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)
I grimace. “Did I?”
“You did,” he nods.
“I’m not right now.” I rake my hand through my thick hair—a pained groan tangles inside my throat. That fucking hurt. A sharp pang stabs my bone. Even raising my good hand pulls my bad shoulder sometimes.
“Careful,” Farrow whispers, concern deepening his voice.
Something swells in my chest, but I continue on. “I guess I didn’t want to think about it before,” I explain, “because thinking meant overanalyzing and for once, I just wanted to live in the present. With you.”
Farrow nods slowly. Understanding in his eyes.
“But after the crash, I’ve been thinking a lot more about the rest of my life. Where I go from here, and now I can’t stop thinking about us and it.”
“Marriage,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Marriage,” I say with stubborn emphasis, not allergic to the word. “Yeah. I keep thinking…” I gesture to my head, more careful this time. “Do you even want to be married someday? Maybe you’re not into it, maybe that’s why you rejected your ex’s proposal—”
“No,” Farrow cuts me off, his foot kicked back on the shelf. He looks cool even when we’re discussing life-altering, earth-changing topics. “Man, I want that commitment one day. I just didn’t want it with him.”
So he’s into marriage…
“Maximoff.” He catches my attention before I stare into space, and he’s already straightened up, no longer lounging against the shelves. He nears until our legs knock together, his fingers toy with hooking my fingers.
And he asks, “What do you want, wolf scout?” He clutches my hand.
What do I want?
I can almost feel the rain from the crash site. Water kissing my face and how Farrow hovered over me. How he painted a picture of our lives together. Decades, longer—which, for Farrow, means an expanse of time that lasts forever.
I could’ve died happy inside that future, and I can’t think of a greater sign than that.
So I know… “I want everything you said in the rain. All of it.”
Farrow easily recalls each word, and his eyes stroke mine in hot, tender affection. “That’s good because it looks like we want the same thing.”
I inhale like I haven’t taken a breath in eons. The one constant in my off-kilter world has been us—Farrow and me. Hearing him say that he wants to stand upright next to me, for the long haul—it’s a goddamn dream.
The corner of his mouth rises. “You’re smiling,” he breathes against my lips before kissing me. One of those brief, teasing kisses that stings. Aching for more.
“I’m really happy,” I whisper, but my brows cinch at a thought. “Strangely since we’re in a DEFCON 1 situation.”
Farrow nods and drops my hand, just so he can return to the shelves. He grabs my phone next to the Pop-Tart box. “Do you remember what I asked you?”
I try to rewind my brain, but all I remember is hopefully your last.
A knowing smile edges across his face. “I said that you’ve never experienced this shit either. You can’t know how it’ll affect you when you read about us.” He makes a come closer gesture with two fingers and unlocks my phone with the passcode.
I near him, my red sling rubbing coarsely against my chest. “I’ve also had paparazzi and journalists ask about my love life since I was fourteen.” Our eyes meet. “I’ve dealt with speculations before. Maybe not about us, but I’m better equipped for this.”
Farrow waits to open a web page. “Okay, but I’m not sitting on the sidelines. I’d rather learn to deal with it than avoid it.”
I nod. “I can get behind that.”
He reaches for the Pop-Tart box. “That’s because you love getting behind me.” Farrow tears open the silver individual pastry wrapper with his teeth, his smile my fucking undoing.
My blood heats, but I also eagle-eye the phone in his other hand. “Let me prep you first.”
His brows shoot up. “Prep me?”
I rest my hand on my neck, the strain in my muscle uncomfortable. “It’s what I used to do when I was younger. You tell yourself what people are probably saying before you see or hear it—that way it doesn’t cut as badly.”
Farrow passes me the cinnamon Pop-Tart. “You would prepare. Pack your survival gear, remember your life raft—”
“Alright,” I interject. I get that he’s him and I’m me and we’ll handle every crisis a bit differently. But I had to offer anyway. “So you don’t want a raft then?” I take a large bite of the cold Pop-Tart.
I haven’t eaten in forever, and Farrow knew that. He must’ve also known that I wouldn’t be as nauseous. My uneasy stomach is instantly grateful for the food. Settling down.
“No raft,” he confirms, typing on my phone. “Let’s just dive in, wolf scout.”
I’m the better swimmer, so in this analogy or metaphor, I can save him if the current pulls him under. I wonder if he’s thinking about that.