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)
My head whips, the stinging pain familiar from all the blows I’ve taken in a ring.
Yells pierce the air. Oscar shoves Thatcher backwards, and Donnelly tries to jump the six-foot-seven guy. But Akara stops another fight from breaking out.
I don’t move.
I’m staring at the floorboards, my self-restraint greater than my rage, and I look to the door that connects the two townhouses. And I’m confident about where I want to be and where I need to go.
Tuning out SFO, I head to the adjoining door to find Maximoff.
It opens before I even grab the knob. And my boyfriend fills the doorway. He looks at the welt on my face, and then his eyes basically murder Thatcher a hundred different ways.
Maximoff almost charges.
“Wolf scout,” I say, quickly putting a hand on his waist. Guiding him into his townhouse. I kick the door closed behind me, my smile almost rising. Maximoff trying to protect me has definitely become one of my all-time favorite things.
His thick hair is disheveled like he just sprung out of bed, and his drawstring pants ride low like he just raced down the staircase. He must’ve heard the shouting.
He holds my hip and glowers at the door like he’s cursing Thatcher for eternal damnation. He really wants to go back in there and fight on my behalf.
I can’t stop staring at him. Feeling how much he cares about me, his hand rises to my cheek. Hovering over the welt.
I clutch his hand in mind and lower them to our sides.
“He fucking hit you,” he says.
I nod a few times. “I love that you want to stick up for me. But among other things, your dominant arm is bound to your chest.”
Maximoff glances at his red sling, then looks right at me. “I’m stronger than you with just one arm.”
I laugh.
Shit, I can’t believe I’m laughing after that shit show. But he brings me this effortless joy, and I cling onto that for dear fucking life.
“He took you quitting that badly?” he asks.
“I’ll catch you up in the car.” And before he asks, I tell him, “We’re going to my old neighborhood. And I’m going to talk to my father.”
Right now. There’s not a better time than the present. Because there will never be a good time.
Maximoff doesn’t question the abruptness. As soon as I start to lead him to the garage, he’s pace-for-pace in step with me. Hand-in-hand.
Like a soldier prepared for love and war.
16
FARROW KEENE
Door is unlocked. I’ll be in the sunroom. – Dad
No face-to-face verbal contact in almost four years and that was his reply. I only messaged him that I wanted to talk in person and that I was on my way to his house with Maximoff. I can’t even be surprised by my father’s lack of enthusiasm. It’s not like I texted: I’m returning to medicine. You’re welcome.
I’m treating this interaction like a meeting with a college professor. That’s all it really is.
Maximoff knows this too.
It’s why he didn’t ask to change clothes to impress my father. He’s shirtless, still in the same drawstring pants that hang low on his muscular waist.
His ass looks great. But he wouldn’t catch me checking him out, even if I waved a hand in front of his face.
Because as soon as we enter the foyer and hallway, he soaks up our surroundings. Like he’s placing my younger self everywhere.
I watch him with a growing smile. He’s lost in the décor of Italian painters and overflowing vases of wildflowers. He looks up at the vaulted glass ceiling and down at the marble floors beneath his scuffed Timberlands.
Where his family home is warm and inviting, mine is a poster child for blue-blooded pretentiousness.
Maximoff glances at the dining room’s table set for twelve. “Did your house look like this when you grew up here?”
I toss my head from side-to-side. “Somewhat. Less paintings. Rachel is an art collector,” I remind him in case he forgot. He knows my stepmom moved in around the time when I went to college.
We turn a corner into an open living room, cigar bar, and upscale kitchen. I put a piece of gum in my mouth.
He zones in on the baby grand piano near a towering bookcase. “You can play?” he asks.
I leave his side and approach the piano. I look over my shoulder. “Can you, wolf scout?”
Maximoff gestures to me. “I asked you first, man.”
He can’t play. I pop a bubble in my mouth. “How badly are you hoping I’m a shit pianist because you are?” My fingers brush the keys.
“Who said I was a shit piano player?” he combats. “Maybe I’m the best there ever was, the goddamn best piano player of all piano players.”
My brows rise. “You’re definitely the most conceited pianist.” Every time I say pianist, he grimaces a little bit.
He nears me while I rest my knee on the velveteen bench. He skims my hands that hover above the keys.