I’m done trying to prove anything to anyone. Even you. I am who I fucking am, and the truth will always be that I wish I could’ve done more. But I’m finally satisfied with the fact that I’ve given all that I can. Even if you can’t see it or refuse to believe it.
Now I need to be home.
With all the people who love me unconditionally.
My family and security zip in and out of the townhouse, carrying cardboard boxes, plastic tubs and clothes on hangers. Alpha blocked paparazzi off the street. So it’s been a pretty easy move-in day.
Dear World, don’t jinx me. Sincerely, an unlucky human.
Jesus.
Christ.
I rush down the stairs. “Luna, watch out!”
Dear World, you suck.
Worst regards.
My skateboard rolls out from under the loveseat. Luna cradles four lava lamps and steps on the board. Tripping forward.
I sprint, and the skateboard bangs into the coffee table.
Luna starts tumbling, about to face-plant, and I snag her arm before she goes down. And I hold her upright. She hot-potatoes a lamp, and catches it by the cord.
That was fucking close. I take her lamps.
“Bad start, the usual,” Luna breathes and crouches to pet Lady Macbeth. “I warned you I’d be a shitty roommate, right?”
I untangle the lamps. “And I reminded you that we used to be roommates for thirteen years.”
Farrow isn’t here to voice the technicality, but technically, we’ve never shared a room before. It’s not like we’ll be sharing a room now either. She’s moving into the guest room, her own small space.
Luna rises as the black cat scampers away. “That’s different. We were kids back then.”
I smile. “Yeah, and now you’re a high school graduate with a diploma and everything…” I trail off at her smile that she can’t contain. Luna finished her last homeschool exam yesterday.
Luna shimmies her shoulders. “It’s pretty cool, huh?”
“Really fucking cool.” A few cousins pass us with boxes, and we edge near the fireplace. Staying out of the way.
I stare at my little sister and memories surface of us being just kids. I must’ve been five or six, and I’d constantly ask my mom if I could push Luna’s stroller. Wanting to help out. I buckled her into a car seat and held her hand while we crossed the street. We’d play-fight with plastic lightsabers in Superheroes & Scones and swap comics.
Now she’s eighteen.
I’m no longer holding her hand across the street. But she could’ve gone anywhere after graduating. And I’m highly aware that out of the entire world, she chose to be here with me.
I didn’t even hesitate to say yes. “Don’t worry about any of this stuff.” I gesture to the frilly pillows, the skateboard, the coat rack with Jane’s many bright-colored rain jackets. “This house is yours now, too. I want it to feel like your home.”
She looks at the family photos on the mantel. “It kind of already does.”
I smile, and as security trickles inside, I leave to the guest room and drop off her lava lamps. Kinney and Xander are unpacking her sci-fi books and stacking them on a shelf.
Trip number five, I descend the staircase again. This time, Farrow walks in from the adjoining door to security’s townhouse.
Casually, he kicks back on the door, an open jar of peanut butter under his arm, and he unpeels a banana.
I hone in on his fingers that move precisely, assuredly. That shouldn’t be that goddamn hot.
My blood heats, and his lips quirk—he’s not even looking at me or even in my direction. How the fuck he can see me is superhuman. And strange.
But hot.
I almost groan at myself as I reach the bottom of the stairs. I could detour and go grab another box from the SUV, but my feet are already moving. Towards him.
Big shocker.
I pull out a folded paper from my back pocket.
“What’s that?” Farrow asks, motioning to the paper. Coolly, he squats down to my ankles.
I watch him, my curiosity piquing. “A list.” It’s more than a list, but he is a walking, talking distraction that my brain subconsciously…and consciously loves.
“A list,” Farrow repeats and lifts the leg of my jeans, revealing my bare shin and a sheathed knife.
I cross my arms, our eyes glued together while he unsheathes my knife. Fuck me.
Farrow smiles and rises, one inch taller. “He’s still trying to turn me into a follower.” Before I can respond, he says, “Let me guess what your list doesn’t say. Number one: I’m in love with Farrow Keene. Number two: he’s always right.”
“How’d you know?” I ask sarcastically.
Farrow dips my knife in peanut butter and then slices the banana. He eats the piece directly off the blade and licks the peanut butter off the tip.
Fuck.
Me.
I flex, my muscles blazing.
His smile stretches. “I have a PhD in Maximoff Hale Studies.”
I compose myself and give him a look. “How’d you earn that degree? By following me around?”
“By beating you at everything.”
My brows bunch in agitation.
He notices, and the corners of his lips lift more.
I need to hand him the paper, but I don’t want this to end yet. “There is no such thing. So you actually earned a degree in Liars 101.”
He whistles. “He can’t even put me in a higher level than basic 101.” He eyes the paper and sets the peanut butter jar aside. “Give me.”
I hand him the paper.
He barely skims it and his brows rise. “This is called a wedding itinerary.”
“That’s what I fucking said,” I combat, and I rub my mouth. Christ, I feel my smile. “All the details are there.” The upside to the tour ending early, I can attend my parent’s vow renewal.
He’s fixated on some portion of the itinerary.
“What?” I look at the paper upside-down, and the words Maximoff Hale, no date, no plus one stands out. “My assistant typed that.”
Farrow puts the paper in his back pocket, still at ease. “Not a big deal, Maximoff.” He eats another piece of banana off the blade. “I’m going to the wedding as your bodyguard. It’s what I am.”
I frown, thinking. He’s more than a bodyguard to me, but he knows that. So then why does something feel off?
My eyes descend, and I just now notice Thatcher written in Sharpie on the banana peel. I’m less surprised that Farrow is eating Thatcher’s food than I am by this, “Who writes on fruit?”
“Hall monitors,” Farrow says as he slices the banana. He tosses the peel on my iron café table. “And I have to live with one.”
“Sucks you don’t have a boyfriend to crash with.” I draw towards him, our legs knocking.
Farrow eats the last slice of banana, and his other hand clasps my neck.
I’m the first to grab him by the shirt, then wrap an arm around his shoulder—he spins us in a swift maneuver.
My back thuds into the closed door. God. Breath flames in my lungs.
Farrow sheaths the knife in his black leather belt. “You’re not my boyfriend then?” He eyes my lips in a way that says, I won’t kiss you. I won’t fuck you. Unless you tell me I’m yours and you’re mine.
It electrocutes every fucking part of me. His weight pins me to the door, and my cock begs for more hot friction.
“You must’ve lost your boyfriend,” I say, my voice low.
Bleach-white hair hangs in his lashes. Our mouths edging close, he whispers, “You failed Liars 101, wolf scout. Because he’s right in front of me.”
Kiss me, man. I can’t wait. I clutch the back of his head and kiss him deeply. Hungrily, our mouths crash together. I spin him around, his back to the door. When I think I have the lead, his hand slides down my back, and he grabs my ass.
Fuck. I groan against his lips, and he smiles against mine.
Someone clears their throat. Behind us.
/> Great.
I pull back, but I play as cool as I fucking can and stand straight. This is my townhouse. I live here. We kissed. He grabbed my ass. On the PDA scale, this is minor level.
Farrow rests his shoulders on the wood. A lot more naturally at ease than me. But that’s normal.
Who saw us?
My dad.
He stands in the doorway, light rain pelting the street behind him. A box labeled Luna from Thebula is in his arms, biceps cut and features sharp-edged. His brows are cinched like he’s slowly processing something. Maybe that Farrow and I are really a couple. Or maybe he’s just stunned to see me with anyone.
He looks good though. Healthy, not edged or antsy.
He opens his mouth to speak, but voices escalate behind him. We all listen, but from where I stand, I can’t see anyone.