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.
“Yeah, definitely.” I hold her phone since I have longer arms. They gather around me, and after I snap a few, they skip away, giddy and giggling.
Farrow blows and pops a bubblegum bubble, eyeing my backpack while I hold the thing again. My mind has blanked on literally half of what my family ordered.
I’m going to have to make multiple trips.
I rummage inside, sifting past a couple philosophy books. “I’ve been meaning to return something to you.” An avalanche of nerves flip-flops my insides. I stay more stoic as I find and hand him a folded black shirt.
The black shirt.
The one he threw off the yacht so I could staunch my bloody nose on the marina’s dock. All after a fistfight with Charlie.
Farrow stares at the shirt in his grip, and I sense his confusion brewing.
“It’s yours. From the summer bash—”
“Yeah, I remember.” He tucks the fabric nonchalantly in his back pocket. I thought he’d tease me about dry cleaning the shirt or folding it. He doesn’t do either. Instead, he says, “You forgot what I told you.”
“What?”
He smiles, one that flickers in and out. “On the yacht, I said you could keep the shirt.”
Yeah.
I couldn’t forget his words that night. My brain is too obsessed with him, but I don’t want to admit to Farrow that I remember everything. Down to how he stacked beer cans in his hand and walked backwards while talking to me.
Even if telling him now would reinforce what an astounding, earth-shattering memory I have.
And I’m in my head for too long.
He must think I need clarification because he says, “Man, you didn’t have to give it back.”
“I wanted to. You’re my mom’s bodyguard now.” I’m three people away from the front of the line. “It didn’t seem right keeping it. But thanks, seriously.” No sarcasm, I think he can hear my sincerity.
Farrow combs a hand through his hair. “You’re welcome.”
The air strains with something unspoken.
We both face forward.
He speaks hushed into his mic, radio and gun holstered on his waistband.
He’s a bodyguard.
Farrow Keene abandoned a medical career and changed paths with the snap of a finger, and here I am, miserable in college. Unable to move in a new direction.
When I know, deep down, that I’d be happier if I were back home in Philly and pursuing something other than a degree.
I breathe in, a weightless feeling rushing through me.
I’m going to drop out of Harvard.
I look to my left, almost about to tell Farrow. But he’s concentrating on bodyguard duties, and I’m just in my head.
I focus on my family, and I buy three caramel apples. As I fish out my credit card, I glance back. Farrow is climbing up the slope with my parents in tow.
I don’t know why, but I smile.
1
MAXIMOFF HALE
PRESENT DAY
“Can you wait like four seconds before you flip the page?” I ask my fiancé.
Farrow gives me a look. You know the one. You’ve seen it on hundreds of paparazzi photos, practically tabloid centerfolds. His eyebrows rise, and his smile slowly expands in an irritating, teasing wave. No matter what anyone tells you, here’s the truth…
He’s looking at me like he’s obsessed with me.
Yeah. That’s what I’m going with.
We’re sitting on the orange rug in my childhood bedroom, a binder opened on the ground between us.
“Farrow—”
He places a tattooed hand on the page. “Would you like me to count to four out loud, wolf scout?”
My mouth falls. “You can count that high?”
He lets out a laugh, almost rolling his eyes but they never really leave me. His growing smile sends my heart in a high-speed crash against my ribcage. “You want to be smarter than me so badly.” He gives me a once-over.
“You don’t even know who Empedocles is,” I combat.
“He’s definitely a Greek philosopher in your ear.” He wipes some white chalk off his palms, eyeing the black-painted walls. X-Men chalk drawings are half-erased and smudged to make room for Farrow’s handwriting.
He’s right. Empedocles is in my ear. Along with a lot of other philosophers, to-do lists, and concerns, but I try to employ Farrow’s easygoing attitude and relax this early-spring afternoon.
I extend my arm over his muscular shoulder, and my eyes fall to his lips.
He’s smiling knowingly, lovingly. “You want me to kiss you?”
“No, I want to kiss you—”
He closes the short distance, his large hand on my sharp jawline, and I move in with abrupt, hot force at the same time. Our lips crush together, and his chest melds against my chest. I clutch the back of his head, my pulse thrumming.
I’m going to marry the love of my life.
One day.
Someday.
Soon.
He smiles against my mouth while we kiss and play around for the lead. He tries to hook my leg with his ankle, but I careen my weight on him and wrestle for a better grip of his bicep.
And then I suddenly tear away—our lips breaking apart. “Fuck,” I swear as something
wet laps my calf.
Slobber runs down my shin.
Farrow laughs while my family’s old Basset Hound jumps on my lap and barks in a carefree, overly joyous way like he did not just ruin one hell of a kiss.
“Hey, Gotham.” I scratch behind his floppy ears, and I glance at Farrow. “Sorry, man.”
His smile slowly turns to a frown. “Why are you apologizing? It’s not like I’m dog-averse.”
At first, I thought every time he played fetch with Gotham, it was so the dog would run away. But the more he’s around the Basset Hound, the more I realize he’s been training him to actually come back when he throws a ball. Because Gotham hasn’t always been great at fetch. Farrow will even reward him with treats or encouraging pets.
“I know you like dogs.” I tense. “It’s just…a lot. And by a lot, I mean all of this.” I gesture around my childhood bedroom. To the racks of comics, the family dog, and the twin bed with a goddamn Spider-Man comforter.
We haven’t even bought a queen-sized one. Some nights, we blow up an air mattress. Other nights, we squeeze together on the bed underneath Peter Parker sheets—sheets that I had as a teenager. Out of everything, buying a new mattress just hasn’t been a high priority.
For either of us.
But living back in my childhood house is weird.
Living back here with Farrow is like descending into the movie Labyrinth and I’m just waiting for David Bowie to pop out. Surreal. Bizarre.
The Rittenhouse-Fitler townhouse burned down less than two weeks ago. Still no news on the cause: electrical or arson.
The why doesn’t matter as much to me. We’re all alive. Everyone is okay, and I have the means to start over. But finding extra time between Farrow’s security meetings, his med calls, my job as a youth swim instructor, and wedding planning is harder.
We’ve only bought a few new pairs of clothes and keep tossing them in the wash.
I don’t want to task assistants to personal shop for me. They have better things to do than pick out jeans and tees and boxer-briefs.
“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 hel
p 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.
He knows what he wants.
I like that.
It’s making this easier, and God’s honest truth, I’d like to take a whole century to plan this wedding. But we’re on a strict deadline.
Originally, we planned to marry in a couple years. No rush. And then everything changed when Jane and Thatcher got engaged. I didn’t want my best friend to push back her wedding, just so I can marry Farrow first. She hates the idea of stealing my spotlight, and even if I protested a thousand times over, I know Jane. She’d wait decades for me. That’s just who she is.
I don’t want her to wait, so Farrow and I decided to move up our wedding date to this year, this winter.
Farrow points to a dark green. “Yes or no?”
I shrug. “It’s fine.”
“This is your wedding too.” He wants me to have an input.
I nod, but my gaze drifts to the chalkboard wall. Where around two-hundred scrawled names are stacked in columns, almost reaching the ceiling.
Headstrong Like Us Page 2