Page 105 of Alphas Like Us

Farrow tears apart a straw wrapper, his eyes falling to me, before rising to the television. The Philadelphia Flyers are in the Stanley Cup playoffs. We both like watching pro sports, especially if our hometown isinvolved.

But that’s not what’s gettingme.

His molten eyes fall back to me again. Pricking my nerves, and then they lift to the TV. Eyes on me, then the TV, me—his lip rises, then theTV.

My cock strains against my jeans. I’m aware that within the crowded pizzeria, phones are aimed at us. Some better hidden than others. We’re being recorded from inside andoutside.

We’republic.

I remind myself that.We’re public, and I’m allowed to touch my boyfriend. So I stand up about the same time that he drops his boot. He gestures me over, but I’m already heading to his side of thetable.

When I sit beside him—so close that my thigh is up against his thigh and his strong arm wraps around my lower back—flashes ignite outside. Glaring through thewindowpanes.

My temp bodyguard sits one table away, faking interest in his phone and bowl of soup. I briefly glance at my cell, too. Noemergencytext messages. All should bewell.

Moreflashes.

More brightlight.

Paparazzi won’t leave if I ask. The only way to fix this is to leave myself, and the cameramen will followme.

But out of all nights, I don’t wantthisnight to be short-lived. So I drape my left arm over his shoulders and ignore the thumping in my soremuscle.

Farrow slouches a bit so my arm drops to a lower angle. Ten times less strain on my shoulder, but I’m still holdinghim.

His inked fingers dip beneath my jean’s band, not going far. Just enough to warm the skin on my waist with his skin. We tune out the gawking and the lenses. And we watch ice hockey in public. Clearly romanticallylinked.

It’s the most casual, ordinarything.

You have no idea how much this means tome.

“Maximoff Hale.” All of a sudden, a stocky guy in a local college sweatshirt approaches our table, and my temp bodyguard bobs up and down in his seat. Hesitating to intervene. I usually let fansnear.

I motion to the bodyguard tosit.

Farrow is super-glued to the guy, even as he whispers to me, “Recognizehim?”

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MAXIMOFF HALE

“No,”I whisper back to Farrow, and then I smile at the guy who raises a hand in hello. I tell him, “Hey, man. I’m kind of busytonight—”

“I was just hoping for an autograph.” He reaches over the half-eaten supreme pizza, trying to pass me a napkin and a ballpointpen.

I have to take my arm off Farrow to grab both. To me, it’s not a big deal to sign a napkin. It’ll take a half a second and could make someone’s day. But I notice how the guy checks over his shoulder and smiles impishly at a booth, a potted plant shrouding the other faces fromview.

It puts me onedge.

But I don’t falter, uncapping the pen. “I’m right-handed, so this’ll be sloppy.” It looks nothing like my actualsignature.

“Whatever’s good,” he says distantly, zeroing in on Farrow. “Can I get your autographtoo?”

Farrow barely blinks. “I’ll pass.” He’s turned down autographs and pictures before, but not with this much coldnessattached.

The college-aged guy almost…smiles.

This isn’t afan.