I’d smile, but the pandemonium is at an all-time high.

Ripley babbles incoherently while I pass earplugs to Maximoff. I nod to our baby boy. “That’s right, little trooper. Your papa’s about to silence all these noisy fuckers for you.”

He beams, especially as Maximoff fits in the earplugs.

A cameraman trips, about to crash into Maximoff’s ass, and I push him. “Back up!”

“I didn’t mean to!” he shouts, panicked.

I skim the crowds, and a younger guy tries to fit his expensive equipment over the door. To peer down at Maximoff and Ripley.

I thrust a hand with warning force at his chest.

“I have Rip,” Maximoff tells me, holding our son against his body.

Shutting the door, I lean close to whisper, “Stay with me. I have to go first.”

“Alright.” He’s not arguing.

The best way to protect Ripley is for us to be in a single-file line, with our son shielded between his chest and my back.

Maximoff pushes against paparazzi with his forearm while I lead. Forcing through the cameras and creating a pathway. It’s all fine and well. Until a hand reaches out for Ripley, and I see this idiot’s crazed, media-fueled eyes, looking to stoke havoc.

His hand is descending on Ripley’s head.

He’s innocently unaware. He’s a baby.

He’s my baby.

I lose my shit.

I catch this fucker’s wrist and twist. Hard, beyond a warning. I feel the bone split and crack in my iron-grip.

He drops the camera, his pained cry smothered by other media yelling, “MAXIMOFF, LOOK HERE! FARROW, LOOK HERE!”

I don’t stop. Or look.

We keep moving towards the restaurant.

Maximoff has a firm clutch around Ripley and shoves off more paparazzi, his forest-green eyes like daggers. He’s strong, forcing men away like a bodyguard would. Still, I glance back at him, sweeping him. And honestly, he’s checking on me just as hardcore.

Along the road, the rest of the famous ones are parking and pushing through this madness.

And behind me, I hear, “You broke his arm!”

“Sue him!” cameramen tell their colleague. “You can sue him!”

Sue me.

I really couldn’t care less.

Because no malicious hands are ever touching our son.

Only the wedding party and close relatives and friends are invited to the rehearsal dinner, leaving the occasion mostly private. Which is why we decided on doing toasts tonight.

Best man and best woman speeches already left everyone in laughter and tears.

Jane’s was perfectly her: sentimental and long as fuck, and I didn’t expect her to say much about me. But a lot was spent on how she loved me as a person and how she adored me with her best friend.

Her words, “Life with Farrow is better than life without Farrow.” I don’t know if anyone besides Maximoff has ever expressed those feelings about me out loud before. Not like that. It choked me up. She’s already done so much for us, for the wedding.

Even the restaurant she found for tonight is unreal.

Lemon trees canopy an array of circular candle-lit tables, the sweet fragrance permeating as everyone eats and listens to the toasts. It’s been relaxed and casual. Guests amble around and visit tables to chat with different friends and family throughout the night.

Donnelly’s speech was hilarious as shit. He told a few anecdotes about our time at Yale. Like the night we never slept, looking for a 24/7 diner in New Haven that sold peach cobbler. How we finally found one at 8 a.m. after walking six miles. Our phones died and we hitchhiked back to campus.

Simple days.

Easy times.

We still have those, only they’re now shared with Maximoff too, and Donnelly made him turn fire-engine red. I was fucking rolling.

Donnelly said, “And my best friend has the ability to make the hottest, smokin’ Maximoff Hale turn into a lovesick puppy dog.”

Maximoff shook his head vigorously and mouthed, “No.” Everyone laughed, and Maximoff was fighting a smile the entire fucking time.

In between toasts, I head to the teenagers’ table where Maximoff has been standing, chatting with his cousins and siblings.

I sidle next to him, and his arm subconsciously slides across my shoulders. It’s cute.

“So you’re not sleeping in different rooms tonight?” Xander asks his brother, then eyes me. “I thought you’re supposed to separate the night before the wedding.”

“No hanky-panky,” Winona says, wagging her brows.

I run my tongue over my bottom lip, feeling my smile rise. “You want to take this one, wolf scout?”

He looks at his family. “Farrow doesn’t like rules.”

I roll my eyes. He’s not wrong, but in case he’s changed his mind, I ask, “You want to separate tonight?”

“No way.” That was quick.

My smile stretches, and his arm drops so he can hold my hand. “I’m stealing Farrow away, but I’ll see you all later.”

They say bye to us, and we walk closer to a corner table, chairs empty as its occupants visit other people.

I eye the table, then Maximoff. “You stole me away to be alone with me.”

Tags: Krista Ritchie Like Us Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net