Page 34 of Sinful Like Us
Maximoff squints. “Are we in the same universe?”
“This feels unfamiliar.”
“If they hug, we took a wrong damn turn somewhere.” He watches more closely as Farrow bites the tip of his black leather glove with casual ease, pulling it off. Maximoff’s Adam’s apple bobs.
I stifle a laugh.
Farrow has put a spell on him, and it would be the millionth-and-one time. I watch Thatcher say one more thing to Farrow, then he speaks into comms with authority. His gaze—all bold hardness—rakes the bar.
I ache to step into his arms.
“Why did God have to make gloves?” Maximoff asks, forcing his face into a scowl.
My dad would not appreciate that mention ofGod.I don’t mind as much. “God didn’t make gloves,” I whisper. “But they’ve been around since the Romans, and it’s notglovesyou’re drooling over.”
“You’re right,” he says with an exhale, “I’m drooling over the floor.”
I laugh.
When Farrow bites off his second glove, he catches Maximoff staring. His knowing smile causes Maximoff to glower. 9 out of 10 for hiding his affections. I’d wave pompoms if I had them.
Farrow raises his brows in a teasing wave, and all Moffy can do is flip him off.
I smile less when I see a vocal middle-aged man behind the SFO bodyguards—he’s yelling drunkenly at Thatcher’s back. I can’t distinguish the words over the loud bar chatter.
Thatcher shakes his head sternly at me, as though to say,ignore him.
I try to.
Once we begin discussing wedding details, we crowd closer to each other. I open the binder on the bar and we go through the spreadsheets.
“The florist said I could have a 50% discount if I advertise on Instagram.”
“No,” Moffy says firmly. “Even if you weren’t still in a Cobalt Social Media Black-Out, I don’t want you to have to do paid advertising.”
“The exposure helps local vendors,” I remind him. “It’s good for their business, and my brothers, sister, and I plan to end the Black-Out tomorrow. I’ll be back on Instagram.”
Maximoff cracks a knuckle, thinking longer. He loves the idea of helping others, but I know he’s weighing this against a million other factors. “Or we could just pay full cost, Janie. It’d give more money to the vendors.”
“In the short-run,” I tell him. “Long-run, advertising would help.”
He turns to his fiancé. “What if we do both?”
“Free advertising?” Farrow tucks his gloves in his back pocket. “See, this is a wedding, not a charity party.”
“Sorry, man. I totally forgot you’ve thrown a hundred weddings before ours.” His sarcasm is thick. “How were all those divorces?”
Farrow rolls his eyes into a widening smile. “You mean the ones that don’t exist, smartass.” He speaks faster before Maximoff jumps in. “This is going to be the biggest, most selfish event you’ve ever thrown, and you’re going to have to be okay with that.”
Moffy stares faraway in thought.
I glance at Thatcher. I thought he’d be looking between Maximoff and Farrow, but his eyes are on me.
Butterflies flap in my stomach, and I fumble as I file the florist contact list, then I clear my throat. “Um…” I shake my head. How strange and wonderful it feels to be seen—but for the right reasons. Not maliciously or perversely but adoringly. Lovingly.
Protectively.
Carefully.
