Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

Their relationship intact means a ton to me. And the fact that I didn’t destroy that good thing and I still got the man, the love, and everything in between—there are no words for what I feel. Because “happy” doesn’t seem powerful enough.

Donnelly hunches forward on the stool and clears his throat. Reading from the magazine he’s holding, “‘With a wedding on the horizon, you can expect interest in Maximoff & Farrow’s relationship to escalate in the coming months.’”

I hone in on how they called me Farrow and not just Maximoff’s fiancé or Maximoff’s boyfriend. And the Alphas Like Us articles stopped referring to me as the “new boyfriend,” and they’ve started printing my name too.

Either this means that the world sees me as a human being or as someone worthy enough to be attached to Maximoff by name. Possibly both.

And I’ll definitely take both.

Donnelly rotates the tabloid sideways and reads on, “‘They’re the current it-couple and it’s going to take somethin’ huge to change that.’” He looks at me with seriousness. “Want me to do somethin’ huge?”

“No, fuck no.”

SFO may have a modicum of fame, but the spotlight on me is much brighter and blinding. Being with Maximoff, I’ve learned to not let that shit get to me.

Don’t fear it. Don’t run away from it. Don’t fight it. Instead I hang onto the bright side and just live every day with him.

Standing beside Donnelly, Quinn peers at the tabloid and points at a page. “Damn. Jane’s on the worst dressed list again.”

Thatcher pulls the magazine out of Donnelly’ grip and tosses it in the nearby trash. “No one should be reading that here.” He retrains his attention onto the photo shoot.

Donnelly mouths to me, grumpy.

That’s one word for it. I bite into my apple.

Oscar eats a fry and nods to me. “Fiancé is looking at you.”

Fiancé. That word rushes into me. I’ve always wanted to be married one day, and each morning I wake up next to him, I’m still overcome with a simple fact. I’m going to marry Maximoff Hale—the love of my life.

I chew slowly, my lips upturning. “I know,” I say. “He still does that.” Gradually, I turn around and pool all my attention onto Maximoff.

He’s alone. Standing in front of the white backdrop, dressed in jeans and a gray crew-neck. He’s waiting for the photographer to fix his camera settings, maybe even for a few other cousins to appear. I’m not sure who’s up next in the photo lineup.

And despite all the hell we’ve been through, Maximoff looks and stands like an unshakable force of nature. Ready to weather any squall because he’s as powerful as the storm.

Fuck, I can’t take my eyes off him, and I smile into my next bite of apple. Watching his forest-greens try not to melt over me.

The photographer shouts, “Can we get Loren and Ryke in here?”

Lo and Ryke leave their high-top table where they’d been chatting with their wives. And both men easily and assuredly join Maximoff.

Lo is on his right. Ryke on his left. And the three look straight into the camera. Severity in their gazes. Because the paternity issues surrounding the three of them aren’t amusing or lighthearted. And for the most part, We Are Calloway hits serious tones all the way through.

The studio seems to quiet, more people compelled to look at them. Not because of the paternity rumors. Everyone invited here knows that’s bullshit.

It’s how striking and domineering they are side-by-side-by-side. And Maximoff doesn’t look confrontational or angry. He looks proud to be standing between his dad and his uncle.

And Maximoff—pure, wholehearted Maximoff—can’t even see how Lo and Ryke look even prouder to be next to him.

“Incoming,” Banks says, and our heads turn as Sullivan Meadows weaves around a few tables, dark hair splayed over the shoulders of her jean jacket. She’s aiming for SFO. For this table.

For Akara.

We can all tell. Even if she doesn’t realize it.

“She’s hesitating,” Quinn narrates as Sulli pauses, turns slightly. Fingers to her lips.

Akara sets down his water bottle, brows furrowing. The two of them have been doing this concern-worried-for-each-other dance since their “fight” at the stair climb. It’s a little intense, even for buddyguards.

“And she’s exiting,” Banks says, just as Sulli swerves around and rushes away from SFO.

“I’ll be a sec.” Akara detaches from our spot and chases after Sulli. And when he’s well out of earshot, we all turn back to the table and look at each other.

Oscar says, “Either Kitsuwon is in denial about his feelings for that girl or he’s playing all of us.”

“Denial,” most of us say because Akara is adamant that they’re just friends. Not in the excessive way to cover a lie. In a peeved, fuck-off way.

“She’s back,” Donnelly says off the appearance of Luna Hale. Only he’s referring to the green marker on her cheeks, the blue-painted eyebrows and graphic tee. She makes a Spock symbol at the camera, and she looks genuinely lighter, happier. She dumped Andrew last week, and she told her big brother that her and this guy just “wanted different things.”

I smile into my next bite of apple. Good for you, Luna.

“Anyone read the story she posted online yesterday?” Oscar asks the table. A few days ago she gave SFO her secret username so we could read her fics. Honestly, I haven’t had time to delve into that rabbit hole yet.

Donnelly bites into a potato skin. “The one with the blue alien goddess and the glittery king of stars?” He licks sour cream off his finger.

Oscar nods heartily. “I give it a C+. Too many tentacles.”

Donnelly shrugs. “I thought it was pretty good.”

I’m not even going to ask or open that Pandora’s Box. The photographer bobs up from the camera and searches the studio for someone.

And then his eyes land on me.

“Farrow!” The photographer waves me over, and he’s already called Maximoff back to the plain white backdrop. I place my bitten apple back on the plate.

Donnelly says, “Go get ‘em.”

“Make us proud.” Oscar pats my back.

I spin and walk backwards, just to say, “Take notes, boys.”

They slow-clap, and I let out a short laugh. Heading over to my fiancé who stands alone on a white backdrop. And I’ve been craving to be by his side. Even when he’s facing a camera.

I reach the set, my black boots thudding on the hard floor. Our eyes never shift off each other, never deter, and no one tells me to unhook my radio or remove my gun.

I’m where I want to be, need to be, and should be, and there’s nothing that could possibly feel more comfortable, more perfect, than that.

Maximoff and I draw together. Instinctively. Longingly. His chest presses to my chest, and his hand warms my neck. My palm ascends to the back of his head, threading his thick hair between inked fingers. And if I thought the studio quieted when he was with his dad and uncle, then it falls to silence for us.

Maximoff isn’t cautious or worried. His lips inch upward. “You’re in my world.” He’s excited about that.

I nod a few times. “It’s a good thing I love your world, wolf scout. And that your world is mine.” That gets to us both.

Instantly, we bring our mouths together in a scorching, slow-burning kiss. In our embrace, there is no fear or uncertainty. There is only peace and overwhelming pride, and we bask in this second, this simple moment of our beautiful lives.

EPILOGUE

One Month Later

MAXIMOFF HALE

The smell of chlorine overpowers the indoor pool. Three-year-old and four-year-old kids with inflatable wings on their arms are blowing bubbles in the water.

I wade in the shallow pool. “Go, go,” I encourage. “Hannah, you’re doing amazing. Really good, everyone.” A metal whistle hangs around my neck, and I take a quick glance at the wall clock.

I blow my whist

le. “Alright, that’s it for today,” I tell them. “Everyone did awesome. You all look like Olympians.” I high-five the kids, and Farah slaps my hand three times with a giddy smile.

The kids paddle to the edge of the pool, and I help a straggler onto the cement. Parents start pouring out from the upstairs viewing room. When all the kids are collected, I pull myself out of the pool, water dripping down.

Banks Moretti chills out on a plastic chair beside the door, earpiece in and radio on his waistband. He gives me a nod in greeting, and I wave back. After the Greece trip, he requested to be on my detail. The Moretti brothers have been in contact less ever since Thatcher became Jane’s bodyguard. And with this switch-up, Banks and Thatcher will see each other more. Because I’m around Janie all the time.

I start collecting the inflatables and water wings that the kids left behind. Tossing them into a plastic bin.

When I asked the local aquatic center if I could teach the beginner classes, I expected to be denied. This job—it’s achingly normal. Not something meant for a guy like me.

But they said yes.

So I became certified, and I’m already on my second week here, and I can see another week. Another month. I can see a future where I’m teaching little kids how to swim and build some kind of courage. Face their fears. Jump in and paddle.

Take a breath and float.

I learned how to swim around their age, and I like to think about how a few of these kids could grow up and fall in love with the sport.

Everything about it feels right.