Page 7 of Lovers Like Us
“Farrow!” a guy calls from inside the galley. Farrow keeps his gaze onme.
I keep mine onhim.
Then he walks backwards to the yacht door, towards that voice. “Need anything, wolfscout?”
Yeah.
I shake my head. “No.”
His gaze drops to the black shirt in my hand, and his smile stretches wide. “Keepit.”
“What?”
“My shirt. I don’t need itback.”
Holy…shit. I have no time to protest or offer to return the shirt—he already exits into thegalley.
You’ll never believe this, but I’m smiling. I laugh to myself, my chest swelling with a better, lighter feeling. I glance back at the shut door, then the dark horizon. Ocean ripples below, calling me, to freeme.
Fuckit.
I run. Onto the sunbathing cushions, and I leap and dive off the bow. Water cocoons me like a hug and a welcomehome.
1
MAXIMOFF HALE
Hurrying,I pull on a plain green shirt in a lake house bedroom. My elbow catches a bear-shaped lamp—I reach out too late.Fuck.
Glass crashes on the hardwood andshatters.
I quickly squat, barefoot, and pick up the larger shards. All things considered with my family issues, a broken lamp isn’t a bigdeal.
I can handleit.
As I gather the pieces, Farrow lowers to a crouch and helps collect the sharp glass—also while fitting in his earpiece. A radio is already clipped to his blackpants.
I open my mouth to protest. To say,I gotit.
But I stop myself and just watch him. My tattooed-childhood-crush-turned boyfriend. We were just watchingThe Fast and the Furiouson my laptop. I paused the movie only fifteen minutesin.
Because both of our phones rang unceremoniously. I should already be halfway downstairs. But I’d much rather be dealing with a broken lamp withFarrow.
He sweeps the tiny slivers into his palm, his focus on the fragments near my feet. And the more I watch him, the more I think,luckyme.
Seriously, I’m damnlucky.
A few hours ago we hiked the top of amountain.
I told him I lovedhim.
He said he lovedme.
Adrenaline still pumps hot in my veins from the moment, but the current fallout from the media clings to me like a backpack of cement. He’s the only one I’d evenconsiderunbuckling the backpack for and passing half theweight.
When I eye his silver-ringed fingers, he catches me staring. I lift my gaze higher to the tattooed swords on his throat, then his strong jaw and amusedlips.
His browsspike.
