Page 173 of Alphas Like Us

He shuts his eyes in a bout of annoyance, contempt forJordanraiding his features. “Fuck this guy.” He exhales an edged breath before telling me, “He was a second-year resident and hated everything about me. He must’ve gotten my number fromShaw.”

“Was this the first time you worked at the hospital or the second?” I ask while he opens thetexts.

“Second time.” His nose flares as he skims the texts. This Jordan guy knew where to jab Farrow because it’s a direct hit. He grinds his teeth and combs his hand through his hair. Multiple times. “He sent me screenshots oftweets.”

I wrap my arm across his shoulders, muscles stiffened. Ready for survival. But my stomach is knotting. Before I ask to see, he holds the phone out and shows me thescreenshots.

#FarrowKeene you’re a shitdoctor.

#FarrowKeene is not board-certified. Can’t even practice in a hospital. I don’t understand why the Hales would still hire him…ohwait…

Come on, people! #FarrowKeene is probably a great doctor. But I still can’t believe the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts would choose someone who’s not board-certified. It’s not like them. #TheyAreBetterThanThat

Not buying this whole “he was a distraction in the hospital” excuse. #FarrowKeene

#FarrowKeene just admit that you’d rather only help famous people in a lush job than do what every other doctor has to do and go through the grueling process of residency. You either couldn’t hack it or didn’t want to. Just say that and bedone.

My eyes narrow at the phone screen. “Fuck them,” I say. Farrow isn’t the only doctor who practices without being board-certified. There are plenty doing good work at clinics, private practices, and the hospitals that don’t requireit.

Farrow deletes the messages and blocks the number. “I’m not as angered by the tweets as I am by the fucking prick who took the time to text them to me…” he trails off, the doorbell ringing a second time. Followed byknocking.

We forget about the texts and focus on this issue. More urgently, Farrow dials the owner’s number, phone to hisear.

I stand off the sunbathing cushion and head into the airy bedroom. Natural light streaming inside. For hanging here all day, all night, the villa is pretty clean. Bed made, clothes in drawers, and wet towels drying onhooks.

I rake back my windswept hair and put on graysweatpants.

My weatherproof duffle-suitcase lies unpacked next to a birch dresser. I can almost picture the square black ring box in the front pocket—and then the doorbellbuzzes.

Again.

Almostincessantly.

That’s not the owner. My head swerves as Farrow rushes into thebedroom.

“The owner isn’t here,” he says quickly, putting on black joggers, elastic band to his waist, and my brain isreeling.

I’m pretty sure there’s a natural disaster on the other side of that door, and I think,my family.Myfamily.

Myfamily.

My goddamn family. I’m rigid, wading deep in crisis mode, and I grab my charged phone off the dresser. I power it on. “My family would’ve called you if they couldn’t get ahold of me?” I askhim.

Farrow lifts his brows at me. “A hundred percent. It’s not them, wolfscout.”

Knocking returns, more impatient sounding thistime.

I get that my family was instructed not to come here, but there’s always an asterisk that says,unless there’s a dire emergency.If they were in trouble and needed me,I’d welcome them to interrupt everything. Like a birthday, a honeymoon, a fucking rocket takeoff toMars.

I don’t have time to comb through the hundreds of missed group chat messages. Because the doorbell jinglesagain.

Farrow leans on the dresser. “I’m going to call security.” His jaw tics, irritated without a radio, which would befaster.

“Maybe the media knows we’re not in Tahiti and our location leaked.” I already know it’s unlikely before Farrow tellsme.

“It’d be all over thenews.”

And it’snot.