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.”
His mouth starts rising in a drop-to-your-knees smile. “Or she could just want to talk.”
I hone in on his piercings: the hoop around his lip, his nose ring, and dangling earring—I’m dating a twelve out of ten. For more than just his looks. He’s standing here, entertaining my hang-ups, and I know he’ll only give me honesty in return.
“Or Jane wants to move out.”
“You’re overthinking.”
“I’m preparing for the worst,” I rebut and motion to the door. “Since that stupid fucking article, she’s been spending most of her time with her brothers. I have no clue where her head’s at.” For the first time in…maybe forever, Jane and I aren’t on the same page of the same book.
“You’re about to find out,” Farrow reminds me and checks the time on his phone again. “And you’re going to be late.”
“So,” I say without thinking. Such a genius. I rub my sharpened jaw.
“So,” he draws out the word and nears me, his knowing gaze raking me from head-to-toe.
My muscles contract and burn, fucking aroused. Everything about him has become a turn on. I’m happy that he’s only two feet away now, but a bit irritated that I didn’t initiate that movement first.
“You’re stalling, Maximoff. So either you’re really nervous to hear Jane out,” Farrow says in a deep, rough whisper, “or you’re obsessed with me.”
For Christ’s sake. His words fist my cock.
His satisfied smile stretches from cheek-to-cheek. Somewhere in some alternate universe, I’m a philosopher writing dissertations on that fucking smile. And its sheer effect on me.
Farrow says, “I’m flattered.”
I groan out my agitation. Blood pumps south, my cock still not understanding. “I’m mildly, somewhat attracted to you,” I tell him. “That’s so far from obsession, I can’t even reach the word in five millenniums.”
“Mildly, somewhat,” he repeats softly, his gaze dancing across my features. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and silver piercing. The air is headier.
My chest rises in a deeper breath, and I close the two-foot distance.
Farrow clutches my sharp jaw, his large palm warm. I clasp the back of his neck, my hand rising to his black hair. Our mouths teasingly close but not touching.
I walk him backwards. Until his muscular shoulders hit the door again and our legs thread. He lets me take the lead for now.
I breathe, “Did you hear the part where I said I’m not obsessed with you?”
His brown eyes flit to my mouth, then back up.
Kiss me, man.
“Did you hear the part where I said you’re nervous?” His graveled voice wraps me up like safety.
I nod. “Yeah.” I’m kind of fucking anxious. In a lot of ways, I want this guy by my side, but reality slams hard.
And I pull back.
Our hands drop.
We both look disappointed, but I just tell him the truth, “You shouldn’t be late to your SFO meeting.”
He rolls his eyes. “It isn’t a formal meeting. If you need me, I can be with you while you talk to Jane—”
“No,” I cut him off and take another step back, a knife in my ribs. “You shouldn’t bail on Akara after he stuck his neck out for us. Not because of me.” I quickly add, “I’m fine on my own. I always am.” I cringe at my choice of words, ones that remind me of Charlie on that yacht.
Fuck.
Farrow notices. “Your face says you’re not fine.”
I try to pull my features. “Then stop staring at my fucking face.”
Farrow tilts his head back and forth. “No.”
I rock at the firmness of that no. “What?”
“You heard me.” Farrow taps the doorknob with his thumb ring, the click click filling our short silence. “You’re smiling.”
Fuck me. I rub my mouth a couple times. Yeah, I was smiling like a damn idiot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.”
I swear he’s one second from pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. I breathe hot breath through my nose, and my muscles almost unconsciously flex.
I’d like to say that my body isn’t listening to my brain, but both have bought and made Team Farrow T-shirts against better fucking judgment. There’s some place in me—a pinky…a microscopic nerve-ending in my frontal lobe—that tries to resist.