Don’t let me down, Highland.
I let him overhear comms.
Thatcher responds quickly to Farrow with a simple curt, “Negative.”
I must wear my confusion because Jack asks, “Is that a bad thing?” He swirls around his cereal but looks at me.
“Thatcher is the SFO lead,” I remind him as I reach in the pockets of my sweatpants for my cell. Not there. I scan the kitchen. “So he should know where every bodyguard is at. We’re supposed to report if we make any location changes, and he’s saying no one is at the lake house.”
“But Farrow thinks someone’s there?” Jack asks after another spoonful of cereal.
“Bingo.” I’m still searching for my phone.
“By the toaster,” Jack points out with the tilt of his chin.
I eye him and his easy-going smile that makes this situation seem less caustic. A grin edges across my mouth in return, but I remind myself not to play the part of fool and fall into his allure.
“Is Ripley with them?” Jack wonders.
I grab my phone. “Yeah, they brought the baby.” I approach the bar counter that separates his body from mine. Being close causes my gaze to travel along his features: squared jawline, dark thick brows and glittering eyes—and that smile, fuck that captivating, dazzling smile. And I swear he’s doing the same to me.
He does this to everyone.
Does he check out everyone?
It’s the only thing that makes sense.
Jack asks, “What do you think about Farrow being Ripley’s guardian? The baby is six-months-old now, right?” He eats more cereal.
“Look at you, going all ‘producer’ on me and asking me life questions.” I mockingly hunt for his video camera, opening and shutting drawers. Glancing over my shoulder, up at the ceiling.
His eyes are glued to me, lips rising.
“Your baby has to be somewhere.” I lean over the counter and peer around Jack’s body. My biceps flex, and I see his honey-brown eyes trace the carve of muscle. Blood pumps in my veins, especially as our gazes crash together, and he intakes a more confident breath.
If only he wasn’t straight.
I’d already be clutching his jaw and kissing the hell out of him. I’ve thought about pulling his crew-neck tee off and skating my large palm down his chest a painful number of times this morning. Once I started imagining his hand around my cock, I hit defense mode on my internal alarm system.
Lock it up.
Slowly, I careen back. Giving us some space.
He runs his fingers through his hair. “My camera is in my car.” His voice is just as light as before, and he motions between us. “This is off-the-record.”
I touch my chest. “I’m flattered you’d do that for me.”
He smiles. “Well, I love to flatter you.”
“Oh I know,” I say, trying not to sound sexually or romantically frustrated.
He keeps dunking his spoon in milk, silence extending before he tells me, “I’m just trying to get to know you better.”
Is that a good idea? Against better judgment, my defenses drop. Maybe because I want to get to know him better too. “Ripley is, in fact, sixth-months-old,” I answer his questions. “It’s still unbelievable to me what happened. You know, Donnelly was supposed to become the guardian, but he couldn’t do it. I’ve known him for over a decade, and the guy is responsible but he’s not ready to be a father.” It would’ve destroyed him.
“So Farrow stepped in,” Jack nods, knowing the history.
Of course he does. I don’t know why I forgot that he hears and sees a lot. Plus, the famous ones talk to him.
“Yeah, that’s how Farrow is. Everyone wants to be his friend because he looks like a cool motherfucker. He’d do anything for his friends, even if you haven’t talked to him in years. If you need him, he’d drop everything and help.” I shrug. “Donnelly and I are similar, but we’re easier to befriend. And I’m happy Farrow was there to take the baby. He has Maximoff to lean on.”
Unlike me.
I don’t have anyone else.
I can tell Jack sees the unspoken words in my face. So I drop my gaze and busy myself with wiping down the kitchen counter.
“I’d be a single father,” I continue on, “and I wouldn’t want that. Farrow genuinely wants Ripley in his life. He loves that kid.” I begin to grin. “I asked to babysit a few times, but Farrow and Maximoff are fucking attached. It takes a jack-hammer to pull them apart from him.”
It’s what that kid deserves. Unconditional, never-going-to-leave-you love. But my best friend is unfortunately staring at a legal battle in his future. Ripley is the biological son of Paul Donnelly’s thirty-year-old uncle. Who’s in prison. And this motherfucker won’t sign his parental rights away, probably hoping to extort Maximoff Hale.
It’s a fucked-up situation, and I hate that Farrow has to deal with it and that a child is going to be in a very public custody battle. Maximoff is famous. Farrow is now famous.