Farrow saunters inside, not casually. His muscles are taut. He locks the door behind him. And the moment he sees me, he almost rocks back, nose flared. “You wentoutside?” He hones in on my reddened cheek and my lip—I rub my mouth.
It stings. A camera must’ve busted my lip open.
I zero in on hisbloodyforearms. Skin scraped like he slid against pavement. All the way to his elbows.
I grimace into a cringe, my muscles turning inside out. My heart in my throat.
“Cats escaped, and Moffy went out to get them,” Price explains briefly to Farrow. “We need an update.”
Farrow swallows hard, his face twisting the longer he looks at me, almost pained. He takes a step towards me at the exact same time I take one towards him.
We pause. We stop.
I’ve never wanted to embrace someone so much in my fucking life. Something wells inside my body. An emotion that I’ve never experienced.
“Farrow,” Price snaps.
I blink a few times, tearing my gaze off my bodyguard. Farrow combs both hands through his hair and rotates to the Alpha lead.
“Both guys are being booked tonight,” Farrow says.
I go rigid. “You caught them?” I’mstunned. Hecklers. Harassers. People who throw shit. Who stalk us. Theyrarelyever get caught. These people are usually faceless, nameless humans. As nondescript as an anon online. I’ve lived my life content knowing that there’d be little retribution.
I’m fine with that.
I get it.
“A few paparazzi tripped both guys,” Farrow says, more to me than to Price. “They slowed them down. I was able to tackle one guy and keep him down. Quinn grabbed the other, and then the police came. I dealt with the cops—Quinn came back here already, right?” he asks Price.
Price nods and tosses him his radio. “Keep the volume high.”
Farrow attaches the radio to his belt.
“Jane has the first-aid kit,” I tell Farrow and motion to the loveseat. I’m still eyeing his bloodied forearms. He’s still scanning my face, even as he fits in his earpiece.
“It’s all yours,” Jane tells us, teetering as she stands, kneecaps bandaged. She raises her chin to meet Thatcher’s gaze. “Have you located Licorice?”
His hand hovers by her hip in case she falls. “We’re working on it.” I hear his South Philly lilt. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Jane blinks like she’s trying to battle her drunkenness. She hiccups and says, “Thank you, Mr. Moretti.” He’s twenty-seven, the same age as Farrow. Notmiddle-aged.
“Thatcheris fine,” he tells Jane.
Is she blushing?
Jane presses her lips together, then sways. “I should go call my parents…” Her gaze finds me. “Do you want me to call your mom, Moffy?”
“Please.”
She hiccups, teeters and then with her cat carrier in hand, she tries to confidently ascend the staircase like Cinderella at a ball.
She manages to reach the second floor safely. All without tripping. I wouldclap, but I concentrate on Farrow. We both sink down onto the loveseat.
I dig through the first-aid kit, and he actually watches. Not even making a comment about how he’s the doctor.
Thatcher drags the iron café chair over and sitsdirectlyin front of us. But he only acknowledges Farrow. “You should’ve grabbed your radio before you left the house.”
Farrow leans back. “I’m not apologizing for that.”
