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)
I actually feel bad for kidding. “Currently, we’re hiding out at a pretzel kiosk. Near the Armani store. We’re cool. Fine. Nothing to worry about.” My collarbone throbs at the lie.
“We’re coming to get you. Stay put.” He hangs up before I can ask about Ripley.
Another five minutes pass and the mall detonates in excitement. Like mega-watt screeching. My ears ring from the shrill sound of pure shock and glee.
But no one is crawling over the kiosk like ants diving into their hill.
Curiosity shimmers in Jane’s blue eyes. She motions that she wants to stand up. One peek, she mouths to me.
“Jane.” Thatcher’s deep voice is unmistakable. He’s careening over the pretzel warmer. Christ, he’s tall. I’m not that used to being on the ground while he’s towering.
“Oh…” She glances up.
Farrow hops the kiosk, and I stand off the floor, about to reveal myself to the mall and—holy shit. The decibel rises as soon as the sea of fans notices me and Farrow side-by-side. All of our names are being yelled in frenzied elation, and Thatcher is physically blocking bodies from hurdling the kiosk.
I’m not checking out the crowds that long.
My focus zips and zones in on the wiggling five-month-old strapped to Farrow’s chest. Shocked he brought him here. “What’s that?” I ask.
He raises his brows at me. “Our baby.”
Our baby.
My heart bursts. I blink a few times. Wondering if I knocked myself out and I’m in some in-between state. Like Babes in Toyland—and I’ll wake up in a second.
Any second.
I don’t want to wake up.
“You’re fucking with me,” I say under my breath.
Farrow looks hurt, his lips fall and part, and that fucking crushes my chest. He shakes his head, assesses our chaotic surroundings—I do too, and he steps closer. So I can hear him as he says, “He’s our son right now.”
Our son.
I love him like he’s mine, and he deserves that. He deserves all of what Farrow and I can give him. Even if we have to say goodbye.
I take a breath, not as surprised that he brought Ripley. I realize—really fucking quickly—that this little guy was me.
Twenty-three years ago.
I was attached to my mom in a mall.
In a park.
I can’t stow my kid away and hide him from this strange life. This is going to be his normal like it was and is mine.
“Why are you bracing your arm to your abs?” Farrow asks me, his attention cutting a million directions like mine. Jane is on the phone with more security.
“Feels good,” I say tightly. We need to leave.
“Back up!” Thatcher yells, his arm-span shielding us.
Farrow lightly touches my shoulder—fuck. I wince and pull away from him.
“Shit,” he curses, his concern flaring.
Ripley sobs louder than before. Seeing me hurt.
My muscles are flexed, and that just kills my fucking collarbone more. “I’m fine,” I lie through gritted teeth. “We need to leave. Let me carry Rip.”
Farrow gives me a look like I’ve lost sense of reality. “You can’t carry him. You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” I say again. “He needs to know that I’m fine.” Or else he won’t stop choking on his own tears.
“MAXIMOFF! FARROW! WE LOOOOVE YOU!”
“MARROW!” I hear our ship name.
“THATCHER JANE THATCHER JANE!” Chanting begins.
I move closer to unclip Ripley from the carrier, and Farrow puts his hand on my jaw. “I can’t tell how badly you’re hurt yet.”
“It’s not broken.” I don’t think.
Our eyes lock in a tense beat. He knows that I can carry Ripley, even with a torn, shredded muscle or a hundred broken bones. But Farrow is looking out for my health, my body.
For me.
I think he’s about to tell me to step back. He touches my shoulder one more time to assess the injury, and I grit down, the spot enflamed and angry.
Farrow ends up unbuckling the carrier from his body. He’s letting me hold him. And this is one of the infinite reasons why I love him.
We make quick work, having done this plenty of times. But this exchange might just be the first time in public. Cellphones aim at us, recording every second. Even the crowds have quieted down, some louder fans telling the others to hush so that they can hear us.
We’re not talking anymore though.
In another quick minute, I have the carrier strapped on, and Farrow buckles Ripley into it, his little fingers gripping onto me for dear life. But as soon as the weight of the baby sinks down, I involuntarily cringe.
Farrow notices.
His eyes flitting to my collarbone. He gives me a hard look. If it weren’t for the hundred-plus cameras aimed at us, I’m sure he’d call me stubborn right now. Or maybe strong-willed.
I kiss the top of Ripley’s soft head. He calms, and fans audibly swoon in a collective, awwww.
Janie has already hiked over the other side of the kiosk. Standing behind Thatcher and clutching his hand with both of hers—she seems relaxed again.