My kids won’t have a mom, and they’re not worse off because of that. They have the pride of having two devoted fathers, who’ll love them unconditionally, care for them, dote on them and protect the hell out of them.
There’ll be nearby female influences, but no mom.
Just me and my husband, and that’s more than enough.
I squint at the harsh sunlight. “Your mom is texting you for clothing advice?” I lower my aviators to my eyes. “You should go home more often, Oliveira, so she can see that your wardrobe is mostly just workout gear and college tees.”
He grins. “Yeah, and your rebel ass owns a hundred black V-necks.”
My lip upturns. “I’m not the one playing Fashion Barbie.”
Oscar laughs, the noise fading away with a gust of wind. He watches me fold Ripley’s extra stroller, which we’re bringing along. “If you had the opportunity to adopt him, would you?”
The question sucks oxygen from my body.
We hired a private investigator to find Ripley’s birth mom. Still MIA, and on top of that, Scottie is like a malignant tumor and there is too much red tape to surgically remove him right now.
Oscar is right. I want this. But more importantly, I want him. The baby that hates me. The one that wails unless he gets a dumb parrot or wolf scout’s attention.
He’s shit on me. Laughed at me. And finds Maximoff to be the most precious human in the world. It’s perfect.
The entire thing.
And fuck, I really love him.
But he has a parent out there, and if she’s clean and ready to take on the responsibility of raising her son, then the most loving thing Maximoff and I can do is place this little boy with his birth mother.
My ribs tighten.
I’m not saying it won’t hurt.
But like always, I’d rather not dwell on shit I can’t change. Once I start, it’ll sock me hard, and I’m not ready to feel that pain.
“It doesn’t really matter,” I say. “There is no opportunity.”
Talking about Ripley is stalling the inevitable. Because I asked Oscar to stop by for a reason. It’s now or never, and never is not a fucking option.
I manage to collapse the stroller.
Oscar peers into the trunk. “We’re about to stay in a million-dollar Key West rental house. Shouldn’t they have some kid stuff already there?”
“They do.”
“So you’re just stuffing your car like a jalapeño popper for shits and giggles?”
I roll my eyes. “Have you met Ripley? He’s more averse to change than Maximoff. Little man likes his shit the way he likes it, and right now, I’m trying to get him on my good side.”
Oscar grins. “You’ve got one of those?”
“Funny.” I slip the stroller into the trunk. Sweat suctions my black shirt to my abs, and I lift my sunglasses to my head and face him. “I have something for you.”
My pulse hammers. I can’t begin to predict his reaction. How upset he’ll be. I just hand him the business card.
Oscar turns it over and reads the words: Be my groomsman?
I scour his face for a reaction, but it’s mostly blank.
“I take it Donnelly’s your best man?” Oscar asks, flipping the card over again like he’s searching for something else. Maybe a just kidding or another question.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re only having one?”
My brows lift. “Yeah, just one.” I cage breath. He still hasn’t looked up at me.
“So you didn’t pick me…” Oscar’s brows furrow, hurt cinching his face.
Shit.
Fuck.
Shit. Shit. I run my tongue over my lip piercing. My pulse skips. “Man, I’m sor—”
He breaks into a smile. “Relax, Redford. I’m fucking with you.” He leans closer and pats my shoulder.
“Fuck,” I curse out a deep breath. “You’re dead to me,” I say casually, brows raised. “I almost thought you were about to cry.”
He laughs harder, humor exploding across his face. “Because I’m not your best man? I’ll survive, bro. I would’ve liked the bragging rights. But let’s be honest, if it wasn’t me, then it should be him.”
I hold out a hand, processing this shit. “So you’ve been fine with being just a groomsman all along? And you never said anything?”
“Yeah, seeing you nervous about this was Christmas come early. And I bet Donnelly it’d take you until after the bachelor party to ask me, so fuck you for making me lose fifty bucks.”
I roll my eyes again, but I’m smiling. He got me. And relief floods my body. I feel a little bit silly for worrying in the first place.
For thinking our friendship could be affected by wedding bullshit.
“I have something else to ask. You may just be a groomsman, but I want you to be a bigger part of the wedding.” I take a breath. “Because you do mean a lot to me.”
Wind picks up and ruffles Oscar’s curly hair. Light breaches his brown eyes. I realize I’m surprising him this time. “What is it?” he asks.
My lips lift into a wider smile.
23
FARROW KEENE
4 weeks until the wedding
I take a drag from a cigarette, popular remixed songs beating throughout a massive Key West club. Neon strobe lights sweep our leather couches and table in a roped-off VIP section. Safely keeping camera-wielding fans at bay.
I don’t blame them for wanting pictures of my bachelor party. All of SFO is here, and we’ve always been the hottest fuckers in security.
“Groom’s turn,” Banks nods to me.
I blow smoke up in the air and pry a Jenga block from the tower. Black marker bleeds into the wooden piece. I read the words, “Maximoff Motherfucking Hale.” I stare blankly at the best man who put this drinking game together. “How many ‘Maximoff’ blocks are there?”
Donnelly smirks. “Coulda put more in there.”
I’ve already picked four out.
“Consider it a gift, Redford. We know you love pulling his wood,” Oscar quips, unfurling a piece of paper. About to ask me a question pertaining to my groom.
I flip him off and stick my cigarette back between my lips. “What do you have for me, boys.” I unpocket my cellphone.
“No cheating.” Thatcher reaches over to take my phone.
I retract and give him a look. “You planning to take the Cobalt name because you sure as hell act like one?”
He almost rolls his eyes, and Banks shoves a bottle of champagne in his twin brother’s chest.
Oscar passes the paper to Akara. Our boss has been switching between his cellphone, the champagne, back to his cellphone all night. He swigs from the bottle Thatcher gives him, then reads a question to me, “Did Maximoff Hale tell a cameraman that he really likes whipped cream and strawberries?”
I tilt my head back and forth. “Fuck.” They picked the most obscure shit that I’d never know. And they have the luxury of Google-searching random facts about my groom. That’s what I get for falling in love with an American prince.
“Is that the final answer?” Quinn asks.
“No, and no, Maximoff didn’t say that.” I can’t see why he would.
“Wrong.” Akara smiles. “He said it when he was six.”
I clap for them, cigarette between my lips. “You all really went dumpster diving for these questions.” They look pleased with themselves—because they know it’s funny as hell. Amusement has been the theme of tonight, but it’s also been accompanied by vigilance and restlessness.
SFO has joked that we’re the “grown-up” bachelor party since Maximoff has underage teens attending his, and they’re at a campy beach-themed bar.
The reality: we’re all away from our clients, and while temp bodyguards are watching them, it’s set most of us on edge. We oscillate between laughing and glancing towards entrances, exits. As though the people we live to protect will show up, or we’ll need to rush to them.
Donnelly uncaps a marker
and draws the fifth “x” on my cheekbone. They wanted the punishment to be more than “chug a beer” and to last all night.
Jack Highland’s turn.
He scoots nearer to the Jenga tower. He’s been sitting really close to Oscar at the nightclub, and Donnelly caps the marker, watching their interactions with me.
“You’ve been pretty good at Jenga tonight,” Jack says to Oscar with a bright mega-watt smile. “Which would you suggest? Top or bottom?” He points between a top and bottom block.
Okay, I’m not even sure if Highland knows what he’s saying.
Donnelly mouths to me, straight. I suck on my cigarette, casual and not too worried. I’m not going to interfere with whatever the hell that is. But if Oscar catches feelings for a straight boy, we’ll both be here to pick up the pieces. Always are.
Oscar leans back and narrows his eyes at Jack. “Are you asking for sex advice, Long Beach?”
Jack laughs. “I wasn’t. But if I were, I would go to you—I’m sure you do well in that department.” Before Oscar can reply, Jack rotates back to the game and says quickly, “I’m serious about the blocks though. Top or bottom?”
“For Jenga. Top.”
Donnelly looks around, confused, before he speaks up. “We’re all just going to ignore the giant elephant in the room?”
“Definitely not,” I say, and cast a glance to Oscar. Donnelly and I aren’t about to let him off that easy. “So when’s your sex advice column going out?”
“Yeah, sign me up.” Donnelly nods. “Not that I need it. Just curiosity and all.”
Oscar and I share a look before we crack up laughing.
Donnelly pulls a cigarette from behind his ear. “Dunno what’s so funny. I’m a great lay. Just ask—” He stops at the sight of Thatcher’s glare. “Cynthia,” Donnelly finishes. “Or Linda. Chelsea—”
“Man, we don’t need names,” I say, cutting him off.
Jack reads the block in his hand. “Take a shot.” And Oscar pours him a tequila shot and passes the salt and lime.
I have my phone out—not to cheat.
I swig champagne as the bottle reaches me. And I scroll through a group text with all the parents: Lily & Lo, Connor & Rose, and Ryke & Daisy.
Every famous one is in Key West, including the six parents.
The only stipulation they made: if the younger teens attend Maximoff’s bachelor party, then all the parents have to be in town for parental supervision.
On the plus side, all six of them have been babysitting Ripley ever since we left for the club and bar. My groom is a whole five blocks down the road at the other bachelor party.
Yearning surges through me. To be with Maximoff. To be with Ripley. When I should just be enjoying myself.
See, this is the first time I’ve let someone else besides Maximoff watch Ripley for this long.
Lily and Daisy keep sending videos of the baby asleep. Snoring. Nothing else. I texted back asking if he ever woke up, and the next message was from Rose Calloway. She sent a video of Ripley screaming at the top of his lungs.
He’s a demon. Certifiable. Congratulations. But you’re lucky that I’ve raised seven gremlins of my own. Lily has raised four. Daisy two. You have nothing to worry about. Have fun tonight, and don’t do anything that my nephew wouldn’t do or I’ll have your head. – Rose
Maximoff wouldn’t be drinking alcohol, so I broke that hours ago.
I skim the text again. Shit, I miss Ripley. He’s only a twenty-minute drive back to the rental house.
“Redford, I’m about to steal your phone.” Oscar does just that, snatching my cell and sliding it in his back pocket.
I raise my brows. “Why even warn me?”
“Good point. I won’t next time. Drink up.” He tips the champagne bottle back, and liquor glides down my throat quickly. Liquid drips off my chin before I right the bottle. I wipe the alcohol off with my bicep.
Oscar and Donnelly are doing the thing where they’re both trying to get me hammered. Much to their disappointment, I’m only lightly buzzed.
I point the champagne bottle to Akara. “Let’s be honest here, Kitsuwon’s been on his phone more than me.”
His eyes are fixed to his cell. “Just trying to make sure the temps don’t make a stupid mistake while we’re over here.” We don’t acknowledge the fact that all of us have our radios on, even though we’re off-duty.
It’s been harder to let go when the temps aren’t well trained yet.
And mention of that just sets us on alert again. I steal my phone back from Oscar, and I snuff out my cigarette, while also scanning the nightclub. I’ve pictured Maximoff over at the other bar around forty-one times now. Make it forty-two.
Quinn shrugs. “Isn’t there an obvious solution? Let’s just go to their bar.”
“Can’t.” I hand him the champagne.
Donnelly holds a Zippo flame to his cigarette and adds, “He promised the groom they’d have separate bachelor parties.”
It wasn’t so much a promise as it was an agreement.
I also agreed to have fun. I am, but it’s harder with him not around. Can’t lie, I like Maximoff’s company. Love it, even.
Donnelly tosses me the pack of cigarettes. I smack it against my palm.
“Why isn’t Luna here?” Jack asks us. “I thought she was part of Farrow’s wedding party.”
“She wanted to be with her siblings,” I say easily. No problem with me. She’d probably have more fun with Maximoff since her closest friends are over there too.
Thatcher carefully pulls a Jenga piece. “It says, Maximoff.”
I light a cigarette. “I’m still wondering why I have to answer all these ones when he drew it.”
“Our rules,” they collectively say.
Arbitrary rules are bottom-rung rules, but I don’t mind playing into these. I motion for the question.
Akara passes the paper to Banks, and he reads off the sheet, “Did Maximoff Hale tell a joke to the paparazzi and ask, What do you call a woman with four legs? And he answered his own joke with, doggy style.”
“You motherfuckers.” I shake my head with a smile and slight cringe because Maximoff would be doubled-over mortified if he heard them bring up that viral video.
He told that joke when he was five-years-old to a passing cameraman, and he thought doggy style referred to a girl dog. He was just a little innocent kid.
“The Groom isn’t here,” Oscar grins. “He’s safe from the roast.”
For the game, I answer, “Yeah, he said that.”
“First one right!” Donnelly cheers.
Akara, Banks, Thatcher, and Jack all clap together, most smiling—the Moretti brothers pull off a serious brood too well—and Oscar shoves the champagne back in my chest.
“OSLIE! OSLIEEEE!” a fan screams so loud, we can hear them over the bass. Damn.
Oscar’s face sobers.
Oslie = Oscar and Charlie.
A pairing that doesn’t exist, but there’s a weird as fuck theory circulating the internet about SFO being fake. That we’re all pretending to be bodyguards and our clients are just our secret relationships. Sure, Thatcher and I are engaged to our clients and that did not help in deescalating this shit, but there are serious holes in this rumor.
It’d mean that Akara was dating Sulli when she was sixteen. Now even mentioning them hooking up to Akara will bring out a glare that makes you feel like you’re one-inch tall.
“OSLIEEEE!”
“Is that the favorite fake ship or what?” Donnelly asks.
Oscar frowns darkly. “Someone else can take that title. I don’t want it.”
Banks raises a shot glass. “I’m Team Kitsulli.”
Akara punctures him with a glare. There it is.
A crooked smile edges Banks’ mouth, and he pounds back the shot.
“Is Sulli still dating Will?” Jack wonders.
Akara glances back at Banks, but not with another glare. With a look that I honestly can’t read, and it’s no
t my business. I smoke and check my phone for new messages.
None.
“Yeah,” Akara tells Jack. “Will is still around.”
I’ve heard enough through comms about the Rooster, aka Will Rochester (Sulli’s boyfriend). And it’s easy to crack a guess that they’d like a different guy to date Sulli. I don’t have strong feelings about the issue, except that Maximoff doesn’t love the Rochester family.
From my vantage, Will Rochester is as interesting as beige wallpaper. But if he makes Sulli happy, who am I to judge?
Banks zones in on the pack of cigarettes I throw on the table. “Mother of God, I need to get drunk.” Standing to his feet, he walks to the other side of the VIP couch and seizes a bottle of vodka.
Thatcher follows his movements with his eyes like a protective big brother, even though he’s only six minutes older.
“Oscar’s turn.” Donnelly taps ash into the tray.
He pries out a block and reads, “Dare. The arrow is pointing to…”
Donnelly blows a middle-finger kiss.
“Fuck you,” Oscar says casually.
Donnelly contemplates a dare for Oscar, staring up at the strobe lights. “I dare you…to let the groom pierce your nose.”
Oscar sighs like Donnelly took a kill shot.
I laugh hard. He’s never let me or Donnelly pierce him. Oscar ends up grinning. “Only because my decade-long friend is getting married. Put that in your mental Rolodex.”
I smile so fucking wide.
We make a deal that I’ll pierce his nose back at the house tonight. And we keep playing. The stack falls on Quinn, and he has to down two shots.
I try to drink less, my instincts on a taut wire. It’s been a while since I’ve last heard from the temp on Maximoff’s detail. I click my mic. “Farrow to Jasper. Can I get an update on Maximoff?”
Six heads whip in my direction. Necks snapping. Yeah, Omega heard my request over comms. Didn’t really care. Still don’t.
“Redford.” Oscar gives me a look. “We all made a pact.”
The pact was to not check in with our clients. Only Akara is supposed to be in communication with the temps.
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