Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Declan knew everything about me. The world knows most everything about me. And I only knew the names of his kids and wife.
Almost nothing else.
Farrow peeks back at me and assesses my features. “It’s okay if he didn’t.”
I remember the origin of his question. “He didn’t spill any security team secrets, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Farrow finds his key, but he rotates fully to face me. “Let’s deal with this, Moffy—”
“Maximoff,” I correct, my voice firm like solid marble. All of my family calls me Moffy, but when he uses the nickname, I flashback to childhood where he called me that. It makes our five-year age-gap more apparent, and when I imagine my young, teenage self in bed with him (which only happened in my fantasies), it’s cringe-worthy.
So he’s not allowed to call me Moffy.
Done and done.
“Maximoff,” he says like I’m being a stick-in-the-mud prick.
“What are we dealing with exactly?” I put the train back on the tracks before he catches my actual reasons.
“What I share with you—they’re not secrets. At least half of us don’t consider them secrets. The other half are so uptight they could be mistaken for the Queen’s Guard outside Buckingham Palace.”
“So you’re pretty much like a rebel in the security team.” I give him a blatant once-over, eyeing his tattoos, the black wardrobe, the piercings. “All this time, I had no idea.”
Farrow lets out a short laugh into an agitated, amused smile, nodding a few times. I think smartass sits on his tongue, and then his gaze falls to my lips—for the briefest second.
Before I even process what that means, he acts like nothing transpired. And he starts to unlock the door.
It could’ve just been in my head.
I’m prone to fantasizing. What’s to say I didn’t invent that out of the horny recesses of my sexually frustrated brain?
I need to go out and find a one-night stand tonight.
It’s my first thought. My second jarring thought slaps me cold: Farrow has to come with me.
I can’t escape him. For pretty much all of eternity.
4
FARROW KEENE
Luggage in hand, I lead the way up two flights of narrow wooden stairs. Much to Maximoff’s chagrin. I’m certain he’d love to be the one leading the nonexistent pack, but he has to be second-place to me this time.
And really, every time as far as I’m concerned.
It’s not just me being pompous or arbitrarily arrogant. For his safety, he has to learn to let me lead.
Thick silence stretches while we both ascend the stairs. I’m not used to uncomfortable tension, and I doubt he is either.
See, I didn’t ask to be his bodyguard. I didn’t apply for the position or submit an application. I fell into the role at his mom’s request.
I like change.
I welcome change. But when one of my favorite pastimes is pissing off Maximoff Hale—I’m not so sure I’d have volunteered for this job.
Another tense beat passes between us before Moffy warns me, “Your room is small.”
I end up smiling because I’ve been in these two townhouses multiple times. They’re identical. Second floor has two bedrooms and the only bath. Third floor is an attic bedroom. Everything else is crammed on the first floor.
Maximoff lives in the third-floor attic inside the other townhouse. A room barely big enough for a full-sized bed, a bookshelf, and a dresser.
I’m about to live in the identical version of that same attic room. “I can manage. It’s the same size as yours.” I glance back at him.
Only two stairs below me, one of the most beloved celebrities stands confident and agitated at my heels.
And he has my fifty-pound suitcase easily hoisted on his shoulders like a soldier carrying a rucksack. He’s not flaunting his strength. With Moffy, he’s just being efficient. Giving himself more room to walk up the narrowest staircase imaginable.
His carved biceps stretch the fabric of his green tee.
I smile. I’m sure most people would faint at his feet right now. Possibly stammer. Maybe try to seduce him. Say all the right things in the right way.
Instead, he has me.
“If only your grammar were as good as your weight lifting skills,” I tell him, “you’d be a real contender.”
“If only your wit was actually funny, I’d be laughing.”
I smile wider. “I wasn’t trying to make you laugh, wolf scout.”
Moffy groans out his irritation, but his lips slowly rise. He scrunches his face until his features set in a scowl.
“Feel better?” I ask and keep ascending the stairs.
He’d flip me off if he had use of his hands, but he never falters with the suitcase. Never struggles. Many tabloids rank Maximoff Hale as the number one hottest celeb.
It’s accurate.
He has eyes like blades of grass, a jawline just as sharp—features so striking that he’s already a treasured, marble relic before adding his statuesque, out-of-this-fucking-world body.
And he’s entered my thoughts in ways that Disney wouldn’t permit. It started three years ago. During his first semester of college.