His eyes well, struck at the lyrics.
The melody instantly pours through me and sweeps us, drawing our gazes together. Staring deeply, not abandoning or deserting the other. We slow dance to Collective Soul’s “You”—and Maximoff will tell you that he’s leading. I’ll tell anyone who cares to know that I am, but the truth is, we’re just one movement, one love.
He slows more, bringing my chest against his body. We just sway, and I hold the back of his head. Happiness is easy with him. And I might appear okay with whatever comes in my life, but there is nothing more I’ve wanted than this. Than for a man to love me like Maximoff Hale does.
It’s unreal.
He leans back, tears cresting both of our eyes. His chest rises. “That’s the song.”
Of course I love Collective Soul and that song, but I almost laugh. “It’s a 90s band.”
“I don’t care.”
I smile. “Okay.”
32
MAXIMOFF HALE
1 week until the wedding
The wedding destination is leaked. And worse, the date of departure.
Which is today, right now.
No one knows how the leak happened. Could’ve been an employee of the property manager to the private villas we booked in Anacapri, or a wedding guest talking to a stranger who talked to the media—but it doesn’t really matter.
We’re en route to the airport, and paparazzi are out for blood. And by we, I’m talking my whole extended family, fleets of bodyguards, personal assistants, and oh yeah, my dad’s therapist. Who I slept with when I was eighteen.
I’m antsy since I’m not driving. “My phone is blowing up,” I say to Farrow, who has a single hand coolly on the steering wheel. He uses the rearview mirror to check on Ripley in the car seat.
All the puppies are too young to bring to Italy, so we hired a dog sitter while we’re away.
We’re both alert, and I scan the highway. Cars crammed with paparazzi crowd our Audi, closing us in. I know the same is happening to my family in their vehicles.
My brother sent me a photo of him flipping off a cameraman, but he’s inside the car with the windows rolled up and tinted. My mom’s bodyguard at the wheel.
Paparazzi didn’t capture his middle finger.
I thought if Farrow and I drove separately from my cousins and took a longer route, we’d throw some off. Apparently not.
“Who’s messaging you?” Farrow asks.
“Three-fourths of my family.” I click into pinging group chats. “Tom just texted, this is nuts.”
We go quiet, a cameraman slamming on his fucking brakes in front of us, and Farrow steps on his, nowhere to maneuver. I reach back, instinctively holding the car seat. Even though it’s secured and Ripley is buckled. I triple-checked.
The Audi jerks a bit.
“Shit,” Farrow curses under his breath.
“I’ve never seen this many paparazzi out at once. It’s like they flew in from Hollywood to tail us.”
“They probably did.” Farrow sounds relatively calm, but he’s really hawkeyed. Observant of our surroundings.
Akara gave him the okay to wear his radio, even if he’s off-duty, and he’s been listening to comms. He glances to me, then the road. “I’d be more concerned if we were flying commercial.”
Right.
We’re driving up onto the tarmac. Private jets are waiting. “Perks of being filthy rich, huh?”
His lip quirks. “You wouldn’t have a paparazzi problem if you weren’t fifthly fucking rich. And you wouldn’t need the private jet or a bodyguard.”
But I’d still need you. I almost say the words, but I let them rest inside me. Pre-wedding bells have already made me too sappy in front of my childhood crush. I’m trying to contain some sap so I don’t turn into a fucking maple tree before the ceremony.
Farrow checks his side mirror. “We’re almost there.”
Mayhem.
It could be defined as my famous family arriving in Naples.
We’ve traveled a lot as a massive family—Hales, Meadows, Cobalts, Stokes, and Abbeys—but I’ve never been on a trip where the celebration is just about me, along with the guy I love.
I’m usually the one carrying Luna’s backpack for her as we deboard. The one keeping a protective hand on Xander’s shoulder, while Kinney proudly claims she needs zero assistance and the media flock our parents.
Now they’re flocking me.
“Maximoff, who’s walking down the aisle?!”
“Are you writing vows, Farrow?!”
The sky is bright blue, wind whipping in a cool July afternoon, and no clouds are overhead the docked ferry. My family is scattered around but clustered close enough. All of us waiting to board the boat that’ll bring us to the Island of Capri.
My socialite grandmother is somewhere here. She hasn’t said a word to us, not even when we left Philly. Farrow and I prefer it that way.
“Don’t you dare push me in the water, Richard,” Aunt Rose warns her husband, her voice carrying in the breeze. I can feel my uncle’s billion-dollar grin across the dock.
“I’m starving,” Ben groans.
“I have extra trail mix in my backpack,” Winona replies.
Their words are distant, almost faded behind the tabloid questions.
I’ve separated myself a bit from my cousins and siblings while cameramen shove to be closer to me and Farrow. I don’t want them dealing with that shit, but my best friend and her fiancé said, to hell with that, and they stand with us on the dock.
“Nove del mattino,” Jane says on the phone. “Si, grazie.” To say she’s a good wedding planner is a major understatement. She learned some Italian just to communicate more efficiently with local vendors.
Thatcher has an affectionate hand on her head as he surveys the extra security. Bodyguards are working hard to push media back from our spot. Any cameramen that try to breach their defenses are met with Thatcher and Farrow’s harsh threats and my sharp glare.
“Shhh,” I whisper to Ripley, bouncing him a bit, and I press a kiss to his head. He’s been crying nonstop. I look at Farrow. “Maybe you should try the scarf thing again. It distracted him before.”
Oscar gave us a blue scarf to conceal Ripley from the camera flashes. But our son was more interested in what Farrow did with the scarf on the plane.
“Okay,” Farrow says, grabbing the rolled scarf out of his back pocket. He wraps the fabric around his neck and hides his lips.
“Rip, look.” I point at Farrow. “What’s your dad doing?”
He sniffs, his crystal-blue eyes blinking on his dad.
Farrow draws down the scarf, his lips parted in a shocked O, and Ripley lets out a soft, uncertain laugh. So Farrow brings the scarf back up, then down. His lips are playfully downturned.
Ripley giggles more, entranced.
He does the peekaboo move again, only he gasps into a cheek-to-cheek, breathtaking smile. Ripley wiggles excitedly in my arms and looks up at me like, did you see that?
I saw him.
I’ve seen him.
My lungs flood.
Don’t turn into a maple tree.
Do not turn into a goddamn maple tree.
My mom loves mantras, and I think this is my pre-ceremony one.
“Meltdown averted,” Farrow says with the rise and lower of his brows.
A thought slams at me hard, and I lower my voice to tell him, “Maybe it’s a good thing he doesn’t have the Hale last name. He has no chance to be cursed.”
Farrow looks me over. “Have you been cursed yet? Because it still feels like bullshit to me.”
“We have a week. A lot can happen from now till then.”
33
MAXIMOFF HALE
6 days until the wedding
The private villas in Anacapri are a sanctuary for my family. Even if paparazzi have followed us all the way here, they can’t step foot on the property.
Our location might’ve been leaked and the media is a hassle,
but I wouldn’t have picked a different place to marry Farrow. The coast is stop-in-your-tracks gorgeous.
Limestone crags jut out of the vibrant aqua sea, and the sky looks unreal. Like bright blue gelato that you want to scoop and taste. Sweet and refreshing.
At the main villa, robust columns line a walkway to the entrance. Foliage spindling and centuries old trees shading the lavish pool and Jacuzzi. Renaissance sculptures and rose bushes decorate the courtyard, and for our first breakfast, almost everyone is here. Under umbrellas. Crostatas and espressos are spread over the glass circular tables.
Scenery aside, it’s been a relatively peaceful morning. Except for one unfortunate thing five tables away.
Kaden Simmons is here for breakfast. He’s sipping a cappuccino and chatting with my mom’s therapist.
On one hand, I’m glad my dad is making sure he has the support he needs—especially during the stress of traveling.
On the other, I’d like nothing more than to leave Kaden Simmons across the ocean. Better yet, in the ocean. He can go make friends with dolphins and sea creatures and find a new home down in Atlantis for all I care.
Part of me wants to still be firmly in the camp of don’t rock the boat and that boat happens to be the one my dad is living in. Which means I shouldn’t say anything about Kaden. My mouth has been shut for months.
Another, maybe smaller, part of me believes my dad is better. He’s okay. And he can handle the loss of his great new therapist.
My parents were my support not that long ago. When we held a funeral service for Ripley’s birth mom. Tina had no family, none that cropped up or cared, no one to pay for burial expenses.
I know she might not have wanted to be found and that’s why our PI couldn’t locate her. But I wish I could’ve done more for her while she was alive.
It’ll never feel like enough.
She’s buried in the same cemetery as Cassidy Keene, Farrow’s mom. And when Ripley is older, he’ll have a place to visit his mom, if he wants. They were both in their mid-twenties. Too young to die. Younger than Farrow is now.
It got to me at the burial plot, and I almost started crying.
My dad hugged me for a while, and I didn’t even question if he was doing well. He felt like my pillar, and I held onto him.
But I know I’m afraid of knocking him down again. Which is why I lean towards don’t rock the boat.
My dad is unknowingly making this hard by inviting his therapist to breakfast. Kaden’s breached the circle—okay, he was invited in—and I’m still eyeing him five tables away.
Farrow got a late start and is back at the villa with Ripley. He should be down here soon, but until then, my table is packed with four other men.
Uncle Ryke, Uncle Connor, Uncle Garrison, and my dad have been in a deep conversation about their youngest daughters. Something about the girls being teenagers. I don’t know—I’m not really listening. My focus keeps traveling to Kaden, who’s sipping his cappuccino across the courtyard.
I think Connor notices (he notices almost everything), and my dad follows my uncle’s observant gaze from me to Kaden and back to me.
Quickly, I divert my eyes back to the bread and apricot jam.
They all give each other a look that I can’t read and the air strains at our table of five.
My dad picks up cranberry juice. “You should go talk to him, bud.”
I go rigid. “What?”
His face weighs with seriousness. “My therapist,” he explains. “You should go talk to him. It might help.”
“Help what?” I glance to Connor. Please, let this make sense.
He sips a coffee, brow arched. Can’t read him at all. No help.
I glance at Garrison, my youngest uncle and the father of Vada Abbey. Growing up, he was always like a cool older brother. He even tattooed Batman on his neck, which he did to piss off my dad.
He bites into a breakfast tart and makes a face at me. A face that says, “Don’t ask me. I know nothing.”
I turn to Ryke. “Help what?” I ask again.
Ryke winces. “Look, Mof. You drank for the first time, and that has to be a big fucking deal for you.”
That.
Fuck.
My shoulders strain, muscles tight. So I told all my family what happened at the bachelor party, or at least, I told Janie. She took it hard and blamed herself for supplying the drinks, but I explained that it’s no one’s fault.
Let’s just chalk it up to the Hale Curse and move forward.
We hugged, and I asked her to spread the news through the family gossip network. She said she had me covered. It worked like a charm.
Didn’t have to confront anyone about it. Thought I could skid on by.
Now here I am.
“No,” I say to them and then grimace. “I mean, yeah, it is a big fucking deal. But no, I don’t need to talk to a therapist.” I dunk a teabag in a mug, hoping everyone will let this conversation die.
My dad frowns. “There’s nothing wrong with talking it out with someone—”
“I got that,” I say into a nod. “I just don’t need professional assistance on this. I have Farrow, you know.”
My dad pauses, and I think he might tell me Farrow’s not good enough. But then he says, “I’m happy you have him.”
That drives through me, not in a great way. I hear my dad’s voice, saying that since I have Farrow I don’t need him. Giving himself an out to drink.
I want to help him.
I just don’t know how anymore.
34
FARROW KEENE
Radio clipped to my slacks and wire rounding up my neck, comms chatter fills my ears even though I’m technically off-duty. Did I mention how much I love Kitsuwon Securities?
Back at Triple Shield, the Alpha lead would’ve taken my radio upon departure. Now I don’t have to guess what the hell is happening in security or grovel to Thatcher for details.
As of now, the families are eating breakfast, so there’s not a lot of movement outside unsecure locations.
After clothing Ripley in shorts and a graphic tee of a surfing dog and embroidered lettering that reads beach boy (he looks cool as shit), I balance my baby on my hip.
Maximoff is already in the main villa’s courtyard.
I’m getting a later start than Maximoff since I ran into my stepmom this morning. I was stuck in a thirty-minute one-sided chat, where she professed how much my old man wishes he could be here.
It is what it is.
Which is nothing.
I slow down for a second and watch Ripley inspect his hands, smacking his palms playfully together. Hands that I’m sure my dad would see and think, they’re meant to heal people one day.
Shit, I don’t want to be like him. I can’t be like him when it comes to my son. My father has taught me a lot in my life, I’ll give him that.
He’s taught me about medicine. About how best to care for people.
But his greatest lesson was one he never saw coming.
He taught me that fatherhood is more than daily chitchats and brief insignificant check-ins. It’s about what he never gave me. Love without reason. And through my actions, my child will know that he’s a top priority to me, for no reason but love.
I kiss his soft cheek. Pick up your pace, Farrow. Dashing around the bedroom, I gather my son’s toys and put them away.
The large four-poster bed is hung with white drapes, and glass doors open to a sea-view terrace. Among the frescoed walls are Neapolitan paintings, and an enormous marble bathroom is fit with an antique tub.
It’s beautiful.
And I’m as happy we picked Anacapri as Maximoff and even Jane. She’s been nervous we’d be disappointed, but there was really never any chance we would be.
Grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl, I listen to comms and adjust Ripley on my side.
“I’ve got eyes on the Crow,” Donnelly says. “I repeat, I’ve got eyes on the Crow.”
“Akara to Donnelly, don’t
call Grandmother Calloway a crow.” We’re sharing the same radio frequency as Alpha and Epsilon during the trip.
Akara wants to be professional. Can’t blame him. At times it’s like we’re in competition to be the better security company.
Donnelly speaks. “Sorry, boss.”
I’m keeping Grandmother Calloway out of my mind. Omega has been intercepting her from approaching me and Maximoff, and I greatly appreciate the backup.
“Thank you,” Akara replies curtly, sounding busy.
Ripley rips the wire from my ear and lets out a choked sob.
“I know you want your papa.” I peel the banana with my teeth, easier than it seems, and then I bite the fruit. Chewing, I tell him, “But you have me. Let’s cry about it.”
He blubbers.
“See, we’re already working as a team. And you should feel special; I don’t always do the team thing.” I bounce him a little as I leave the bedroom. Barely sweeping into the hall, I come face to face with Thatcher, his brown hair wet and curled behind his ears like he just took a shower.
“You headed to breakfast?” I wonder.
“Yeah, Connor invited me.” Thatcher picks up the parrot that Ripley just let go. “You drop this, kiddo?”
Ripley makes a confused cry and has trouble looking up at six-foot-seven Thatcher Moretti.
I swallow another bite of banana. “He can’t see your face.”
Thatcher crouches down some, and Ripley shrieks.
I laugh my ass off.
Thatcher actually smiles. “That was the same effect I had on you not that long ago. Like father, like son.”
I smile, and Ripley grabs hold of the parrot.
Thatcher checks his watch. “I gotta move my ass.” His Philly lilt fights through, and we walk to the courtyard together. He tells me, “I’ve been doing security prep with the temp guards for the ceremony.”
“And?”
“Looks good.” He nods, eyes strict. Definitely not that relaxed. I’m guessing the issue is that Maximoff is marrying a bodyguard.
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