Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

A smile plays at the corner of his mouth, and he squeezes my hand before telling them, “Definitely Maximoff.” He’s not changing our dynamic for them, for anyone.

My lungs inflate in a bigger breath. “In an alternate universe,” I tell the cameramen. “In reality, it’s definitely Farrow. Every damn time.”

I picture his eyes rolling around the fucking globe behind his aviators. My Ray Bans shield the incoming flashes that hike up a notch.

“Where’s Jane?!”

Family dinner at the Cobalt Estate.

“Why isn’t Jane with you?!”

My brain blares first public date, first public date, first public fucking date! And my stomach does this weird flutter-kick thing. Brain and body are way too excited at the prospect of tonight.

It’s not like I haven’t been out with Farrow before.

But in this capacity, it feels new.

“Farrow?! Are you on a date with Maximoff right now?!”

His brows jump, surprised that they guessed right.

“Is this a date?! What are you eating?! Who’s paying the bill?!”

Farrow risks a glance at me. Seeing if I want to answer. But I’m looking at him. Trying to see the same thing. He’s been selective about which media questions he’ll respond to. I want him to do what feels the most comfortable and not be fucking pressured.

“Who thought of the date?!”

Me.

“Where are you headed?!”

We’re nearing our destination. At the corner of the street, a red neon light spells out Tony’s Pizza. I know, I know—our first date is insanely inventive and revolutionary.

Pizza.

It only took me a solid month of overanalyzing.

Farrow pushes back pieces of bleach-white hair that fell to his lashes. And he subconsciously touches his belt—where his radio would normally be attached.

He’s only been off the security team for a couple days. We’re both still adjusting. Ahead of us, my temp bodyguard for tonight marches like a brick house.

I haven’t been assigned a replacement yet.

“Is this a date?!”

I let go of Farrow’s hand and wrap my arm around his shoulders. Fucking Christ. Pain wells up, and I breathe out through my nose. My left arm is considered my “good” arm. But lifting one shoulder sometimes inadvertently moves the other.

Outwardly, I’m stoic.

Inwardly, I’m kicking my ass into another galaxy for not being more careful. My muscle throbs like a dull hammer. Just so you understand, I’m not dropping my arm.

I plan to hold my boyfriend.

So I’m fucking holding his shoulders. Sex is already challenging with the sling. I don’t want to eliminate the forms of physical affection that I can finally, finally do in public.

As we near the pizzeria, Farrow sweeps my build a couple times. Trying to study my state of being. He must’ve felt my body tighten. Flashes blink on my face like strobe lights in a horror film. So there’s no way he’s reading the pain that I barely reveal.

“Why hasn’t Loren tweeted about your relationship like Lily?!”

My sore muscles bind at the mention of my parents. Farrow’s carefree stride never grows panicked or pissed.

He knows my dad isn’t enthusiastic about any couple relationships online. Not even his own brother’s. He mockingly calls my uncle and aunt raisins.

On the semi-flipside, my mom overcompensates and will tweet fifty times a day about us:

#Marrow for life!

This is what love looks like #Marrow

Proud mom #Marrow

Fans created our couple ship name, and it really stuck after my mom used it.

“Does Loren not approve of your relationship—”

I cut in, “He does approve.” My dad is just overprotective, and I think he feels like a better dad if he gives my significant other a hard time.

“I love you!! I love you!!”

Farrow picks up his pace. Purposefully so that my arm will fall off his shoulder. When it does, he swiftly catches my hand, and I lengthen my stride. In line with him again.

I replay his smooth as fuck movement over and over and over. My blood starts pooling south. I’m agitated and unbelievably hot. Probably because I’m annoyed. Annoyance turns me on. Christ, that’s a weird thought.

We ascend a couple cement steps to the pizzeria. A glass entrance in sight. Last-ditch questions erupt in the air. Most about my parents and Farrow.

But our heads swerve back at this one:

“Did Farrow force you to quit the auction?!”

I glower. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

All of them thirst after that topic. Too many voices jumble.

“Slow down,” Farrow snaps at the paparazzi.

They let the middle-aged photographer speak. “Celebrity Crush published an article tonight. Maximoff would never quit a charity event, and you’re the only thing that’s different in his life.”

“The only thing that’s different? I got into a fucking car accident!” I yell, my neck straining. “Because your friends sped after my little cousin’s car on a goddamn highway!”

“They weren’t our friends!” They all disassociate.

Farrow rolls his eyes.

We’ve both seen these faces before. Paparazzi in Philly are a tight network of people who call each other when they spot someone in my family. Then they rush out and capture a money-shot.

I’ve always tried to empathize with them. And I get it.

This is their job.

But this is my life.

And they need to know… “It was my choice to quit the auction,” I almost growl, needing to defend him. “Not Farrow’s. If anyone is territorial in this relationship.” I motion back and forth between his chest and mine. “It’s me.”

Farrow tilts his head at me, his eyes raking me up and down. And he says, “I’m just as territorial of you, wolf scout.”

He’s not letting me take all the heat to protect him.

We are a publicist’s worst nightmare. Setting fire to our public images out of stubborn love.

Tony’s Pizza smells like greasy cheese and beer, and after a half hour, it’s completely packed. Rowdy kids in soccer jerseys span a long checkered-cloth table and help drown out the paparazzi outside. So do the mounted televisions that air the Stanley Cup and NBA playoffs.

But not much can distract my stupidly in love brain from him.

“It’s not that bad,” I say while I pick black olives off my slice of supreme pizza and look up at Farrow, whose brows rise the longer I defend my motorcycle’s capabilities.

Our table is against the wall, and behind Farrow, an orange neon sign hangs that says true love with a pizza between the words. I keep skimming him.

All of him.

He sits slightly sideways. His tattooed arm hangs casually over the back of his wooden chair, and he set the sole of his boot on the empty seat next to him.

Farrow Redford Keene is infuriatingly cool, and God, I can’t believe he’s mine.

I’ll never get over it. To think that I’d be here one day. On a public date with the only guy I’ve ever truly needed or wanted—it’s a dream.

He watches me checking him out, and then his gaze drops down my naturally rigid body in a sweltering wave.

I’m aware that I look ready for an Armageddon. I always fucking do. But I think about how Farrow is attracted to that part of me. To every part of me. I’m already comfortable in my skin, but he makes me love who I am times infinity.

I feel the start of my smile. “I can push seventy-five on it,” I add, returning to the motorcycle talk.

The corner of his mouth lifts with a short laugh. “Your bike’s throttle is shot. I couldn’t even accelerate to thirty when I tried. If anything, I should be buying you a new bike for your birthday in July.” He hoists his dish and holds it out to me.

I scrape my black olives, which I hate and he loves, onto his pizza. “You can’t get me

a bike,” I say. “I only got you a pair of boots for your 28th.” He’s wearing those boots right now.

“Rip up the Birthday Rulebook.” Farrow folds his slice of pizza. “Because if you want to start comparing the prices of our gifts to each other—I only spent five bucks on you for Christmas.” He smiles before taking a large bite of pizza.

That five-buck gift is buckled on my left wrist: an olive-green wristwatch. Right beneath lies the gray paracord bracelet that he gave me out-of-the-blue.

And I loved that the watch was really cheap. He wasn’t trying to replace my old one with something flashy. He gave me what fit me.

“Look, all I’m saying,” I tell Farrow, “is that if you buy me a bike, I’m gonna buy you one. I can’t even ride a motorcycle until I’m out of this damn sling. You need it more than me.” I’ve wanted to buy him one since he sold his FZ-09 for the auction, and this whole conversation started because his residency begins tomorrow.

He has to drive my Audi until he can get another vehicle. I offered my bike to him, and he called it a piece of shit. And that’s how this spiraled here.