Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

And as he kisses the nape of my neck, the line of my jaw, I wait and wait, and softly, so damn softly and huskily, Farrow whispers, “I love you.”

Light bursts in me, and I spin on him, our hands instantly grip each other in starved yearning. We kiss like we haven’t kissed in eons. Heat blistered and raw, we wrestle in the shower for the lead.

And goddamn, we’re both smiling.

39

MAXIMOFF HALE

News of our engagement has spread like a tornado ripping through flatlands. No houses destroyed yet, but damage control mode is still alive. Just as a precaution.

Too many tabloids, magazines, entertainment sites have contacted our reps. Inquiring about front-page spreads, interviews, photo ops. Everyone is seeking the first exclusive pictures, videos, anything.

And they’ve all received the same automatic reply from our publicist:

Maximoff & Farrow are enjoying their engagement and would like to remain private at this time. Thank you for understanding.

I’m currently focused on rebuilding strength in my right shoulder. All without overexerting, without pushing too far and tearing my body to fucking pieces.

Hence, working out with my childhood crush, my bodyguard, my doctor, my fiancé—all Farrow Redford Keene.

He has strike pads on both of his hands, hoisting them up to me. I jab the pad with my left fist, protected by a red boxing glove.

Sun shines through the full-length glass windows in Uncle Ryke’s gym. Heating the space. It’s pretty much why I’m sweating. Because there’s no way my slow pace alone could warrant me soaking through my shirt.

“How did that feel?” Farrow asks me as I gear up to do a right cross.

“Fine.” I think I can try harder without killing my muscle. I go for a right cross with my right arm…and I end up lightly tapping the pad. Listening to my body. The stretch alone pulls my tendons taut.

“Sore?” he asks.

“Not at all,” I say, sarcasm thick. “I could without a doubt take you in a boxing ring. Let’s go, right now.”

“That’s an adorable fantasy,” Farrow says.

I growl into a groan.

Farrow smiles, too amused. “How about we come back to reality?” He motions me to ready myself. “Put your gloves up to your chin.”

I follow the instruction, and Farrow spreads out the strike pads for me to do a hook combination. Before I even swing, the glass door opens.

I drop my arms, and we both turn to see my little brother. Xander is in gym shorts and a T-shirt that says Winter is Coming. Shock coils in me—surprised he’s here.

“Hey,” Xander says, hair hanging in his eyes. “I got your text.”

He almost never works out with me. But every time I’m at the gym, I try to always invite him along. He usually brushes it off. Him, putting in this effort, whether it’s for me or himself, I don’t care. He’s here.

That’s all that matters.

“You’re here to work out?” I ask him.

“I mean…yeah,” he says. His eyes dance across the equipment. “What do you suggest?”

“You should start on the bag,” Farrow tells him, nodding to the boxing bag that my uncle hung up a couple weeks ago. “Here…” Farrow takes off his pads and grabs a pair of black cloth wraps that hang on the wall. “I’ll wrap your hands.”

Xander follows Farrow’s instructions to hold out his hands. Palms down, and Farrow crisscrosses the wrap, weaving the cloth between his fingers.

I swing my right arm in a pendulum stretch while I wait.

My little brother glances from Farrow to me. “So have you guys decided on when you’re having the wedding?”

Farrow eyes lift to me and then his brows rise. “We have.”

“We’re doing a long engagement,” I tell Xander.

We discussed it at length, and it seems like the best idea to wait for the public and media attention to die down before we have a wedding. There will still be chaos, but I figure if we give it some time, there’s a greater chance someone else in my family will take the spotlight for a little while. I just would really love a wedding that isn’t crashed by helicopters and drones.

“I figured,” Xander replies.

Farrow finishes with his hand wraps and then tosses a pair of boxing gloves to him. “We’ll start with an easy combination.”

I watch as my future husband teaches my little brother how to box. He keeps glancing at me, a smile inching across his mouth. He knows how much I love him. How much I love this. And I think about what Farrow once told me.

It’s the little things.

It really is.

40

FARROW KEENE

The We Are Calloway wrap party is held at an artsy studio in Center City, and I’ve been to one of these before on Lily’s security detail. Never as Maximoff’s bodyguard. And definitely not as a face featured in the docuseries. This is new for me, and I keep catching myself taking in this different vantage point.

“Few month’s time, Redford, and we’re all going to watch your smug ass on TV,” Oscar tells me, all of SFO congregating around a few wooden high-top tables we shoved together. Plates of finger-food and nonalcoholic drinks cover the surface.

We’re all on-duty.

I wondered how being a bodyguard again would work. How the guys would handle me coming back after I willingly quit. That same day in Greece, during the sandcastle contest, the news was announced.

And then all of SFO pushed me in the motherfucking sea.

In jest.

Akara knew what was happening way before. Apparently, the Tri-Force had talked to Lo in advance, and he would’ve never offered me the spot if they said no. Akara told me they were unanimous in favor of bringing me back.

I didn’t need to know why the security team would want me. I just figure it’s easier to have me on the team than a new hire. It’s what Thatcher said a while back. Trust is invaluable with these families, and they trust me a hell of a lot.

Enough to let me marry into American royalty.

I prop my boot on the rung of a stool that Donnelly sits on. Most of us are standing, and I tell Oscar, “You can watch my smug ass in real life.”

“Already accomplished.” Oscar dips a fry in ketchup. A long, long buffet table spans an entire brick wall. Invite-only guests amble around the open space, mixed drinks and beers in hand.

T

he food isn’t the main attraction. Cameras and lighting equipment point at a white backdrop. See, these wrap parties are always half-cocktail-hour and half-photo-shoot. The famous ones have to take promotional shots for the premium cable-network’s digital apps.

“You don’t want us to watch your episodes?” Akara asks, giving me a weird look.

“Eh…” I waver my hand. Being honest, I don’t give a shit.

“Did you embarrass yourself?” Oscar asks. “Bro, I told you not to talk about serious shit with the parents on camera.”

“It happened,” I say truthfully, picking up a whole apple off my plate. “Connor was offered a condom sponsorship.” I let that out, trusting these guys, and also that footage with Connor is going to be aired.

Banks laughs hard.

“Cobalt Condoms.” Donnelly flips a page in a gossip magazine. “Magnum-size only.”

“For the wealthy man,” Oscar chimes in.

“Nah, I’d wanna buy some,” Donnelly notes.

I whistle. “These are definitely fictional condoms when Donnelly thinks he can fit into a magnum.”

Everyone laughs.

Donnelly blows me a middle-finger kiss. And I won’t tell anyone but Maximoff, at least not to the full degree—but I missed these guys. Shit, like I really missed them. In ways that I didn’t think I would or even could.

I glance at Donnelly who dog-ears the magazine. “We should make a drinking game out of the docuseries,” he says, his Philly lilt thick. “Every time you roll your eyes, we take a shot.”

Akara shakes his head, a water bottle to his lips. “Too many shots.”

“How about you all just not watch the show,” I say casually.

Donnelly laughs like that’s an absurd idea.

Thatcher says, “That was the plan.”

“See, listen to Thatcher,” I tell everyone and bite into my red apple.

He sends me a narrowed look. Not understanding why I’m agreeing with him. Let’s make this clear: he agreed with me first.

I watch his gaze drift to the camera set-up. Right now, a photographer takes various shots of Maximoff and Jane together. She rests her freckled cheek on his shoulder, and he has a protective arm around her waist.