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)
Yeah, he left to get us breakfast. My internal alarms blare in warning. I have rules. Safety measures. Protocols.
Don’t look in love.
Don’t act like I’m semi-obsessed with someone off-screen.
Don’t appear fucking interested in the six-foot-three maverick who’s about to bring me breakfast in bed.
You can’t know about Farrow Redford Keene.
“So anyway,” I say to the viewers and sit up more.
Farrow nears the bed and hands me a paper to-go cup. The exchange off-screen.
I sip the hot liquid. Earl Grey. “I have my tea—” He chucks the Wendy’s bag onto my lap after he takes a bowl and spoon and his coffee. I soak in his assured gait, the way his hands shift. I could watch him move around a room in silence for hours. Is that weird?
That’s weird, right?
Jesus, I’m so fucking weird.
Farrow climbs on the bed beside me. Still out of frame and completely aware that he can’t talk. He arches his brows at me and cocks his head.
Dammit. I’m literally ogling him.
I glance at the comments.
Who are you looking at???
Omg someone brought him food!
Watcha eating?
I can’t catch the rest. Too many comments. I’m up to 99.1k viewers. “Plan is to eat some breakfast,” I tell them, “take a shower, and I’ll be meeting some of you soon. Stay safe, everyone.” I end the Instagram Live at that and dig into the Wendy’s bag.
He smiles into his coffee.
“What?” I ask, unwrapping a chicken biscuit. We unconsciously draw closer together, side-by-side, one of my legs hooking his.
“You had fuck me eyes,” he says matter-of-factly.
I grimace and do my best to smother a smile. I want to be an asshat to him for once, but I’m struggling. “Thanks for stating the impossible.”
“It’s possible.” He sets aside his coffee and stirs his oatmeal. “I saw it.”
No way. “I wasn’t thinking about fucking you, so I couldn’t have had fuck me eyes.”
The corner of his mouth upturns. “I’m fucking with you, Maximoff.”
I blink and blink. “It’s like you want to be kicked out of the bed.” I bite into my chicken biscuit. “You get a pass for bringing me breakfast. You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say thank you,” he tells me.
I shake my head. “I swear you get off on pissing on my sarcasm.”
He lifts his brows in a wave, but his smile slowly and surely morphs into a real frown. I realize he’s been stirring his oatmeal. Not eating. Farrow pretty much always eats hurriedly in case SFO needs him.
I straighten even more. Then I take a larger sip of hot tea. “What’s up?”
“We need to talk.”
My stomach nosedives, and my brows cinch. “What about?” I jump to the worst conclusion. This is the end of my short-lived relationship. He woke up this morning and realized he couldn’t bear to spend another day with me.
I think about last night. I think about sex. Did I hurt him? Was I somehow selfish? Is that it? No…no, that can’t be it.
Even assured about that, something raw and cold impales my chest. Like an iron fist banging against my ribs. I solidify to stone.
Dear World, did he just bring me a “break up” breakfast? Is that even a thing? Worst regards, a broken-hearted human.
My guards skyrocket.
I mortar my face with nothingness. Pushing out the hurt. Preparing myself for anything and everything. Bones rigid, shoulders squared.
I can handle this.
Farrow scoots around to face me, his knees casually bent. He keeps a hand on my leg. I can’t tell if it’s in pity or comfort.
“Generally,” I say in a flat voice, “when someone says they need to talk, they talk.”
“I’m getting there.” He’s not looking forward to this conversation. That’s for sure.
Appetite lost, I wrap up the chicken biscuit and shove it into the Wendy’s bag. I can’t sit in tense silence. “If you want to break up, just do it—”
“Whoa.” He raises a hand, eyes narrowed. “I never even considered breaking up with you. It’s not what I want.” Farrow sweeps my blank face. “…do you want that?”
“No, no. Not at all.” I’m fucking confused. “We’re still good together.”
“Really good,” he says, his confidence fortifying those words.
“Then what?”
Farrow stretches forward to put his oatmeal on an end table. “That Instagram account that I showed you back at the lake house.” He seizes my gaze. “It turned out to be a real threat.”
I shake my head. “No, there’s no way.”
“We traced the IP address to Philly. The entire security team is treating the user as a high risk to your safety.”
I stare off, processing this fact with little to no emotion. “Who is it?” I open Instagram on my cellphone.
Farrow hangs his arm on his bent knee. “We’re still trying to identify them.” He’s quiet. “I’m not supposed to share any of this with you, but I know you’d rather be aware.”
I nod a few times. Even before we got together, he always kept me in the loop. Even at the cost of disobeying the security team. “Thanks,” I say. “You know I won’t share with anyone but Janie.” I’m not about to scare my younger cousins.