Alphas Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 3)

by Krista Ritchie

  “Wow,” Farrow says first, and he pulls off the backpack, setting it on the ground.

  Water mists the air and sprays my cheeks. Refreshingly cool. And that deep pond has to be cold, but I’d still swim in it with Farrow.

  Near the edge of the green-blue water, I squat down and untie my hiking boot. I’m trying not to overthink here. Just feel what I feel, and it’ll come to me.

  And honest to God, as Farrow crouches only a foot in front of me and unzips the backpack, a dragonfly flutters past his shoulders, and then zips past his face.

  He’s only watching me. His smile stretching from cheek-to-cheek like he’s fully aware that I’m in love with this place, this damn moment, him.

  I lick my lips, not breaking our gazes while I unknot my boot. “I think we’ve made it to Neverland.”

  “Neverland,” Farrow repeats, looking me up and down with amusement. His hand descends into the backpack. “Don’t lost boys stay young forever there?”

  “Yeah.” I loosen my lace, his eyes swimming against my eyes.

  “That’s too bad then,” Farrow says matter-of-factly. “Because I want to grow old with you.”

  The strong promise inside those words floods my whole body. I want to grow old with you. It floods my eyes.

  I want to grow old with you.

  Staying crouched, I’m about to speak, but words catch in my throat as his tattooed hand leaves the backpack. He’s holding a small wooden box.

  Farrow lowers his knee to the mossy stone.

  Is he…?

  Before I say anything, he cups one side of my face with a protective, affectionate hand, and he tilts his head towards my other cheek, his jaw gliding along my jaw.

  Until his lips brush softly against my ear.

  And very deeply, he whispers, “You’ve been my forever guy. You are my forever guy, wolf scout.” His breath warms my skin, and I curve my bicep around his shoulders, staying close. Hanging on.

  Listening to every intimate word as he continues, “And you said you wanted an in-your-face, overjoyed kind of love that knocks you backwards.” He takes a beat. “But our love is that and better. Our love is headstrong. It never yields, never dies. And when it knocks you backwards, it pulls you upright again.”

  I pinch my burning eyes, and his hand tightens on my cheek.

  I feel his smile rise against my ear, his voice gravel tied in silk as he says, “I promise to give you everything you need and nothing less. Never less. Maximoff…” He draws his head back, just enough for us to look at each other.

  My hand falls off my eyes and onto his bent knee. We’re eye-level since I’m crouching, my boot half untied. I don’t know why the fuck I think about that.

  His hand runs up through my thick hair, our reddened, welled-up eyes excavating each other.

  I’m smiling. For real. I can’t restrain it. I don’t want to. Not now.

  He sees, and his own smile stretches wider and wider. He nods a few times, and he whispers, “You want to marry the fuck out of me?”

  I nod just as assured, just as overcome. “Yeah.” I reach into my back pocket and pull out a black ring box. “I want to.”

  Farrow laughs in surprise, a tear escapes the corner of his eye. Really overwhelmed.

  “You had no idea I planned to do this today,” I realize. I thought maybe he got word this morning since I told everyone about the proposal plan at breakfast, including my dad. My mom and Jane kept the secret, so pretty much everyone found out hours ago.

  “None.” He wipes his eyes. “But I’m not shocked that I beat you to it.”

  “Because I overthink.”

  Farrow laughs once, eyeing my smile. “Because you can’t be first at everything, wolf scout.”

  It hits me that I’ll hear him tell me that for the rest of our lives. And then it washes over me. Fills me to the brim.

  And we rise to our feet together.

  Both of us standing close, I hold the back of his neck, and our heads dip towards each other. “Since you beat me to it, does this mean I can’t ask—”

  “Ask me,” Farrow says strongly, and I hear the unsaid words: there are no rules, Maximoff.

  I blink, and a couple tears slide down my face. And I just say, “There’s no one else, Farrow. You’re it. You’re the one, the only one.”

  His chest rises against my chest, and he nods, knowing.

  Feeling.

  And I ask him, “Marry me?”

  “Yeah,” he says like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I’ll marry you, wolf scout.”

  Our mouths meet with emotion swelling up inside, water misting around us and light streaming through treetops.

  I’ve never been happier and more in love.

  After a long swelling moment, we pull back. And I look between the ring boxes that we both still clutch.

  “Let’s do this,” Farrow says like he’s about to share a plan. But he just pops open the wooden box. He plucks out the wedding band that he bought me, and he pinches the ring between two fingers. Showing me the simple gray band, grooved like a tree. “It’s not sterling silver. It’s titanium and didn’t cost a lot.”

  He knows that makes me love it even more. And now I’m trying hard not to smile, but it’s a losing battle.

  Farrow slips my titanium wedding band on his own ring finger. Off my confusion, he explains, “I’ll wear yours and you’ll wear mine as engagement rings. And then on our wedding day, I’ll take the ring off and finally put it on your finger.”

  Alright, my brain is obsessed with this plan. Like way too damn much. “Did you just think of this on the spot?”

  “I’d love to say I did, but no.” He waves me on to open the black box. “It’s something I thought about when I realized we were the same ring size.”

  Before I open the box, I ask him, “How’d you get the ring without the media knowing?”

  He pulls out his comms earpiece, as though remembering the radio connection. Even if it’s muted. And he answers, “Oscar and Donnelly.”

  “Your best friends,” I define.

  Farrow surprises me by just raising his brows in a teasing wave. Not denying how close those two guys are to him. And his gaze falls to my hands.

  I open the box and pull out a sleek black tungsten band. “You should know, man. It took me a solid millisecond to pick this out.”

  He grins like I’m full of shit, and he’s about to say something—probably, sure or okay—but he notices the engraving on the inside of the band. His smile softens as he takes the ring from me. Just for a closer look.

  “Dum spiro, spero,” he reads the Cicero quote. His eyes well up again.

  On a day that rocked us both, he said he loved that quote. It was a quiet moment inside a storm. The memory is as tranquil as the quote itself.

  While I breathe, I hope.

  Farrow nods a few times, tears rising. “Here.” He places the black band in my palm, not wanting to slip a ring on my finger yet. “It’s perfect, wolf scout.” And with another growing smile, he adds, “Especially since you took forever to pick it out.”

  I grimace. “You can’t know that one-hundred percent,” I contend and slip the black band on my ring finger.

  “I do know that one-hundred percent,” Farrow says. “Because I know you one-hundred percent.”

  Our last day in Greece has snuck up on us, and Farrow and I have left the yacht to spend the night in Corfu. Alone, together, both of us soaking in the peaceful quiet before we return to a media frenzy in Philly.

  We’re not hiding our engagement.

  So when we’re back home, whatever paparazzi presence existed before may be infinitely larger, more aggressive, invasive—we don’t know. Because I’m the first to be engaged out of my siblings and cousins.

  I’m paving the way.

  But not even the media can deter my brain from replaying the proposal. It’s on loop. And I remember how my whole family and SFO joined us at the lagoon. Farrow asked them to hike the same trail about th
irty minutes after us, and I had no clue.

  Janie, my best friend, ma moitié—when she saw me, she had her hand to her heart like she could feel mine swelling.

  Having all of them there was everything.

  Warm water rains down on me in a stone shower, made to look outdoors with a fogged skylight, but I’m inside our hotel bathroom. Private. As safe as it can be, and I’m not scared.

  My muscles slacken with the warmth and gathering steam. I stand right beneath the downpour, my bare skin flush from the heat. I rub soap on my abs, picturing Farrow coming in behind me, my number one fantasy.

  I go lower with the washcloth, hot breath ejecting from me. And hanging up the cloth on a hook, I rest my left hand on the stone slab wall. Whatever I planned to do suddenly flits away. Because the black ring on that hand is staring back at me.

  I’m wearing his ring.

  My eyes burn.

  And then I hear the shower door swing open. In my peripheral, I see that it’s him. So I don’t turn back around. I wait, and his six-foot-three build pushes warmly up against me—God, this is real. His arm curves around my abs, chest melded firmly to my back.

  I stare straight ahead. I feel Farrow, his left arm extending across the top of my arm. And he interlaces our fingers on the stone slab wall. His hand sheathing my hand, our rings on our fingers are in perfect sight together.

  Farrow presses a burning kiss to my shoulder blade. And as his other hand descends to a place of need and want, his mouth travels to my ear. In my fantasy, I never hear what he whispers. He knows this is what I wouldn’t let myself dream of.

  And as he kisses the nape of my neck, the line of my jaw, I wait and wait, and softly, so damn softly and huskily, Farrow whispers, “I love you.”

  Light bursts in me, and I spin on him, our hands instantly grip each other in starved yearning. We kiss like we haven’t kissed in eons. Heat blistered and raw, we wrestle in the shower for the lead.

  And goddamn, we’re both smiling.

  39

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  News of our engagement has spread like a tornado ripping through flatlands. No houses destroyed yet, but damage control mode is still alive. Just as a precaution.

  Too many tabloids, magazines, entertainment sites have contacted our reps. Inquiring about front-page spreads, interviews, photo ops. Everyone is seeking the first exclusive pictures, videos, anything.

  And they’ve all received the same automatic reply from our publicist:

  Maximoff & Farrow are enjoying their engagement and would like to remain private at this time. Thank you for understanding.

  I’m currently focused on rebuilding strength in my right shoulder. All without overexerting, without pushing too far and tearing my body to fucking pieces.

  Hence, working out with my childhood crush, my bodyguard, my doctor, my fiancé—all Farrow Redford Keene.

  He has strike pads on both of his hands, hoisting them up to me. I jab the pad with my left fist, protected by a red boxing glove.

  Sun shines through the full-length glass windows in Uncle Ryke’s gym. Heating the space. It’s pretty much why I’m sweating. Because there’s no way my slow pace alone could warrant me soaking through my shirt.

  “How did that feel?” Farrow asks me as I gear up to do a right cross.

  “Fine.” I think I can try harder without killing my muscle. I go for a right cross with my right arm…and I end up lightly tapping the pad. Listening to my body. The stretch alone pulls my tendons taut.

  “Sore?” he asks.

  “Not at all,” I say, sarcasm thick. “I could without a doubt take you in a boxing ring. Let’s go, right now.”

  “That’s an adorable fantasy,” Farrow says.

  I growl into a groan.

  Farrow smiles, too amused. “How about we come back to reality?” He motions me to ready myself. “Put your gloves up to your chin.”

  I follow the instruction, and Farrow spreads out the strike pads for me to do a hook combination. Before I even swing, the glass door opens.

  I drop my arms, and we both turn to see my little brother. Xander is in gym shorts and a T-shirt that says Winter is Coming. Shock coils in me—surprised he’s here.

  “Hey,” Xander says, hair hanging in his eyes. “I got your text.”

  He almost never works out with me. But every time I’m at the gym, I try to always invite him along. He usually brushes it off. Him, putting in this effort, whether it’s for me or himself, I don’t care. He’s here.

  That’s all that matters.

  “You’re here to work out?” I ask him.

  “I mean…yeah,” he says. His eyes dance across the equipment. “What do you suggest?”

  “You should start on the bag,” Farrow tells him, nodding to the boxing bag that my uncle hung up a couple weeks ago. “Here…” Farrow takes off his pads and grabs a pair of black cloth wraps that hang on the wall. “I’ll wrap your hands.”

  Xander follows Farrow’s instructions to hold out his hands. Palms down, and Farrow crisscrosses the wrap, weaving the cloth between his fingers.

  I swing my right arm in a pendulum stretch while I wait.

  My little brother glances from Farrow to me. “So have you guys decided on when you’re having the wedding?”

  Farrow eyes lift to me and then his brows rise. “We have.”

  “We’re doing a long engagement,” I tell Xander.

  We discussed it at length, and it seems like the best idea to wait for the public and media attention to die down before we have a wedding. There will still be chaos, but I figure if we give it some time, there’s a greater chance someone else in my family will take the spotlight for a little while. I just would really love a wedding that isn’t crashed by helicopters and drones.

  “I figured,” Xander replies.

  Farrow finishes with his hand wraps and then tosses a pair of boxing gloves to him. “We’ll start with an easy combination.”

  I watch as my future husband teaches my little brother how to box. He keeps glancing at me, a smile inching across his mouth. He knows how much I love him. How much I love this. And I think about what Farrow once told me.

  It’s the little things.

  It really is.

  40

  FARROW KEENE

  The We Are Calloway wrap party is held at an artsy studio in Center City, and I’ve been to one of these before on Lily’s security detail. Never as Maximoff’s bodyguard. And definitely not as a face featured in the docuseries. This is new for me, and I keep catching myself taking in this different vantage point.

  “Few month’s time, Redford, and we’re all going to watch your smug ass on TV,” Oscar tells me, all of SFO congregating around a few wooden high-top tables we shoved together. Plates of finger-food and nonalcoholic drinks cover the surface.

  We’re all on-duty.

  I wondered how being a bodyguard again would work. How the guys would handle me coming back after I willingly quit. That same day in Greece, during the sandcastle contest, the news was announced.

  And then all of SFO pushed me in the motherfucking sea.

  In jest.

  Akara knew what was happening way before. Apparently, the Tri-Force had talked to Lo in advance, and he would’ve never offered me the spot if they said no. Akara told me they were unanimous in favor of bringing me back.

  I didn’t need to know why the security team would want me. I just figure it’s easier to have me on the team than a new hire. It’s what Thatcher said a while back. Trust is invaluable with these families, and they trust me a hell of a lot.

  Enough to let me marry into American royalty.

  I prop my boot on the rung of a stool that Donnelly sits on. Most of us are standing, and I tell Oscar, “You can watch my smug ass in real life.”

  “Already accomplished.” Oscar dips a fry in ketchup. A long, long buffet table spans an entire brick wall. Invite-only guests amble around the open space, mixed drinks and beers in hand.

  T
he food isn’t the main attraction. Cameras and lighting equipment point at a white backdrop. See, these wrap parties are always half-cocktail-hour and half-photo-shoot. The famous ones have to take promotional shots for the premium cable-network’s digital apps.

  “You don’t want us to watch your episodes?” Akara asks, giving me a weird look.

  “Eh…” I waver my hand. Being honest, I don’t give a shit.

  “Did you embarrass yourself?” Oscar asks. “Bro, I told you not to talk about serious shit with the parents on camera.”

  “It happened,” I say truthfully, picking up a whole apple off my plate. “Connor was offered a condom sponsorship.” I let that out, trusting these guys, and also that footage with Connor is going to be aired.

  Banks laughs hard.

  “Cobalt Condoms.” Donnelly flips a page in a gossip magazine. “Magnum-size only.”

  “For the wealthy man,” Oscar chimes in.

  “Nah, I’d wanna buy some,” Donnelly notes.

  I whistle. “These are definitely fictional condoms when Donnelly thinks he can fit into a magnum.”

  Everyone laughs.

  Donnelly blows me a middle-finger kiss. And I won’t tell anyone but Maximoff, at least not to the full degree—but I missed these guys. Shit, like I really missed them. In ways that I didn’t think I would or even could.

  I glance at Donnelly who dog-ears the magazine. “We should make a drinking game out of the docuseries,” he says, his Philly lilt thick. “Every time you roll your eyes, we take a shot.”

  Akara shakes his head, a water bottle to his lips. “Too many shots.”

  “How about you all just not watch the show,” I say casually.

  Donnelly laughs like that’s an absurd idea.

  Thatcher says, “That was the plan.”

  “See, listen to Thatcher,” I tell everyone and bite into my red apple.

  He sends me a narrowed look. Not understanding why I’m agreeing with him. Let’s make this clear: he agreed with me first.

  I watch his gaze drift to the camera set-up. Right now, a photographer takes various shots of Maximoff and Jane together. She rests her freckled cheek on his shoulder, and he has a protective arm around her waist.