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)
“So much,” I answer sarcastically. “Save me, Janie.”
“I wasn’t asking you,” Jane says, very serious. “Farrow? How is he?” She’s really worried about me, and I feel badly for teasing.
Farrow unwraps another truffle and instead of sweeping my body for signs of pain, he just holds my gaze. “Maximoff is stubborn. Not a new malady.”
I give him a look. “If stubbornness is a sickness, then you suffer from it too.”
His brows spike. “Never said I didn’t, and that’s cute that you want me to share your sickness.”
Don’t smile. “I didn’t say that.”
“Sure.” Keeping his mouth closed, his lips rise as he chews another chocolate.
I am in pain, but he’s making me forget what hurts. A perk to having a brain that pretty much cums over his mere presence.
I raise my phone to my mouth. “Jane,” I say. “I didn’t put you on speakerphone so you’d be more worried. I’m alright.”
I can’t imagine what crossed her mind when she heard we’d been in a car crash. Two of her brothers, her best friend and her best friend’s boyfriend, and her little cousin. I can’t imagine what any of our family was thinking.
“Have you looked at any news articles about the accident?” she asks.
“Not yet.” I’ve been prolonging that, but I’m sure the crash made headlines. I’ve actually tried not to check social media too much lately. Not since I’ve been public with Farrow.
Muffled voices grow louder on Jane’s end. “Sorry…hold on, we’re solving a mini-directional crisis. Too many people in this car believe they know Philly roads the best.”
I keep her on the line, but I let her deal with the directions. And I catch Farrow peeling a third chocolate.
“Are you really going to eat all my chocolate?” I wonder. Aunt Daisy brought the heart-shaped tin as a get well soon thing. She says chocolate candy is second best to chocolate cake.
“You can’t eat anything before surgery,” he reminds me. “I’m doing you a favor. Less temptation, wolf scout.” He pops the third one in his mouth.
“It’s working. You’re making them look disgusting.”
“Must be why you keep watching me eat them,” he says, one-upping me with absolute ease.
Goddammit. “I wasn’t,” I lie.
“And there goes your honesty merit badge.”
I watch him put aside the tin, and he uncaps a permanent marker with his teeth. His brown eyes flit to the machines next to the bed. Numbers scroll over the screen, lines bounce up and down, and I can barely make sense of it.
But he can.
As quickly as Farrow looked, he’s back on course. His large hand runs from my knee down to my ankle, the touch full of hot affection, and he holds my ankle with strength but tenderness that pools warmth inside of me.
Farrow starts scribbling something on top of my left foot.
“That better not say fuck me,” I tell him.
Farrow stops writing, and his gaze lifts to mine, all humor in his eyes. He blows out the cap from his mouth. “If I were going to write fuck me, it wouldn’t be on your foot.” With another thought, his smile widens in near laughter. “Unless…you want me to fuck your foot.”
“Fuck off,” I say, about to reclaim my leg, but his grip tightens. That, I like even more.
I crane my neck and catch sight of the scrawled letters.
NOT THIS FOOT
My brows pull together as I stare at him like he’s flown to the garbage planet Sakaar. “If I’m even having surgery, you do realize it’s nowhere near my foot?”
“Can’t be too careful,” he says casually and moves onto my calf. “That’s rule number one in the Wolf Scout Handbook. In case you’ve forgotten your own rules.” He pulls back to view his handiwork.
NOT THIS LEG is even bigger.
Dear World, why am I smiling? Best Regards, a smiling human.
“I’m back,” Jane says with a giant breath. “So, we have a lot to discuss when I arrive. Like how you were bought by a porn star.”
Just as the words porn star boom in the air, the door opens to my hospital room—and I’m pretty positive the doctor just heard that.
I’m repping the Hale Curse hard tonight.
I lift the phone to my mouth again. “Jane, the doctor just got here.”
“Good luck, old chap.”
“À tout à l’heure, ma moitié.” See you soon, my other half.
I hang up, and I realize Farrow has stopped writing on my leg. His focus drills into the young doctor, and before I can speak, Farrow tells him, “You’re in the wrong room.”
Farrow knows this doctor.
It’s my first thought. The doctor actively disregards Farrow, his attention only on me.
He must be in his late twenties, exceptionally tall with swept-back auburn hair that curls beneath his ears. He looks like he could audition to play Bill Weasley in Harry Potter.
You know, the oldest, hottest Weasley.
He’s not in scrubs like the ER doctors and nurses I’ve met tonight. All of which had to sign NDAs. Underneath his white coat, a navy geometric-printed shirt is tucked in charcoal slacks.