Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
I prickle. “Yes, he’s unfortunately still here.”
Maximoff grimaces. “I think he’s smirking at me.”
“I don’t even want to look.” I pay more attention to the bodyguards we like. Subtly, they shift around us. Thatcher rises from the stool and positions himself next to Banks. Farrow does the same, all three creating a semi-circle barrier between us and bar patrons.
Moffy and I are pushed up against the sticky counter. Where I’m sure is the safest place to be. I excitedly grab the messy binder, stuffing loose papers back inside. “I found some great cost effective vendors, especially for flowers.”
“Before that,” Moffy whispers, “did you talk to Thatcher about He Who Must Not Be Named?”
Tony has reached Lord Voldemort levels of evil for Maximoff ever since he overheard my bodyguard crack a “joke” about Thatcher and Banks sleeping with me.
Something along the lines of, she likes that two-for-one action?
I’ve been venting to Moffy about how much I hate Tony and how much I wish I could vent to Thatcher, and it was eating me inside out.
“I told him everything,” I whisper and breathe out a lighter breath.
Maximoff smiles, able to see that I’m at a better place. “So Janie Dark Ages is diverted?”
“Sufficiently.”
“Forever.”
“We can only hope.” I lean my hip into his side, and he wraps an arm around my waist. Our backs to the bar, we stare ahead.
His fiancé and my boyfriend speak under their breaths to one another, seeming very civil, and that is profoundly new.
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 of God. I don’t mind as much. “God didn’t make gloves,” I whisper. “But they’ve been around since the Romans, and it’s not gloves you’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.
I grab onto words that flit past my brain. “You still have time to decide, Moffy.”
“Yeah.” He nods, focusing back on us.
Thatcher threads his arms. “Have you two picked a date yet?”