I backtrack the conversation. “I promise you, I’m fine. I can survive two hundred decades without you.”
His smile is out of fucking control. “With or without me, you’re not going to survive to be two-thousand-twenty-two-years-old.”
“I didn’t realize you could see the future.”
Farrow laughs once. “Such a smartass.” He shakes his head in thought. “Need wasn’t the right word then.” He holds my gaze. “Do you want me with you?”
Yeah.
Something wells up inside of me. I let go of any and all emotional barriers, and he sees that affirmation a thousand times across my face.
Farrow steps off the door. And in a swift, seamless move, he clutches the back of my head—and he kisses me. Fuck.
Me.
I part his mouth, hunger driving my tongue against his, and our bodies instinctively thrust together. Like we’ve been teasing for a damn century. Every explosive kiss detonates my body. My brain.
I grip his hair in a tight fist; his low groan barrels against my mouth.
“Fuck,” he breathes and nips my lip.
Christ yes. Heat sweltering, building, scalding—he stops first, drawing back.
Farrow fits in his earpiece that must’ve fallen out. “You want me, you have me. Let’s go, wolf scout.”
I’m still winded, my head on a tilt-a-whirl. I lick my stinging lips. I feel like he just fucked me in multiple positions.
He combs his hands through his ruffled hair, his mouth curving upwards. “You need a minute to catch your breath?”
“Not if you don’t,” I retort and stop breathing heavily. “Follow me.”
I can feel his eye-roll and grin behind my back, and I rub my mouth again and realize I’m smiling. Even in the face of what could be a serious, real doomsday.
2
MAXIMOFF HALE
Surprise, I’m not the late person here. Jane texts that she’ll be in the kitchen in a second.
Proactively waiting isn’t my thing. I can admit that. So when Farrow unwraps a piece of gum and tugs open the fridge, I ask him, “Need help?”
He chews his gum slowly and glances at me in a way that reminds me he’s twenty-seven. I’m twenty-two, and he’s more than capable to do shit himself.
Farrow starts to smile. “It’s cute that you think I need help getting eggs.” He grabs a carton and kicks the fridge closed.
“You could’ve dropped the fucking eggs.” I’m fighting a stupid battle. And I grimace-smile which makes me want to poke my own eyes out.
Farrow pops his gum. “You mean you would’ve dropped the eggs.”
“Did I? Pretty sure I meant you could’ve.”
Farrow sets the carton by the sink. “I have steadier hands than you.” He leans close and whispers huskily, “You’re not beating me at this.”
I shake my head on instinct. When it comes to Farrow, boyfriend or not, I don’t want to concede that fast. “It’s not proven yet.”
He rolls his eyes into a smile. “Hold out your hand.”
I extend my hand, palm-down. Wondering how he can discern any shake just by sight.
Farrow rotates my wrist. “Like this.” And then he smashes an egg right in my palm.
Don’t smile at him. Don’t smile at him. “Thanks for that,” I say sarcastically, hand dripping in broken eggshell and yolk.
“Anytime.” He laughs, and I act quickly and wipe the runny egg onto his black V-neck, feeling the ridges of his six-pack beneath.
Farrow props his elbows on the sink and actually lets me use his shirt as a towel, even while he’s wearing the thing. Christ.
He’s a Grade A sexy asshole.
“Sorry for being late.” Jane crests the doorway in an out-of-breath pant, and our heads turn. She’s dressed in coffee-print grannie jammies. A binder tucked beneath her armpit.
She sees Farrow. “Oh, you’re both here—” Her cat slippers slide on the slick hardwood, and she almost face-plants.
Binder drops to the floor.
I sprint to reach my best friend, but by the time I catch her elbow, she already steadies herself with outstretched arms.
My lips almost rise. “Bonsoir, ma moitié,” I whisper. Good evening, my other half.
Her big blue eyes smile weakly up at me. I wait for her to say it’s just you and me, old chap—or any kind of variation of that phrase. Just so I know we’re alright.
We’re the same as we always were.
Nothing’s changed.
She’s still Janie. I’m still Moffy. And we’re best friends until the bitter fucking end.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says and rubs her runny nose. Smothering her emotions. She picks up the binder. “This is for you. I need to talk with you about something important. Something I’ve already discussed with my brothers.”
I’ve always been the first person she turns to and vice versa. With secrets, personal struggles, something important, anything—Jane Eleanor Cobalt is my number one.
My ride-or-die.
But she talked to Beckett before me. And even Charlie. Though, I’m highly aware that someone is in my corner and currently in this kitchen.
Farrow pulls his dirtied shirt over his head and then washes his hands. His earring sways as he shifts around the kitchen to cook eggs. And his protective gaze meets mine in a stronghold.
He’s here for me. If I need him.
It feels more than good.
I know it’s no longer just me and Jane anymore, but I also don’t want the best parts of our friendship to change because of our other relationships.
I take the binder, and Jane lingers. I linger. Before the media blowout, we’d hug in greeting or I’d kiss both of her cheeks. Now, she hugs onto her arms, and I stand uncomfortably rigid.
God, I hate this.
“Tell me what you want to do,” I whisper.
“I will.” She nods assuredly and peels a piece of wavy hair off her freckled cheek. “That’s why we need to talk.”
“Alright.” I stretch my arm and head to the fridge. “Need anything?”
“No, I’m making coffee.” She’s already halfway to the pot.
I open the fridge and grab a Ziff sports drink. The label is a Z with the words Ascend beneath, a limeade flavor and a Fizzle product. The lake house is stocked with Fizz sodas, Lightning Bolt! energy drinks, and lots of Ziff.
I flip open a binder on the island counter and find blank white sheets of paper. “It’s all blank?”
Jane fills up a mug. “Since my handwriting is dreadfully hard to read, I thought you’d want to take some notes.”
I find a pen in the binder pocket. “No problem.” What the fuck am I about to write down? Being kept in the dark—not my favorite feeling.
But you know that.
I rest my elbows on the counter. “Are we planning a funeral, a trip to Jupiter, or the reinvention of the Invisibility Cloak?”
“She said ‘important’ things,” Farrow says and puts his frying pan in the sink.
I give him a look. “So funerals aren’t important to you? Great. Never plan mine.”
“We’ve been through this. You’re not dying before me,” Farrow says matter-of-factly. He grabs his bowl of scrambled eggs and sidles next to me. “Give up that dream.”