Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
“They couldn’t get ahold of you,” Farrow says. “The auction was the only way they could even breathe on your fucking neck. If they thought they could manipulate you during the one-on-one night, it could’ve been worth it on their end.”
If my choice to cancel the auction nights wasn’t already cemented, now it’s marbleized, staple-gunned and set to stone. “It’s never happening.” I’m about to rip up the business card, but I only have one damn hand. So I crumple it in my fist.
13
MAXIMOFF HALE
Things that royally suck with a broken collarbone:
Wearing a seatbelt.
Buttoning my pants.
Taking a shower.
Topping in missionary—it’s not easy.
Walking at a speed faster than a slow, unbearable pace. (See on every page: trying to keep up with Farrow Redford Keene.)
Typing on a computer—I look like a goddamn dinosaur.
Riding in a car.
That last one I’m feeling tenfold. Every small bump in the road jostles my shoulder and pain drills through my collar like a million serrated needles poking and cutting flesh.
I breathe.
I try to breathe. Whenever Farrow is behind the wheel, he avoids potholes and the badly paved streets while also driving slowly. Cautiously. More than ever. So it’s not him.
The blame rests solely on my collarbone that won’t heal at lightning speed like I hoped. It’s why I’m practically thanking the heavens and skies when we finally reach my parent’s house.
My old Basset Hound greets Farrow and me in the foyer.
“Gotham,” I smile and bend down like a stiff board. Just to scratch his floppy ears.
He slobbers on me, and as he tries to anchor his paws on my shoulders, Farrow chucks a tennis ball—don’t ask, I don’t know where he found that—but Gotham is more interested in me. Licking my cheek.
“He loves me,” I tell Farrow, patting my Basset Hound’s torso and keeping his four paws on the ground.
“I’m not surprised,” Farrow says as he glances at family photos hung on the foyer wall.
I stand up, rigid. “Because I’m easily lovable.”
He gives me a pointed look. “Because dogs love everyone.”
I blink slowly while his smile grows, and I don’t have the chance to reply. Voices in the kitchen pull our attention. We leave the foyer and pass through my living room. Superhero figurines line a couple bookshelves, and X-Men single-issue comics are framed above a comfortable sectional couch.
Once we enter the spacious kitchen, we spot my dad and uncle. Both immediately stop what they’re doing, their heads veering towards Farrow and me. Uncle Ryke has a hand on a blender, and the machine grinds to a halt.
My dad abandons a volume of Love and Rockets by Jaime and Gilbert Hernandez that he’d been reading at the island bar.
Silence falls, both of them sweeping me in once-overs like they’re checking and establishing my mortality. It’s the first time they’ve seen me since surgery, and they hardly pay attention to Farrow who leaves my side and tugs open the fridge.
He may as well be wearing an invisibility cloak.
I cut the tension by saying, “Two stops to death and straight on ‘til morning.” It’s a play on a Peter Pan quote that I know my dad will get.
He does.
He glares at me and says, “Not even a good joke.”
“Fucking terrible,” Ryke agrees.
I catch a water bottle that Farrow throws to me—
“Be easy with him,” my dad warns, voice supremely edged.
Farrow slows down his movements as he reaches back into the fridge, eyeing my dad with more uncertainty.
“Dad, I’m fine.” I love that Farrow isn’t treating me like a wounded puppy. Please, God, do not let this change. “And Farrow has an MD.”
My dad is only looking for Farrow’s response.
Farrow shuts the fridge door, a container of blackberries in hand, and he leans back casually. But his brows pinch. “Trust me, I’m not going to hurt your son.”
My dad mulls this over for a second, and I draw his attention when I head over to Farrow. I’m unscrewing my water bottle. Not well.
Uncle Ryke is also zeroed in on my every step. Like I might break. I can barely look at my uncle.
We haven’t spoken since the hospital, and I can’t imagine what he thinks of me. His daughters are his life, his world, and I was supposed to look after them. Instead, Winona ended up in a car crash with me. Needing stitches on her face.
That fact fucking hurts as much as the short walk to the fridge. I breathe out a measured breath through my nose. Farrow looks me over in a warm wave and pops a blackberry in his mouth. His inked fingers moving meticulously.
“Farrow,” my dad says, capturing our gazes. “Is Moffy pushing himself too hard? Because he looks like shit.”
“I’m right here,” I tell my dad.
He flashes a half-smile. “I’m talking to your boyfriend.”
“Never heard of him.” I look to Farrow. “You know I have a boyfriend?”