Headstrong Like Us (Like Us 6)

“It’s not,” Farrow says easily. “Whoever is thinking that is trying to jam circles and triangles in square holes.”

“I’m thinking about that.”

He lifts his brows. “I know, wolf scout.”

I almost smile, and now I’m just thinking how much I love this guy.

“You don’t have to tell your family right away,” he reminds me.

That eases me too.

I nod a couple times.

And I retrace more of tonight, and my pulse skips. “What happened…something you said—you said you’d tell me later?”

He rolls his eyes at whatever he encountered.

My jaw sharpens. “What was it?”

“This will just piss you off—”

“I don’t care.”

He exhales a breath and then shrugs. “Okay.” He tilts his head. “One of the temp bodyguards hit on me.”

“Wait, what?” I narrow my eyes.

Farrow looks irritated about the whole thing. “It was just a verbal come-on, and he’ll be fired—”

“He fucking better be.” Steam is practically blowing out of my ears. “At your—our bachelor party? Why would he do that? Did he think we’re in an open relationship?”

“I didn’t care enough to ask, honestly.” He smiles. “I wasn’t going to sip hot tea with the fucker.”

I just picture this muscular faceless, no-named bodyguard hitting on my fiancé, my groom, my soon-to-be husband.

Who are all the same fucking person, in case that’s not vitally clear.

“What’s his name?”

Farrow shakes his head. “You’re not torturing yourself with that shit.”

“I’m not asking for a visual. I want to make sure he’s off the team. I’ll talk to Akara.”

“Let me do it, wolf scout. It’s my job.”

I nod, trusting him. I realize too that I’m more famous, so I’ve always been an object of obsession. But the more fame Farrow has, the more he has to deal with these unwanted advances. “You’re okay?” I ask. “He didn’t hurt you?”

He smiles like I’m roaming aimlessly around in Arkansas and he’s in Florida. “No, he didn’t hurt me, and I’m able to fend off bad pickup lines and shit come-ons easy enough. Definitely better than you.”

Annoyance stabs me, my competitive brain screeching. “Yeah?” I want to combat him, but really, I’m not that great at brushing people off, and I’m curious how he does it. “What do you normally say to bad pickup lines?”

He lists off his fingers. “Get out of my face, no—I don’t want to suck your cock. Take a hint. And you must really want a knee in your groin. Then I walk away, every time.”

I picture that. And I don’t know why I’m smiling. I’m trying not to question its existence because I’d rather it stick around.

Farrow suddenly slides off the lounge chair. I see him stand up, and instinctively, I rise to my feet. Almost the same height.

His smile stretches wider and wider. “Will he follow me?” He walks backwards towards the ocean.

I run after him, and in seconds, we’re step for step, splashing into the water. Uncaring about our damn clothes.

“Pretty sure I ran faster,” I say confidently, wading in the cool ocean. “You might need a hip replacement after how badly I smoked yo—”

He splashes water at my face.

I flip him off with two hands, and he laughs.

I sink lower. Until the surface of the saltwater skims my lips. Farrow is drawn towards me as much as I’m pulled towards him. His eyes caress my eyes, and I wrap a strong arm around his tattooed shoulders under the water.

“Hold your breath,” he whispers.

And then we go down together. I snapshot every cinematic beat, even as we come up for air.

28

MAXIMOFF HALE

3 weeks until the wedding

“Where are Maximoff Hale and his tattooed dreamboat getting married? Little birdies around Center City have been chirping, and rumor is, the wedding is coming soon. Less than a month away, and if you’re in Greece in July, get your binoculars and cameras out. We’ve heard the ceremony and reception is being held in Mykonos. No word on their honeymoon yet, but the bigger question is whether Maximoff is becoming a Keene, or is Farrow becoming a Hale? Or maybe they’ll hyphenate their names—but in which order: Keene-Hale or Hale-Keene? Mull this mystery over while you listen to a hit from Farrow Keene’s favorite band, Third Eye Blind. This is 97.2, the Fix—”

I slam a palm on the digital clock in my childhood bedroom, the radio shutting off. I don’t remember setting the alarm to a radio-wakeup call—especially not for 10:30 a.m.—but it’s old and clearly possessed.

My neck is hot, but I resume packing baby stuff into a cardboard box. Ripley rattles a toy on a yellow play mat while Farrow empties the dresser, folding clothes into suitcases. I’m doing my best not to acknowledge the fucking radio station that just unearthed rumors and the name thing.

The name thing.

Alright, we haven’t really brought it up after the last time. Where I literally self-combusted as soon as he said so casually, so easily, “You want to be a Keene?”