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)
Physical, mental, and sexual—those are the routes of my mind.
He looks me up and down, his earring swaying. “I have the better ass, but I can let you believe that you do.”
I picture his ass now. And I instantly imagine my cock sliding inside of him and the way his muscles contract in scalding arousal—fuck me. I blink a few times to avoid fantasizing.
His knowing smile spreads wider and wider.
I scowl. “Your smile is ripping your face apart.”
“Anatomically impossible, but nice try.” He laughs as I grimace, and then my phone vibrates. Texts from my family. Asking about the date. It’s been constant all night.
I take out my phone just to ensure it’s nothing serious.
But I’m distracted.
By you-know-who.
Not Voldemort. Someone hotter. Not that I think the villain in the Harry Potter books is even remotely hot—Christ, stop thinking.
Farrow tears apart a straw wrapper, his eyes falling to me, before rising to the television. The Philadelphia Flyers are in the Stanley Cup playoffs. We both like watching pro sports, especially if our hometown is involved.
But that’s not what’s getting me.
His molten eyes fall back to me again. Pricking my nerves, and then they lift to the TV. Eyes on me, then the TV, me—his lip rises, then the TV.
My cock strains against my jeans. I’m aware that within the crowded pizzeria, phones are aimed at us. Some better hidden than others. We’re being recorded from inside and outside.
We’re public.
I remind myself that. We’re public, and I’m allowed to touch my boyfriend. So I stand up about the same time that he drops his boot. He gestures me over, but I’m already heading to his side of the table.
When I sit beside him—so close that my thigh is up against his thigh and his strong arm wraps around my lower back—flashes ignite outside. Glaring through the windowpanes.
My temp bodyguard sits one table away, faking interest in his phone and bowl of soup. I briefly glance at my cell, too. No emergency text messages. All should be well.
More flashes.
More bright light.
Paparazzi won’t leave if I ask. The only way to fix this is to leave myself, and the cameramen will follow me.
But out of all nights, I don’t want this night to be short-lived. So I drape my left arm over his shoulders and ignore the thumping in my sore muscle.
Farrow slouches a bit so my arm drops to a lower angle. Ten times less strain on my shoulder, but I’m still holding him.
His inked fingers dip beneath my jean’s band, not going far. Just enough to warm the skin on my waist with his skin. We tune out the gawking and the lenses. And we watch ice hockey in public. Clearly romantically linked.
It’s the most casual, ordinary thing.
You have no idea how much this means to me.
“Maximoff Hale.” All of a sudden, a stocky guy in a local college sweatshirt approaches our table, and my temp bodyguard bobs up and down in his seat. Hesitating to intervene. I usually let fans near.
I motion to the bodyguard to sit.
Farrow is super-glued to the guy, even as he whispers to me, “Recognize him?”
18
MAXIMOFF HALE
“No,” I whisper back to Farrow, and then I smile at the guy who raises a hand in hello. I tell him, “Hey, man. I’m kind of busy tonight—”
“I was just hoping for an autograph.” He reaches over the half-eaten supreme pizza, trying to pass me a napkin and a ballpoint pen.
I have to take my arm off Farrow to grab both. To me, it’s not a big deal to sign a napkin. It’ll take a half a second and could make someone’s day. But I notice how the guy checks over his shoulder and smiles impishly at a booth, a potted plant shrouding the other faces from view.
It puts me on edge.
But I don’t falter, uncapping the pen. “I’m right-handed, so this’ll be sloppy.” It looks nothing like my actual signature.
“Whatever’s good,” he says distantly, zeroing in on Farrow. “Can I get your autograph too?”
Farrow barely blinks. “I’ll pass.” He’s turned down autographs and pictures before, but not with this much coldness attached.
The college-aged guy almost…smiles.
This isn’t a fan.
“Here.” I extend the napkin and pen to the guy. “Have a good night, man.” Please leave. Please don’t ruin my fucking date.
Pocketing the autograph, the guy loiters for another half second. And stiltedly, like he’s rehearsed this line with his friends, he tells me, “I didn’t think Farrow was your type, Maximoff. I thought you’d end up with a rich dick, not a fame whore.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you fucking serious?”
“I said—”
“Get the fuck out,” Farrow cuts in, standing up. But he can’t usher him away that easily. I’m sure he wants to, but he’s not a bodyguard or a bystander. He’s a part of the confrontation.
The guy laughs, then looks at me. “Is your boyfriend gonna hit me?”