I nod, a smile trying to appear.He knows me. Nerves infiltrate fast.He knows me.I sit up straighter, my shoulders binding.
Farrow watches me closely, but neither of us speaks. He checks the time on his phone, and then he climbs out of bed. All six-foot-three of him, lean and muscular. And bare.Towering.
Christ.
He’s everything I pictured andmore.
Farrow collects his boxer-briefs from the floorboards. He pulls the elastic band to his waist. “Are we going to talk about why you’re nervous?” He glances at me. “Think I didn’t notice?”
I bring my legs up beneath the comforter and set my arms on my knees. “I just thought you wouldn’t care.”
“I care.” He nods and finds his cotton pants. “I carea lot.”
I take a tight breath. “I know sex. I don’t knowanythingelse. Whatever happens after this, beyond fucking each other—it’s a massive mystery to me.”
He’s in the midst of pulling his pants to his waist, and he smiles, his brows arching at me. “Rent a movie.”
“What?”
“Rentanyromantic movie—though the hetero ones aren’t great. But just rent a movie, watch two sappy people do stupid, ordinary shit together, and there you go, Maximoff.”
I growl out my irritation, but I keep repeating his words in my head. I catch myself smiling. Jesus. “It’s not that fucking simple, Farrow.”
“Besides the fact that I’m your bodyguard and we need to sneak around, yeah it is.” He nears my side of the bed and rests a knee on the mattress. “You just like being well-informed before you do anything.”
“Thank you,” I say dryly.
“You’re welcome.” He runs his thumb over a bite mark on my shoulder. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I swallow my arousal, and he bends down and kisses me on the lips. So this is what it’s like, huh? I can kiss someone the next morning. I can expect to see them in an hour.
I can do it all again and again.
Something lightens in my chest.
Feels like freedom.
Shower water rainsdown on me. My phone is docked in a speaker on the tiny sink. Playing a Spotify playlist that Farrow made yesterday. Full of old nineties rock. I have no clue why he likes that genre.
“Cannonball” by The Breeders blares in the bathroom, and I feel like someone is pouring gasoline straight in my bloodstream.
I squirt citrus-scented dollar shampoo on my palm. Lathering my hair with both hands. And then the door swings open. Shower glass is half permanently frosted from the waist-down. The top is just fogged, and I rub the steam with my fist.
Janie yawns sleepily at the sink, pink eye-mask on her head and bluegranny jammieson.
“Bonjour, ma moitié!” I shout over the water and music.
“Just you and me, old chap,” she yawns wider and opens the mirror’s cabinet for her toothbrush.
I almost smile. Then I remember I’m hiding something from Janie. I’ve never hidanythingfrom her, and the feeling isn’t great. It’s like lying to half of myself. If I can’t be honest with her, then I’m never going to fully invest in whatever’s going on with me and Farrow.
Just how it is.
With a mouthful of toothpaste, she shouts to me, “It’s raining today, great and miserable thunderstorms!” She spits, rinses. “Chance of the media snapping photos of my frizzy hair, one-hundred percent.”
I barely hear that last part over the song. “Music off,” I call out, and “Cannonball” abruptly stops.
“I should try to curl some pieces for the College Merit luncheon today. Try a new look…where is my…curling iron?” She digs beneath the cupboards.
