Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“Janie texted me stuff she needs.” I switch lanes. Two paparazzi vans trail me now, so I constantly check my rearview mirror. “Her text thread should be the top one.”
He lets out a long whistle. “One hundred unread text messages.” I sense his surprise as he says, “You’re actually breaking your moral code.”
I glare and then go for the phone.
He retracts it out of my reach. “Thou shall not ignore thy family.”
“You think you’re so damn smart.” I effortlessly weave between two pick-up trucks and bypass the paparazzi. “Those texts are just from today, Sherlock.” I flick off my blinker.
“You’re serious?”
“Yep. I’m in twelve group chats with different family members.” I have eleven cousins alone. That’s not including my siblings and my parents. Or my aunts and uncles. We all talk. “If I can’t answer during the day, I go through my texts at night.”
He scrolls through Jane’s thread. “If someone has an emergency, what do you do?”
“I’ll glance at the texts in case someone’s freaking out, but most of the time, they’ll call if it’s serious.” I strangely have an easy time freeing these facts. Ones that I generally keep to myself.
I trust him.
It helps that he’s been a part of my world long before he was a bodyguard. It’s also the issue, but that’s another thing entirely.
As quiet descends, he types on my notes app and says, “Jane is asking for chocolate turtles, pretzels, tampons, and lemonade packets.” He adjusts the air vents and points the ice-cold at me.
I glance from him to the road. “You cold?” I can adjust the air for him.
He types on my notepad app. “You looked hot.”
How the fuck can he tell? “I’m not,” I refute and crank the air to a warmer temperature.
Farrow scrolls through his phone, too. “I still have time to call the store. I can get someone to fill a cart with all the items on your list.” It’s a safe route.
So shoppers won’t bombard me in aisles. Alpha is known to go one step further and shut down the grocery store. Giving my parents, aunts and uncles privacy and secure exits and entrances.
“No,” I say firmly. “I’d rather just get the groceries myself.” It takes me two hours, but I don’t like the idea of being waited on and taking up someone else’s time.
“Okay.” He sounds genuinely okay with that scenario.
I was expecting a two-minute argument. My strained muscles ease a fraction. “Fair warning,” I tell him, “paparazzi will bum-rush me when I leave the store. They’ll get up close to take shots of my bags.”
He listens carefully.
“I don’t care if they can see what I bought, so don’t worry about pushing them back. I just need to be able to get out in a reasonable amount of time.”
“I’ll get you out.” His staunch certainty heats my core. He raises my phone. “Anything else you need?”
“Ground beef, chips, taco seasoning, everything-bagels, oatmeal, protein bars and shakes—” I need condoms. And more lube. Fuck.
At my abrupt stop, I sense his confusion brewing, but he finishes typing those items.
I shouldn’t be censoring myself around him.
At some point, I’m going to have a one-night stand. He may hear me orgasm through the fucking door or wall. I’ve also tried not to make sex a taboo subject in my life. With people I trust, I try to speak about it as easily as the weather. My parents raised me to see sex in a positive light.
That’s continuing. Until I’m a dead, lifeless corpse.
“What else?” Farrow looks over at me.
I change my grip on the steering wheel. “At least three boxes of condoms and water-based lube,” I say, my edged voice more like a serrated knife right now. Ready to butcher him. Calm down. I’m high-strung.
I get that.
Farrow drops his foot to the car mat. Sitting straighter. He types on my phone, the silence thickening. I can’t read his reaction. Not while I concentrate on the evening traffic and a van that almost touches my bumper.
I’ve been trying to drive only fifteen over the limit. To show him it’s not a “speeding habit” but a choice that I can control. A choice I make.
But it’s hard not revving to thirty-over when paparazzi latch this close.
I speed.
Just to pass a Mustang and switch lanes. Putting distance between me and the paparazzi. As I decelerate, Farrow drops his arm to the middle console.
Done typing, he says, “Silicone-based lube feels better than water-based.”
I glance at him. Just once. “I’ve never tried it.”
He keeps his hand to his mouth. What does that mean?
I start glancing to the road. To him, the road, him, and I realize—he’s smiling. When I catch his expression, he lets his hand fall, his lips stretched so wide, and he shifts in his seat and hunches forward as he types out something on my phone.