Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
He breaks into a smile, lightness in his eyes. “That sounds like your mom.”
I nod, and I recognize that I just veered off the study track again. But while the wheels are off, I think about the hospital. His residency. One more time.
One last time.
I need to say this so I can just leave it alone. “I get that you can’t tell me anything about your patients,” I say to him. “HIPPA and all of that, but I’m still here if there’s anything you want to share. Stuff about your coworkers or what fucking cafeteria food you had for lunch. But if you want me to drop it, I’ll drop it.”
“Drop it,” he says, too quickly. Really goddamn quickly. And he’s serious. He’s not joking or fucking with me.
It hurts. God, I wish it wouldn’t. “Alright,” I nod, more tense, and I try to unthaw my frozen body and examine another flashcard. I close my hand around the rings I slipped off his fingers.
Farrow rubs his eyes, and then he swings his legs off my lap. Standing up, he takes his half-bitten apple and nears the mini-fridge underneath a Thor: God of Thunder poster.
This was the inverse of what I wanted to happen. Taking a breath, I focus on the flashcard. “What do you give a kid with chronic daily headaches?” I ask.
He squats to the mini-fridge. “A tuna sandwich.”
“What?” My brows furrow.
He glances back at me. “You asked what cafeteria food I had for lunch.” Our eyes dive to the bottoms of each other’s gaze. “A tuna sandwich. The day before that was chicken salad, and both were extremely fucking mediocre. The food is nothing special.” He takes a beat. “I’m sorry that I’ve been distant about work—I know that I am. Fuck, I hate that I am, but I just can’t talk about it yet.”
Yet.
So that wasn’t all of it. I nod a few times.
His chest rises in a tight inhale. “I’m trying to protect you, wolf scout. Trust me.”
I stop myself from asking, from what?
Because I remember that I’ve protected him from remorse, guilt, regret every time I withhold what he’s missed. I don’t rehash all the bullshit each heckler yells at the townhouse. Or how security has had trouble securing my bedroom window, even after the drone. I won’t tell him how the other day I asked Bruno, my new bodyguard, “Is something wrong?” and he stayed quiet.
With Declan, my bodyguard before Farrow, I was used to that silent treatment and lack of info. With Farrow, he gave me everything.
Everything.
He showed me what better looked and felt like, and now there’s this strange emptiness that Farrow once filled.
I don’t tell him any of that.
Because I’m not going to hurt him, and I realize now that there must be something similar happening on his end.
He’s protecting me.
I nod, more assured. “I get it.”
Farrow skims my features, easing more, and he reaches into the fridge and grabs a Fizz Life.
With his silver rings still in my palm, I absentmindedly slip a few onto my fingers.
“Tricyclics,” Farrow says, sitting right up against my side, on my orange beanbag. Shoulder to shoulder. He hands me the soda, and he bites into his apple. His movements distract my brain, and I shake my head. Fuck.
“What?” I ask.
He smiles. “Tricyclics, wolf scout.”
I must look massively confused. Because I am.
“The quiz question.” Farrow flicks my notecard.
Right. I glance at the answer. “Good guess,” I say dryly, the air lightening. We both breathe easier, and I’m happy about that.
“Not a guess.” He chews his apple, and I hone in on his upturning lips. He notices and asks, “Sure you don’t want me to fuck you all night?”
Very unsure. “Positive, and you should tease the wall, the carpet, that lampshade over there.” I point to the lamp across the loft. “Because it’d be more likely to give into you.”
Farrow lets out a long whistle. “He wants me to flirt with inanimate objects.”
I try really hard not to laugh. Christ, focus. I shuffle through a few more cards, and I notice the silver rings on my fingers. His rings.
I’ve worn them before today. Just like this, but it dawns on me in this second that his rings fit my fingers perfectly. We’re pretty much the same size. And I’ve never noticed that before.
I wouldn’t need to steal a ring in order to match his size. I can just buy one that fits me—and I can’t believe I’m thinking about this. But it’s never meant something to me the way it does right now.
This powerful moment surges through my core. Because I feel ready to do more than just dream or think about forever with him. I’m going to make it happen.
26
MAXIMOFF HALE
“Take some breaths. We’re going to figure this out,” my mom tells me.
I’m breathing, but I’m too aware and laser-focused on the difficulty level of what I’m about to do. And what I’m about to do is normal.