)(2)
Author: Krista Ritchie

At least he came out to celebrate Kinney’s birthday. Our sister already warned him that if he didn’t show, she’d etch “turd hole” on his tombstone.

After the pit stops, I trek down a grassy slope to concessions. The cotton candy line is slow-moving. My dad has joined my mom, and they haven’t reached the front yet. Currently a few teenagers are snapping selfies with them while their bodyguards loiter close.

Farrow observes the fan interaction, and I eye the skulls, pirates, ships, swallows, and more ink that decorates his lean-cut and sculpted MMA-build. Half a skull peeks out of his black V-neck, his whole being screaming I’m too cool for school. From gorgeous tattooed wings on his neck, to his nose and lip piercing, and bleach-white hair.

He looks like a Grade A rebel and rule breaker. Unlike me and my faded jeans, hiking boots and plain gray crewneck, which molds my muscles from swimming. His stance is even casual and relaxed—like this job is the easiest in the world.

And I know it can’t be that easy. On my way home, Declan got an elbow to the eye outside the airport. His face is still bruised.

My stride is unwavering. Firm, and in less than a minute, Farrow locks eyes with me. He assesses me in a quick sweep, and his smile stretches.

He knows I’m coming towards him.

I mean, I’m not hiding the fact, but Christ, that widening smile—the one that reaches cheek-to-cheek and is too teasing, too confident—it bugs the hell out of me.

I scowl into a glare, only five feet away, and I bypass his spot, sensing his gaze attached to me as I round his body. I decide to stand in the line right beside him where people wait for hand-dipped candy apples. The sweet scent permeates around me, and the movie is more muffled over here.

All I want is to look at Farrow. But in the same breath, I want to give him a hard time. To make him squirm like he’s easily making me feel…something.

I turn my head.

Our eyes catch again, and I gesture to the candy apple tent. “I’m getting food for my family.”

Farrow raises his brows. “I didn’t ask.” He’s an asshole, and I must be weird because I like that he’s not fawning all over me.

He smiles more, and the back of my neck heats. It’s rare that I feel my age, but I feel nineteen around him.

Maybe that’s a good thing…

“Great,” I say dryly. “I didn’t tell you shit then.”

Farrow glances at my mom. He’s doing his job—and it’s strange. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he’s a bodyguard. He tilts his head back to me. “You definitely said something, wolf scout.”

“Not a lot.” My voice is tough with that endnote.

He rolls his eyes into a short laugh.

Talking to my childhood crush is starting to erase a quarter of my brain. Where all the food orders exist. I need to write this down.

I pat my pockets for my phone. Fuck. I left my cell with Janie.

“Looking for something?” Farrow asks while splitting his attention between me and my mom, our lines moving forward at the same rate.

“Just my phone.” I rake my hand through my thick hair. “It’s fine. I know where it is. I just needed to make a list.”

“A list,” Farrow repeats, too amused, like I’m the most uptight, do-gooder he’s ever met. “Of course you were about to make one.”

I feign confusion. “Because I’ve shared so many lists with you before.”

He has gum in his mouth, and he slows down chewing while another smile spreads. He’s the epitome of nonchalant coolness—and I’m never telling him that. “I just meant that you’re the list type.”

Great. “So I’m more prepared than you.”

He seesaws his hand. “Not really.”

I grimace.

He laughs.

I gesture to him. “Try remembering a billion food orders without a list and see how you’d do.”

Farrow fixes his earpiece, his laughter softening. “I can remember a lot more than you.” He speaks before I protest. “You don’t need to write this shit down. Just tell me the food order. Whatever you forget, I’ll remember.”

That last part blasts on repeat in my ears.

Whatever you forget, I’ll remember.

My chest swells, and I face forward some. “I don’t want to distract you, man. You’re working.” Ahead in my line, I spot a couple teen girls snapping photos of me. Usually I don’t mind when fans approach, but I’m hoping they wait. Just so I can keep talking to him.

“You’re not distracting me, wolf scout.”

I glance back.

We stare at each other in a more intense beat. I’ve heard so many professors call me a distraction lately, that just hearing him say that—it feels better than he’ll ever know.

Farrow lifts his brows. “I can remember your little list and protect your mom at the same time. No problem.”

My little list. I blink slowly, annoyance rising, but I’m almost smiling too. I think about whether I should take him up on his offer.

It feels like just yesterday he was only the son of the concierge doctor. Last time we really talked, he came to Harvard when I called his dad about a cut that needed stitched.

I opened my dorm and found Farrow standing there with a med bag.

Not long before that, we ran into each other on the yacht at a summer bash. We barely said anything, but the interaction is permanently etched.

These split-second, freeze-frame moments are on my brain constantly and keep mounting higher. Like right now.

This instant.

I can’t shake Farrow, and it’s not just that I’m physically attracted to him. Every time I’ve been knocked down lately, he’s appeared…and I wanted him to stay.

I’m wading in the same feelings that breathe strong air into my hollowed lungs. But I didn’t come over here to receive metaphorical or literal CPR from Farrow.

While he’s away from security, this is my shot—and no, I’m not asking him out. Morally, ethically, I won’t cross that line with my family doctor’s son and my mom’s bodyguard.

“I’ve got it,” I say definitively. “You don’t need to help me.” My chest tightens.

“You sure?” He keeps his gaze on me. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I take off my olive-green backpack, unzipping the main compartment. We step forward as the line shortens.

Teenagers have departed, leaving my parents in full-on PDA-mode. My dad hugs my mom from behind and gives her a wet willy. She squeals.

I smile, their love apparent and visceral. If one of the younger kids were in view, they’d say, “Gross.” But I’m just happy that my parents are happy and healthy and together.

I dig inside the backpack, and I barely look up. Fuck. The teen girls are slinking up to me, chocolate-dipped apples in hand. My stomach sinks.

Dear World, do you have the worst timing or what? Sincerely, a bummed human.

I hate making fans feel badly, especially when these girls are already pretty tentative. It’s not like they know what they interrupted. Christ, Farrow has no clue either.

Slipping my strap back on my shoulder, I smile warmly enough that they approach more confidently.

“Can you take a selfie with us?” the girl in a cropped sweater asks.

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