“You can’t eat anything before surgery,” he reminds me. “I’m doing you a favor. Less temptation, wolf scout.” He pops the third one in his mouth.
“It’s working. You’re making them look disgusting.”
“Must be why you keep watching me eat them,” he says, one-upping me with absolute ease.
Goddammit. “I wasn’t,” I lie.
“And there goes your honesty merit badge.”
I watch him put aside the tin, and he uncaps a permanent marker with his teeth. His brown eyes flit to the machines next to the bed. Numbers scroll over the screen, lines bounce up and down, and I can barely make sense of it.
But he can.
As quickly as Farrow looked, he’s back on course. His large hand runs from my knee down to my ankle, the touch full of hot affection, and he holds my ankle with strength but tenderness that pools warmth inside of me.
Farrow starts scribbling something on top of my left foot.
“That better not say fuck me,” I tell him.
Farrow stops writing, and his gaze lifts to mine, all humor in his eyes. He blows out the cap from his mouth. “If I were going to write fuck me, it wouldn’t be on your foot.” With another thought, his smile widens in near laughter. “Unless…you want me to fuck your foot.”
“Fuck off,” I say, about to reclaim my leg, but his grip tightens. That, I like even more.
I crane my neck and catch sight of the scrawled letters.
NOT THIS FOOT
My brows pull together as I stare at him like he’s flown to the garbage planet Sakaar. “If I’m even having surgery, you do realize it’s nowhere near my foot?”
“Can’t be too careful,” he says casually and moves onto my calf. “That’s rule number one in the Wolf Scout Handbook. In case you’ve forgotten your own rules.” He pulls back to view his handiwork.
NOT THIS LEG is even bigger.
Dear World, why am I smiling? Best Regards, a smiling human.
“I’m back,” Jane says with a giant breath. “So, we have a lot to discuss when I arrive. Like how you were bought by a porn star.”
Just as the words porn star boom in the air, the door opens to my hospital room—and I’m pretty positive the doctor just heard that.
I’m repping the Hale Curse hard tonight.
I lift the phone to my mouth again. “Jane, the doctor just got here.”
“Good luck, old chap.”
“À tout à l’heure, ma moitié.” See you soon, my other half.
I hang up, and I realize Farrow has stopped writing on my leg. His focus drills into the young doctor, and before I can speak, Farrow tells him, “You’re in the wrong room.”
Farrow knows this doctor.
It’s my first thought. The doctor actively disregards Farrow, his attention only on me.
He must be in his late twenties, exceptionally tall with swept-back auburn hair that curls beneath his ears. He looks like he could audition to play Bill Weasley in Harry Potter.
You know, the oldest, hottest Weasley.
He’s not in scrubs like the ER doctors and nurses I’ve met tonight. All of which had to sign NDAs. Underneath his white coat, a navy geometric-printed shirt is tucked in charcoal slacks.
I strain my eyes to read the stitching on his coat, but I can only make out the MD.
The doctor starts approaching the bed. “I’m Dr…” His voice dies out as Farrow slides my legs off his lap and stands up.
My boyfriend steals the chart out of Bill Weasley’s grip. Then he sits on the bed’s edge and flips through the clipboard papers like nothing just happened.
Bill Weasley casts a cutting glare at Farrow.
“Maximoff,” Farrow says, at ease as he skims my chart, “meet Rowin Hart.” He looks directly at me, and he adds, “My ex.”
What.
The…
8
MAXIMOFF HALE
Fuck…?
Farrow’s ex is right in front of me. Something that I thought could only happen in an alternate universe. One that I honestly didn’t want to visit.
The pain in my collarbone makes way for a foreign feeling. A kind of strange discomfort that wants to twist my face.
“Dr. Rowin Hart,” Rowin emphasizes to me.
I’m staring at him in a whole new light. He has a hoop cartilage piercing, and as he nears the heart monitor, I spot a tattoo of a star below his earlobe.
This guy just looks cool. Cooler than me. Someone that Farrow could and probably would get along with—Christ, I don’t even know how long they dated. Do I want to?
My jaw clenches.
Why am I doing this to myself? I’m more than confident and secure in my relationship with Farrow. My mind just won’t stop overanalyzing meaningless fucking things that don’t matter, that shouldn’t matter.
Like how win is literally in the name Rowin.
I know, I know—it’s disconcerting. You don’t have to tell me twice.
While Rowin reads the machines and Farrow reads the chart, I sit up a lot more, using my good hand to pull my body up against the inclined bed.
Rowin steals the chart back. “I’m genuinely shocked that you didn’t tell your celebrity boyfriend about me.” The truth is that I asked Farrow not to give me details. I didn’t want them.
Maybe that was a mistake.
I don’t know. How can anyone know?
Farrow twirls the marker between his fingers. “I’m not doing this with you, Rowin. You don’t get to fish for info about my relationship.”
Rowin’s dark blue eyes stab Farrow. “You’re the one who broke up with me. After a two-year relationship, after I proposed to you.” What. “I can wonder and question why you wouldn’t tell your current boyfriend any of that.”
Because I asked him not to, I think again, not fast enough to say it out loud. Farrow is already speaking.
“Go ahead and question, wonder,” Farrow says, glaring at his ex. “But you’re being masochistic as fuck by resurfacing shit from four years ago.”
Rowin looks goddamn murderous at this point. “You know it’s my thirtieth birthday today?
”
Farrow almost rolls his eyes. “Fucking hell—”
“You’re the same asshole who can’t even fucking regret or apologize—”
“I’m sorry,” Farrow says as he stands; this argument is giving me whiplash. “I’ve told you I’m sorry seventeen times for hurting you, but you never want to hear it. I will never understand why you want me to rehash that night over and over again and keep rubbing salt in your wounds. To remind me that I’m an asshole? Man, I easily admit I’m one. And I don’t regret rejecting your proposal when I would’ve regretted marrying a guy I didn’t love. It’s that fucking simple.”
Heavy silence blankets the hospital room while Rowin stares fixatedly at the chart in his hands. Trying to squash the emotion that tenses his face.
Farrow slowly sits back down on my bed, grinding his teeth.
I’m suddenly glad that I’ve never had to deal with an ex. But I can’t cheer about being the winner here for never experiencing this massive migraine. Not when someone looks raw and cut open in front of me, like Rowin currently does.
Rowin clicks his pen to jot down stats or something on the chart.
“Happy Birthday, man,” I tell Rowin sincerely.
He freezes.
Farrow has his hand over his mouth. I’m not really able to distinguish his expression. It puts me on edge.
I just made things really fucking awkward.
Awesome.
I recover with more confidence and ask, “You two met in med school?”
“Yeah,” Farrow answers, his hand dropping to my knee. “But we were put in different residency programs.”
Rowin glances briefly at Farrow’s hand on me, then he scribbles on the chart. His eyes land on me for a short second. “You’re too sweet to be with someone like Farrow.”
Farrow rubs my leg. “You’d be surprised how much of a dick Maximoff is.”
I laugh, which hurts like hell, pain flaring in my chest. I cough, and both guys hawk-eye the machines that beep a bit louder.
A few more seconds pass.