Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I didn’t expect that divergence. “I just kissed the fuck out of you, and now you’re thinking about your mom?”
He feigns confusion. “Let me get in my time machine. Look at that, I just kissed the fuck out of you. Not the other way around.”
I roll my eyes and then smile. “And I’m a hundred-percent positive you dreamed of my tongue in your mouth at sixteen.” I toss my apple in my hand. “That’s a true fact.”
Right on cue, he gives me two middle fingers, and his eyes drift to my mouth.
I whistle. “And he wants me to kiss him again.”
Maximoff glances at the storeowner. Dead asleep. Then me. “Seriously, Farrow, did my mom talk to you?”
“No,” I say easily. “I didn’t expect her to.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
I pause, apple near my mouth. “It has more to do with me than you. When I was on her security detail, I built a lot of trust between me and your parents. By lying to them about you, I basically obliterated all of that. They’ll patch things up with you because you’re their son, but I expect a four-month cold shoulder, at least.”
He nods, tensed again.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s my shit to deal with.” I bite into the apple, and he looks at me like I’ve just stolen half the store—which, to be honest, contains nothing valuable to steal.
“What are you doing?” he asks and checks on the sleeping old man again.
Maximoff. “Eating.” I extend the apple to him. Just to piss him off. “Want a bite?” I walk nearer, and he makes a point to cross his arms, biceps bulging.
“You’re stealing.”
“And you’re so pure.” I take a larger bite.
He growls out his irritation, but his lips start to slowly rise. “Farrow.”
“I’m going to pay for it. Relax. Relax.” I widen my eyes and then lower my aviators.
He exhales a bigger breath, and we peruse the next aisle. Some stocked over-the-counter medications.
I squat and shift boxes of cold medicine. I give him my half-bitten apple so I can reach further back. I feel him fixating on the movement of my hands. I smile and find only one pregnancy kit.
I flash him the box. “I’ll check out with cash and rip up the receipt.”
He looks surprised that I have a game plan.
I rise. “I’m still your bodyguard, wolf scout. And I’m still taller too.”
He laughs shortly and backs up from me. “By one fucking inch.” He lets his gaze drop all the way down my body.
8
MAXIMOFF HALE
We’re leaving.
It’s time, and this isn’t some alternate universe. This is actually, in real life, happening. Six inches of snow blankets a deserted parking lot. Right outside of a Food Lion. I shove the tenth suitcase into the storage bays of our parked tour bus.
Security Force Omega darts around and coordinates through their mics, carrying cases of water, beer, soda, and other supplies.
My four cousins hop on and off the black sleeper bus, bringing in snacks and pillows.
And paparazzi—they’re gone. Vanished. They trailed our families back to Philadelphia, and they probably believe we’re with them. But me, Jane, Sullivan, Beckett, Charlie, and six bodyguards are still in the Smoky Mountains.
It’s weird—not having a cameraman up in my face.
I keep thinking about that. And how I’m more used to their invasive presence than the unadulterated peace without them.
My family also decided to extend the hiatus for We Are Calloway. I called Jack Highland, an exec producer of the docuseries, and he agreed to push film dates until after the tour. So those cameras won’t be around for at least four months.
“Moffy?” Jane steps off the bus into the snow.
I heave another duffel into the bottom bay. “Bonjour, ma moitié.” My voice is tight. Because we haven’t talked without a peanut gallery—her brothers, my boyfriend, or any of the security team—in fucking forever.
And by forever, I mean days.
For us, that’s practically a century.
She nears. “Regarde-moi s’il te plaît.” Look at me, please.
I stand straighter and lift my gaze. Wind whips her tangled brown hair, and her outfit is classic Janie: furry pink boots, cat-stitched mittens (gifted by me years ago), a chunky zebra sweater, and a mint-green tutu over knit leggings.
Just seeing my best friend, my mouth aches to rise.
Jane touches her mittens to her rosy cheeks. “It’s just you and me, old chap, and a tour bus full of beautiful people. Friends and family.”
I start to smile. I can feel us finding footing in our friendship again. And I think we’re going to land upright. “You sure they’re beautiful?”
“You’re right. They’re dreadfully gorgeous.” A cheery smile overtakes her face, and we notice Quinn and Donnelly lingering by the rear wheels. Watching our exchange.
So Jane and I walk over to a curb that landscapes a skeletal tree. Grass probably hidden beneath snow. We’re out of earshot from the bus but still in view.