Lovers Like Us Read Online Krista Ritchie, Becca Ritchie (Like Us #2)

Categories Genre: M-M Romance, New Adult, Romance Tags Authors: , Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
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Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
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Maximoff leans forward. Almost like he could go in for a kiss. I smile, even though he stops. And my smile stretches as he tells me, “Make a wish.”

At the moment, I only wish for two things: a public relationship and the stalker to be found.

Between the two, it’s an easy choice which to pick. There’s no real contest. No hesitation. I blow out the candles.

Hoping to catch this motherfucker. Once and for all.

“Ten, nine, eight…” Maximoff counts down to midnight on his watch. Back in his attic bedroom, I hover over his build on the mattress. Sweat built on our skin, our hair damp. We’re down to pants and boxer-briefs. My hands are planted on either side of his broad shoulders.

Fuck, I’ve never been more ready for my birthday to end—and then I tense. A sharp noise rakes the window. I sit up off Maximoff.

“Farrow.” He props himself on his elbows.

My gut says, it’s a tree branch, Farrow. Calm the fuck down. I am calm as I climb off him and the bed to check his only windowpane. I have to know for sure.

Maximoff glances at his watch. “Now it’s April 5th. It’s over, man.”

“It’s not over until the stalker is caught,” I say and fling the curtain.

A twig scrapes the glass with another gust of wind. My shoulders slacken. Paparazzi are in sight of the old townhouse, lingering on the street curb below. I shut the curtain before they see me.

Exhaustion tries to draw me back to bed. But I rest on the edge of the windowsill. I cross my arms casually, but fuck, I wish that’d been the stalker. Then I could’ve chased and tackled that dipshit.

Before I even look up at Maximoff, my phone rings in my pocket. Caller ID: Acelighter (Tech)

Tech Team.

I put the phone to my ear. “Farrow,” I answer and listen to them update me on the stalker. I frown. “Are you sure?”

Maximoff stands, coming closer. I mouth, tech team to him. He nods, and I thank the team and hang up.

“Your ex-swimmer friend, Jason Motlic,” I explain. “Apparently, he left Philly. He’s now in San Diego.” If the stalker lives in Philly, it makes little sense why they’d leave once Maximoff just returned.

Maximoff digests this news. “He’s probably not the stalker.”

“Probably not,” I agree. Crossing off Jason means that I only have two top suspects left. Vincent Webber, the asshole one-night stand who talked shit about Maximoff on social media.

And my father.

42

FARROW KEENE

“Get the fuck outta Philly!”

That heckle originates from the south end of the smoky billiards and darts bar, too packed to distinguish faces. But from the gawking and middle fingers slung in our direction, I see clearly who’s being heckled.

And it’s not Maximoff or Jane or any of the famous ones.

Oscar racks up the pool balls and surveys the crowded bar and pissed off faces. “Donnelly is going to flip when he gets here.”

He’s definitely not the type who’d appreciate someone demanding that he vacate his own city. We all call Philly home, and the jeers began the moment Oscar and I stepped into The Independent. Our go-to spot whenever we’re off-duty and not at the Studio 9 gym.

Becoming “somewhat” famous doesn’t mean everyone loves you. I’ve spent plenty of hours with Lily Calloway and Maximoff, and I’ve seen how unwarranted hate festers out of notoriety.

I grab a cue stick and catch eyes with a bearded, tattooed dipshit. He flips me off with two hands and careens forward on his stool. His attempt to rope me into a confrontation.

I almost laugh and spin the cue stick. I’m not that easily snared. Sidling up to the pool table, I tell Oscar with the tilt of my head, “It’s like they don’t realize we’re all trained fighters.”

Oscar grins. “Idiots.” He tries to align the pool balls perfectly, and his curly hair falls over a rolled bandana that’s tied across his forehead.

My phone buzzes in my pant’s pocket. I pull it out with a piece of gum. New text.

“When my little bro gets here, Redford, tell him you’ve only played pool once or twice.” Oscar grabs a stick off the wall.

I chew my gum, not looking up from my phone. “You want me to hustle your brother,” I say, partially interested. I read a recent message and lean some of my weight on my cue stick. My boot rests on the rung of a short stool.

I’d say this is heaven but it’s missing someone… – Maximoff

He included a selfie that could be part of a Calvin Klein campaign. Fucking gorgeous. Halfway submerged in his family’s pool, his wet hair is slicked back, and beads of water roll down his temples.

My mouth rises.

Luna photo-bombed him, her tongue touching her nose.

Our clients are spending the night at the gated neighborhood, visiting parents and siblings. Maximoff invited me to join him, but since the tour officially ended early yesterday, Omega wanted to go out.



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