And I’d persevere. I’d ride this to the finish line and still come out on top. But my lungs would be empty, and I’d crave to fill that hollow space.
I wouldn’t know how, and I’d be so alone—so goddamn alone.
You should know that I can survive in any universe, but I only want to live in the ones with Farrow Redford Keene.
“Ah, here it is!” Steven passes me the memo sheet. “You have an hour before the meeting begins. If you need to ask me any questions, I’ll be right here. Fresh coffee and muffins are set out in the break room.”
“Thanks.” I fold the memo sheet and slip the paper in my back pocket. Grabbing my helmet, I motion Farrow to the break room. Hot tea sounds good before a deep-dive into preparing for the meeting.
He nods, and we head down the hall towards a cracked door. I remember where the break room is located and how Keurig’s line the whole back wall. Closer we are, I smell the pungent coffee bean roast and blueberry muffins.
I barely crest the doorway, and I stop cold.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“Maximoff.” Farrow lets go of my hand. Just to put a calming touch to the back of my head.
Do I look like I’ve seen a ghost?
Feels that way.
I’m wide-eyed on a sandy-brown-haired, twenty-something guy. He’s waiting for a machine to fill his coffee mug. Full lips, hooked nose, squared shoulders—a pretty boy, masculine, and fit like he never skips leg day. He still dresses like he’s simultaneously trying to be preppy and not give a shit. Taupe sweater, a size too tight, and dark denim jeans, fabric ripped at the kneecaps.
I unfreeze fast, and like I’m trying not to trigger a bomb, I skulk backwards. Until I’m in the hallway, and I realize I’m letting Farrow lead me somewhere.
I don’t know where he’s taking me.
I don’t care where the hell we’re going.
He’s reaching behind his back and holding my hand. And I keep up with unoiled joints, walking like the Tin Man behind him.
My dad’s office.
Farrow guides me into the familiar space. Framed X-Men comics hang on burgundy-hued walls, and tons of family photos are crammed on metal bookshelves. Black leather chairs crowd a wooden coffee table, and a Mac computer sits on a clean industrial desk.
I shut the door, my brain spinning. Trying to determine how to tell Farrow about this past thing that just smacked me in the face.
Farrow takes my motorcycle helmet out of my death-grip. And he places his helmet and mine on the desk. His jaw muscle spasms like he’s biting down, territorial and protective of me.
I swallow a rock. “You should know that I know that guy.”
“I know.”
Confusion pulls at my face. “Wait, how?”
“Kaden Simmons.” Farrow speaks his name into existence.
My mouth falls. “You know his name?”
He rests his ass partially on the desk. Seemingly casual and cool, but tension still tightens his jaw. “Back when you had a stalker, I had to read all your NDAs.”
Right.
Fuck.
Our eyes grip each other like we’re about to free-fall together.
Farrow has a photographic memory, so I don’t ask why he remembers Kaden out of all the other NDAs. I bet he can easily file through all the names of my one-night stands. I wonder if he had to do a background check on Kaden. I never asked how deep he dove when trying to find my stalker.
His concern mounts the longer he sweeps my features. “You remember him.” That’s not a question.
It’s a fucking fact.
I blink; my eyes feel burnt raw. Farrow knows that I’ve had too many one-night stands to recall faces and names. I can barely pinpoint locations and dates. It was just sex, but I took care of who I slept with. I was highly aware that they’d always remember sleeping with me, Maximoff Hale.
I wanted sex to be a good experience for every hookup. But there are a handful of times where it wasn’t that great for me.
Words jumble, and I end up just saying, “Yeah, I remember him.”
Farrow combs two hands through his bleach-white hair, and I zone in on the gray titanium band on his ring finger. I zero in on the crossed swords on his Adam’s apple, and the beautiful wings on his neck. Just to avoid the rising pain on his face.
He lets out a breath, hands slowly descending from his head. His eyes on mine. “He’s memorable for you, which either means he hurt you or it was the best sex you’ve ever fucking had.” He winces. “For fuck’s sake, I honestly hope it’s neither.”
Everything hurts because I know I’m about to hurt him.
I stare up at the ceiling, pain fisting my chest. We stand a few feet apart, and I want to close the distance so damn badly. But I’m cemented in front of the door. I look back at Farrow.