Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
My smile stretches. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me, wolf scout.”
He licks his lips, interested, and we check on our baby. A robin pads across the wet patio, and Ripley laughs brightly at the bird.
Arkham shuffles back, unsure about the other animal.
Ripley loves being outside. He cries less in the sun.
“What are we practicing…?” His voice tapers out, realizing the answer as soon as I take his hand in mine and place my other palm on his lower back.
I tell him, “Our first dance as husband and husband.”
He looks overwhelmed. “Alright.” He nods. “Let’s practice.”
Music still blasts out of my phone’s speakers. We’ve danced together plenty of times before, but this’ll be different, more memorable.
“I’m leading,” he says forcefully.
“We’ll see, Bossy.”
He’s smiling, his other hand on my shoulder, and our chests are so close that I feel the heat of the sun on his tanned skin. As soon as our bare feet move along the wet stone, one song ends and another begins.
His eyes well, struck at the lyrics.
The melody instantly pours through me and sweeps us, drawing our gazes together. Staring deeply, not abandoning or deserting the other. We slow dance to Collective Soul’s “You”—and Maximoff will tell you that he’s leading. I’ll tell anyone who cares to know that I am, but the truth is, we’re just one movement, one love.
He slows more, bringing my chest against his body. We just sway, and I hold the back of his head. Happiness is easy with him. And I might appear okay with whatever comes in my life, but there is nothing more I’ve wanted than this. Than for a man to love me like Maximoff Hale does.
It’s unreal.
He leans back, tears cresting both of our eyes. His chest rises. “That’s the song.”
Of course I love Collective Soul and that song, but I almost laugh. “It’s a 90s band.”
“I don’t care.”
I smile. “Okay.”
32
MAXIMOFF HALE
1 week until the wedding
The wedding destination is leaked. And worse, the date of departure.
Which is today, right now.
No one knows how the leak happened. Could’ve been an employee of the property manager to the private villas we booked in Anacapri, or a wedding guest talking to a stranger who talked to the media—but it doesn’t really matter.
We’re en route to the airport, and paparazzi are out for blood. And by we, I’m talking my whole extended family, fleets of bodyguards, personal assistants, and oh yeah, my dad’s therapist. Who I slept with when I was eighteen.
I’m antsy since I’m not driving. “My phone is blowing up,” I say to Farrow, who has a single hand coolly on the steering wheel. He uses the rearview mirror to check on Ripley in the car seat.
All the puppies are too young to bring to Italy, so we hired a dog sitter while we’re away.
We’re both alert, and I scan the highway. Cars crammed with paparazzi crowd our Audi, closing us in. I know the same is happening to my family in their vehicles.
My brother sent me a photo of him flipping off a cameraman, but he’s inside the car with the windows rolled up and tinted. My mom’s bodyguard at the wheel.
Paparazzi didn’t capture his middle finger.
I thought if Farrow and I drove separately from my cousins and took a longer route, we’d throw some off. Apparently not.
“Who’s messaging you?” Farrow asks.
“Three-fourths of my family.” I click into pinging group chats. “Tom just texted, this is nuts.”
We go quiet, a cameraman slamming on his fucking brakes in front of us, and Farrow steps on his, nowhere to maneuver. I reach back, instinctively holding the car seat. Even though it’s secured and Ripley is buckled. I triple-checked.
The Audi jerks a bit.
“Shit,” Farrow curses under his breath.
“I’ve never seen this many paparazzi out at once. It’s like they flew in from Hollywood to tail us.”
“They probably did.” Farrow sounds relatively calm, but he’s really hawkeyed. Observant of our surroundings.
Akara gave him the okay to wear his radio, even if he’s off-duty, and he’s been listening to comms. He glances to me, then the road. “I’d be more concerned if we were flying commercial.”
Right.
We’re driving up onto the tarmac. Private jets are waiting. “Perks of being filthy rich, huh?”
His lip quirks. “You wouldn’t have a paparazzi problem if you weren’t fifthly fucking rich. And you wouldn’t need the private jet or a bodyguard.”
But I’d still need you. I almost say the words, but I let them rest inside me. Pre-wedding bells have already made me too sappy in front of my childhood crush. I’m trying to contain some sap so I don’t turn into a fucking maple tree before the ceremony.
Farrow checks his side mirror. “We’re almost there.”
Mayhem.
It could be defined as my famous family arriving in Naples.
We’ve traveled a lot as a massive family—Hales, Meadows, Cobalts, Stokes, and Abbeys—but I’ve never been on a trip where the celebration is just about me, along with the guy I love.