My stomach knots. “What the invitations go in are actually less stressful than who they’re going to.” Our guest list has been steadily growing. I have a large family.
Farrow has friends from undergrad and medical school. More friends than me.
“Do you think your father will come?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He spins the Sharpie between his fingers, but his gaze is on the name: Edward Keene. “But probably more as a professional courtesy.”
I wish his father could love him as deeply as a father should love a son.
We’re quiet, the only sound coming from Gotham gnawing on kibble, and my teeth grind as I zero in on another name.
Samantha Calloway
My blue-blooded, socialite grandmother, who’s been worse than a thorn to me and Jane recently.
“What’s wrong?” Farrow asks me.
“Empedocles.” I bring up the Greek philosopher again. “He said, ‘There are some forces in nature called Love and Hate. The force of Love causes elements to be attracted to each other and to be built up into some particular form or person, and the force of Hate causes the decomposition of things.’ And when I think about my grandmother, I think of Hate.” I shake my head a couple times. “I’m worried that her hatred will ruin our wedding.”
His brows spike. “We don’t have to invite her. Fuck, I don’t even want her there.”
“Neither do I, but she’s my mom’s mother. Plus, leaving her off the list but inviting my grandfather—her husband—it’s not going to blow over well. And she sent us that fucking card.” It said, I look forward to your nuptials.
He leans back. “It was lazy and trite. My nephew could’ve been more sincere, and I’ve barely talked to him.” He picks himself off the floor and approaches the black-painted wall. No hesitation, he smudges her name away with the side of his fist. Farrow glances back at me. “Okay?”
I nod, breathing stronger. “It feels right.”
Farrow doesn’t return to the floor. He rests his shoulders on the wall, and he looks…is he nervous? Farrow drags his gaze for half a second before planting his brown eyes on me. “I don’t want to stress you out.”
I’m just confused—and the more he towers above, the more I hate being below. So I stand up. “Did something happen?” My shoulders square.
“No.” He almost smiles. “This isn’t one of your doomsdays.” He pauses. “At least not to me. I’m not completely sure what you’ll think.”
“Just tell me, man.”
He touches the titanium ring on his finger, the one he’ll eventually slip on mine. “I dreamed of a winter wedding. The snow, the cold. That was one of the things I dreamed up at thirteen—when I didn’t know who I’d marry.” His eyes redden. “But I’m marrying you, and the way you exist in the sun is the purest shit in the world.”
My chest rises.
“I want to marry you in the summer, wolf scout.”
I draw closer, our eyes all over each other. “Marry me in the summer then.”
He’s already standing off the wall. We pull one another closer in a strong embrace, chest-to-chest, the hug deeper than anything I’ve ever felt with anyone.
His body rises with each breath, with mine.
He stares into me. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” My brows furrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He has an uneasy smile. “Fuck, you haven’t even realized…” He takes a beat. “We’re going from eight months to plan this shit to three or four.”
I cringe.
Farrow sees. “We don’t have to—”
“We’re going to,” I say firmly. “I want to.” I even make a decision. “July.”
A smile spreads across his mouth. “July?”
“Yeah, that good with you?”
He kisses me. “Definitely.”
Three months away.
Nothing can go wrong. I’m not as calm as Farrow about the imperfections of this wedding. If someone or something tries to cause a catastrophic apocalypse, I will climb to Mt. Olympus itself and wring the necks of every god up there.
Nothing can go wrong.
2
FARROW KEENE
The world outside Maximoff’s bedroom window is quiet this early morning. No honking cars, city traffic, or aggressive paparazzi like the Rittenhouse-Fitler townhouse delivered at the crack of fucking dawn. But the gated Philly neighborhood comes with its own issues.
I’m sinking.
On a slow-leaking air mattress. And honestly, I don’t really care. It has its perks, like waking up and realizing I’m pushed to the deflating center with the strong-willed sleeping beauty. Maximoff has rolled into me, his carved bicep across my toned abs and his calf hooked around my leg. A geeky yellow-blue Wolverine sheet is kicked down and sprawls along our waists.
Any sudden movements and he’ll stir. I’m careful not to wake him.
Maximoff needs more sleep ever since shit storm after shit storm has blown in, and I’d give him my sleep, my energy if I could. The best I can do is be very gentle and try not to sit up.
My left arm is tucked under his broad shoulders, and I’m not moving out from under him. I just raise my phone above my face and do some daily security tasks. Like checking social media for any recent media fallouts.
None.
Other than trending news about a pop singer fainting at a sold-out stadium concert—and she’s not a part of the famous families, so my interest is bottom-rung low.
I pop open Instagram and scroll my feed with my thumb.
Landing on a familiar face. Donnelly posted a mirror selfie, showing off the Wawa logo tattoo on his shoulder blade. I click into his profile, the bio just a string of emojis. But that blue-eyed shameless motherfucker has 4.6 million followers.
My lip rises.
I “heart” his photo, and I scroll onto a pic of Oscar Oliveira outside Buckingham Palace. The caption: today #SFO #KitsuwonSecurities
He was in London last week. Leave it to the most tactical bodyguard to use social media to throw off fans and paparazzi about his client’s location.
I “heart” his pic too and keep scrolling.
Underneath Quinn Oliveira’s towel gym selfie, I type out a one-word comment.
Dead
We give Oscar’s younger brother shit in the comment section.
Donnelly: I love a thot
Oscar: needs more towel
Except for Thatcher and me, Quinn—the “Young Stud”—has more followers than the other Omega bodyguards, currently 8.4 million.
See, a lot has changed in security. When SFO gained public popularity and some fame, we were told to delete personal social medias.
But Akara recently started his own security firm, and we all signed onto Kitsuwon Securities Inc. with no hesitation. I’m more than happy to leave behind the stringent fuckers on Alpha and the ass-kissers on Epsilon, but they’re still in our rearview window—not out of sight.
Some members of the family still use Price’s Triple Shield Services, and only a small group has hired Akara’s new company
Those being: Maximoff, Jane, Charlie, Sullivan, Luna, and Xander.
Six clients.
Seven bodyguards.
A new company means new rules. Akara okayed personal social medias, and most SFO bodyguards just recently activated Instagram accounts.
Me included.
I sometimes forget how famous I’ve become outside of just security, but the 61.3 million followers definitely puts my fame into perspective.
Though, I’m nowhere near Maximoff’s 102 million, and I know he loves to one-up me at everything but I’m not trying to win any popularity contests.
I scroll back up to the string of unwatched Instagram stories, and my brows pinch. Maximoff posted a recent story that I haven’t seen—and fuck, I want to click into this.
I glance down at him.
His chest rises and falls with his deep breath, his dark-brown hair disheveled and his bodyweight against me. Seeing him con
tent and relaxed, even in sleep, is one of my favorite things. I smile more, and carefully, I lower my phone’s volume to the quietest setting.
I raise the phone over my face and tap into the story.
Maximoff fills the screen, his hair wet after showering last night. He hooks me in. And he’s just sitting on the edge of his twin bed. I must’ve been in the bathroom when he recorded this.
I strain my ears to hear the video.
“Hey, everyone.” A warm, welcoming smile inches up his lips. “Thanks for the well wishes. We’re all okay, I promise.” His eyes toughen, not soften. “I really appreciate all the clothes and things you’ve sent us after the fire, but please send those to your local shelters. They need it a ton more than us. If you aren’t sure where you can send extra clothes and supplies to, keep checking out my stories and swipe up for links.”
Maximoff. My eyes drift to him on the air mattress. He’s so pure, it aches my chest. Everything fans have mailed to us, he already gave to a Philly shelter.
I feel extremely fucking lucky to be engaged to him. To be fully a part of his world and gain his comic-book-obsessed, bizarre-as-fuck family as my family—shit, I’m staying in his childhood house. A home that is warmer and packed with more unconditional love than mine ever was.
Maximoff doesn’t get too raw and personal on Instagram. It’d be easy to think the fire affected no one, destroyed nothing, changed only our location—but that’d be understating what happened.
Like I said, Maximoff has his leg around mine, and I can feel the wooden-carved hilt of a knife and leather holster on his shin. He hasn’t taken that off since the inferno.
He’s not paranoid or afraid of anyone.
I gifted him the tactical knife in Greece for his 23rd birthday, and it’d been stashed in his Audi the night of the fire. Even though the car is a burnt tin can, the knife survived.
Maximoff treasures so much of the normal shit in our relationship, like the little things we gave each other, and we lost a lot in that house. I’m a little bit concerned he’s trying to prepare for another “doomsday” where the only thing that survives is what’s on our bodies.
Because most of what we have left from the townhouse is what we walked out with, what we wore that night. We didn’t have time to grab anything but Jane’s cats and each other.
I focus back on my phone as a second video clip plays. On the screen, Maximoff glances towards the door, then looks into the camera. “So you know how I’m planning to marry this really, really aggravating guy? I’m pretty sure he’s in the bathroom right now, plotting ways to piss me off.” He tries not to smile, but he looks infatuated with me.
I’m grinning at the phone.
“Wish me luck. Signing off, your friendly neighborhood human.” He’s such a fucking dork. Right when I think it, voices begin to escalate outside the room.
I close Instagram and stay still. Able to distinguish Maximoff’s parents.
“Lo, don’t,” Lily pleads.
“What do you think I’m going to do?” Lo retorts, his sharp-edged voice caustic and biting. Uncomfortable silence passes until he snaps, “It’s fine, Lil.”
Maximoff is suddenly awake. Like their voices are two paddles to his chest.
He turns his head to the door, brows furrowed in concern. I haven’t heard his parents fight in a long time. Probably not since I was Lily’s bodyguard. They’re the type of couple who make up a split-second later—but when the intensity heightens, the catalyst is almost always their addictions.
“It’s not fine, Lo,” she says strongly.
Long silence.
Lily speaks again. “Let’s talk somewhere else; I don’t want to wake up Moffy and Farrow.” Footsteps drift away.
Maximoff looks back at me. “How long have you been up?”
I raise my brows at him. “Longer than you.”
His irritation sits beneath hard confusion. “Did I miss anything else they said?”
“No, that was it.” I worry about his parents too, but anything could make today more stressful than yesterday for them.
He sits up, the air mattress squeaking and undulating beneath us. I prop myself on my elbow. We sink, and he’s pushed more into my build.
He braces a firm hand on my chest, and I feel the calluses on his palm. He soaks up my features, lingering on my lip piercing and unkempt bed-head hair.
My smile stretches.
Maximoff growls out his frustration. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything, wolf scout.” I’m about to clasp the back of his head and kiss him, but he takes the lead and kisses me.
Short and more teasing—he’s getting better at that. My gaze is roped to him as he stands up with pure confidence and walks off the deflating mattress with force and uncommon grace. Bare-assed, buck-naked except for the knife on his shin. He lands on the ground, no misstep or falter. The mattress didn’t even bounce him or rock him.
That shouldn’t have been that easy, but for Maximoff, hard things come more naturally on the first try. I’ll give him that.
I’m on my feet too, and I tug on black Calvin Klein boxer-briefs.
Maximoff puts on a gray pair. “My parents sounded worse than normal.”
I can’t disagree. “They usually work it out.”
“Yeah,” he says with full belief. “They’re strong.” He searches the room for more clothes, and I go back to the air mattress for my phone.
I missed a recent text from my father. “Shit.”
Med call: 9 a.m. at Birdsboro Quarry. Ryke Meadows & Sullivan Meadows are climbing.
Whenever the Meadows family rock climbs, an on-call doctor goes on-site, and ever since Sulli has moved back home, she’s been speed climbing more with her dad.
It’s pulled me away from Maximoff more than I like, but I go where I’m needed. And I love helping these families.
“What happened?” Maximoff asks, tugging his arms through a green crewneck.
“Med call for rock climbing.” I pull my black slacks to my waist and find my security radio on his dresser. If Banks can’t go on-duty for Maximoff, I might lose my shit on Akara.
Banks Moretti switches out with me every time I have a med call.
Until recently.
I fit in my earpiece and raise my mic cord to my mouth. “Farrow to Akara, I have a med call at 9, and Maximoff has to be at the Philly Aquatic Center at 9:30.”
Akara responds through comms. “Banks is on Sulli’s detail today, so I’ll send a new temp over to Maximoff.”
My jaw tenses, and I comb a hand through my hair. There might be social media upsides to Akara’s new firm, but there are downsides to this fledgling company. We can’t use any of the temp guards from Price’s firm. So we have less manpower when a 24/7 personal bodyguard needs extra security or to go off-duty.
And while Akara is busy with business shit, he’s been hogging Banks and using him for Sulli’s detail. Which leaves Maximoff leftovers in the form of green temps. Who we’re all taking turns training when we’re off-duty.
I click my mic. “The temps can barely tie their fucking shoes right now.” He’d never put one on Sulli.
“That’s the best I have, Farrow.” He sounds apologetic. “Work with me here.”
I lock eyes with Maximoff.
“It’s okay.” He tries to fix pieces of his hair. “I’ll be fine on my own for a couple hours.”
I run my tongue over my molars, pissed. I know he thinks he can protect himself, and that’s exactly what Akara believes too. But Maximoff could easily be in a situation where he needs another set of experienced hands, a trained bodyguard—and if he’s alone…
“My uncle can pick up the med call—”
“No.” Maximoff buttons his jeans. “You’re not bailing on a fucking med call. I’ll just cancel today’s swim class and go with you to the climbing site.”
I attach my radio to my waistband and give him a harder look. “We have a problem, wolf scout, because that’s not happening
either.” We’re both stubborn.
Maximoff nears me, his stride unwavering and confident. “It’s two hours. I’ll be fine.” He stares deeply into me, his arm curving around my shoulders.
I hold his gaze. Do your motherfucking job, Farrow. I’m a bodyguard and a doctor. My job keeps flipping between protecting him and protecting his family, and times like this, it kills me to put Maximoff second to anyone.
I love the fuck out of him.
“Just ask Akara for that one temp with the chin dimple,” Maximoff says.
“The butt chin,” I correct.
He smiles. “Chin dimple. He wasn’t that bad last time.”
I nod a few times. Fine. I click my mic. “Maximoff is requesting Butt Chin for duty.” I grin wider as Maximoff glowers.
He blinks. “I’m sorry, man. I totally forgot you have hearing problems.”
I roll my eyes, but honestly, I stare at him with more concern. “If you need me, call me. Don’t do the selfless Wolf Scout thing and suffer alone.”
He nods strongly. “I’ll call you.”
Every fucking time a green temp is assigned to Maximoff’s detail, I feel like I’m throwing a dart in the dark and crossing my fingers it doesn’t impale my fiancé. It’s not a fun place to be, and I’d say we lucked out today since we both made it back to the Hale house for a late lunch.
But something just happened.
“Shit,” I curse, an apple in my right hand while my left steadies Maximoff. He tries to stable me with the same force, same strength, the same exact way. Except my elbow is the only one that just went through plaster and put a fucking hole in the kitchen wall.
Normally this wouldn’t faze me. I don’t give a flying shit if I crash into lamps and ding walls when I’m wrestling Maximoff.
But we’re not in our own place, and I’m not exactly thrilled that I’ve just destroyed the future in-law’s house.
“I can fix it.” Maximoff’s tough forest-green eyes are on the plaster.
My lips rise, his chlorine scent flooding my senses. “That’s cute that you’re pretending to be a repairman.”
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