“Overwhelmed?” Farrow asks, running a hand through his bleach-white hair. His ash-brown roots are growing in a lot. To where he’d usually dye the strands weeks ago.
“Not exactly.” My face heats. I shake my head.
I’m picturing the look on my sixteen-year-old face if he knew about this—someone, quick, invent time travel. Just so I can tell my teenage-self about the future where I’m temporarily living in my childhood home with my childhood crush. Who’s now my fiancé.
Maybe it’s good that time travel doesn’t exist.
I think I’d die.
“Maximoff.” Farrow waves his hand at my face.
Jesus. I blink a few times.
He looks me over. “Where’d you go, space cadet?” Despite his casualness, he seems concerned.
I lick my lips. “I’m just not fully adjusted to being back here with you.” I gesture to him. “Living under my parent’s roof, all of my siblings in rooms next door. I feel younger, and I’m twenty-three.” Gotham crawls off my lap to sniff a dog bone.
Farrow leans back on his palms. He’s grinning.
I rub my reddened neck. “Thank you for your sympathy. It was totally refreshing and so unlike you.”
He tries to smother his smile for me. “You keep flashing to your teenage years—”
“No,” I deny.
His rough voice is too attractive. “Sixteen-year-old Maximoff with a hard-on for me—”
“I never even thought about you.” That hurt. “Just kidding. I thought about pushing you out of my bedroom window.”
His brows ratchet up. “After I crawled up there to rock your world.”
He’s too good at this, but I’m better. “I don’t remember you rocking anything.” I make a face. “Was that you?”
His lip quirks. “Always a smartass.” Farrow watches me stand up.
This living situation is temporary, but Farrow’s place in my life is permanent. That’s what breathes air into my lungs.
He’s okay with staying here for however-the-fuck long. “As long as we’re together,” he told me with ease. I didn’t think he’d care. Farrow has always been low maintenance where room and board is concerned.
Gotham barks, and I find an extra bag of kibble on my wooden dresser, a bowl already next to his round Batman-logo bed.
“You’re still doing Xander’s chores?” Farrow asks, his usual amusement receding with more concern.
“This is the last time.”
Farrow nods slowly, disbelieving.
I don’t really believe myself either. It’s easy for my little brother to slack on his chores at home when I’m here to pick them up. And I don’t mind taking out the trash, feeding the dog, or vacuuming the living room. It feels right to pull my weight around the house when I’m living here too.
After filling Gotham’s bowl, I zip up the bag of kibble.
Farrow reaches for the binder and flips a page.
“Wait, man. We didn’t make a decision on the envelopes.”
The binder under his hand is thick and made by my best friend, who also happens to be planning this wedding. Jane nicknamed it the This or That binder. Basically, she listed two options for a bunch of wedding shit, and we’re supposed to pick this or that.
I’m highly aware that she narrowed it down to two options just for me. So my neurotic brain doesn’t go into a full-on tailspin at the sight of twenty different table settings.
But Farrow—he doesn’t overthink this stuff. His instinct is to go with his gut, and I’m not even sure I have a gut reaction that doesn’t involve second-guessing myself.
Calmly, coolly, like he’s lounging on the deck of a yacht, Farrow flips back to the original page. “See, we did make a decision. You said you liked the envelopes with the swirls.”
“And then a second later, I said that the ones with the gold trim are also cool.” I leave the dresser, and Gotham chomps down on the kibble. When I sit on the rug next to Farrow, his eyes collide into mine.
“Maximoff. It’s the envelope of a wedding invitation. Most people will just rip apart that shit and throw it in the garbage. And the ones that scrapbook it won’t care if it has some fancy swirls or gold-foiled edge. Shit, they won’t even remember if it smells like thousand-dollar perfume.” He places a hand on my thigh and somehow it’s easier to breathe. “Not everything is going to be perfect.”
My eyes melt against his. “Is it that bad if I wish it could be perfect for you?”
His gaze caresses mine.
I add, “You said that you pictured your wedding when you were thirteen.”
He tilts his head from side-to-side. “Okay, but I also don’t want some of the shit I dreamed about at thirteen.” He counts off his thumb and fingers. “No five-piece orchestra, no red velvet cake, no Philly location. And I’m only telling you this to make you feel better—but I also wanted Taco Bell to cater the entire thing.”
I start to smile. “I thought you hate Taco Bell.”
His brows rise. “With a fucking passion.”
“Don’t tell my dad.” Tacos are his lifeblood, even ones at fast food joints.
Farrow moves his hand off my thigh, just to wrap his arm around my rigid back.
I hold his gaze. “I never grew up thinking I’d get married, and the fact that you dreamed about this day means something to me.” He knows this. He knows me even better than you. “A lot can go wrong between paparazzi, the media, and unknown factors raining down from the skies—and I feel like if we don’t have everything planned out perfectly, it’s all going to go to shit.”
Farrow’s hand glides up to my neck, his thumb drawing soothing circles on my skin. “But here’s the thing, as long as you’re there with me, wolf scout, it’s impossible for our wedding day not to be perfect.”
I exhale, letting this sink in. “So you’d elope then?” I try to tease him back.
He sucks in a breath. “No.”
I can’t help but smile. “Who would have thought the maverick bodyguard wants the most traditional wedding?”
His lips lift. “Does it really surprise you?”
I shake my head. “No.” Farrow has sought companionship and love since he was young, and I can easily see him craving to celebrate the love he shares with his future husband.
That’s me.
It knocks me back a bit.
I watch Farrow return his focus to the binder. “Jane insisted that we need to turn this back into her by the end of the week. And at your pace, wolf scout, she’ll get this binder when you’re eighty-years-old.”
I growl in frustration. But he’s right.
I hate that he’s right. Again.
“The swirls then,” I say. “You like those?”
“Yeah. I do.” He flips the page and we’re met with five different color palettes. Farrow quickly looks to me. “Breathe.”
I’m breathing. “I thought this was a this or that binder. Why are there five options here?”
“Probably because Jane knew colors were a big deal and wanted to give us more choices.” Farrow is already uncapping a black Sharpie with his teeth and marking a big X on two palettes—both having reds in them.