Page 101 of Alphas Like Us

I don’t know…it makes mesmile.

Maybe because this is my life, and I’ve always tried to accept the crazy parts that I can’tchange.

“I love you!! I love you!!” a middle-aged cameraman constantly praises. Being overly complimentary is a thing paparazzi do. Others will just try to piss us off for a money-shot.

“Farrow!! Maximoff! Who hogs theblankets?!”

I steal a glance at Farrow. We’re both pretty good about not hogging the comforter, and as the sweltering summer approaches, we’ve only been sleeping with asheet.

A smile plays at the corner of his mouth, and he squeezes my hand before telling them, “Definitely Maximoff.” He’s not changing our dynamic for them, foranyone.

My lungs inflate in a bigger breath. “In an alternate universe,” I tell the cameramen. “In reality, it’sdefinitelyFarrow. Every damntime.”

I picture his eyes rolling around the fucking globe behind his aviators. My Ray Bans shield the incoming flashes that hike up anotch.

“Where’sJane?!”

Family dinner at the CobaltEstate.

“Why isn’t Jane withyou?!”

My brain blaresfirst public date, first public date, first public fucking date!And my stomach does this weird flutter-kick thing. Brain and body are way too excited at the prospect oftonight.

It’s not like I haven’t been out with Farrowbefore.

But in this capacity, itfeelsnew.

“Farrow?! Are you on a date with Maximoff rightnow?!”

His brows jump, surprised that they guessedright.

“Is this a date?! What are you eating?! Who’s paying thebill?!”

Farrow risks a glance at me. Seeing if I want to answer. But I’m looking at him. Trying to see the same thing. He’s been selective about which media questions he’ll respond to. I want him to do what feels the most comfortable and not be fuckingpressured.

“Who thought of thedate?!”

Me.

“Where are youheaded?!”

We’re nearing our destination. At the corner of the street, a red neon light spells outTony’s Pizza.I know, I know—our first date is insanely inventive andrevolutionary.

Pizza.

It only took me a solid month ofoveranalyzing.

Farrow pushes back pieces of bleach-white hair that fell to his lashes. And he subconsciously touches his belt—where his radio would normally beattached.

He’s only been off the security team for a couple days. We’re both still adjusting. Ahead of us, my temp bodyguard for tonight marches like a brickhouse.

I haven’t been assigned a replacementyet.

“Is this adate?!”

I let go of Farrow’s hand and wrap my arm around his shoulders.Fucking Christ.Pain wells up, and I breathe out through my nose. My left arm is considered my “good” arm. But lifting one shoulder sometimes inadvertently moves theother.

Outwardly, I’mstoic.