Page 151 of Headstrong Like Us

Which is today, rightnow.

No one knows how the leak happened. Could’ve been an employee of the property manager to the private villas we booked in Anacapri, or a wedding guest talking to a stranger who talked to the media—but it doesn’t really matter.

We’re en routeto the airport, and paparazzi are out for blood. And bywe, I’m talking my whole extended family, fleets of bodyguards, personal assistants, and oh yeah, my dad’s therapist. Who I slept with when I was eighteen.

I’m antsy since I’m not driving. “My phone is blowing up,” I say to Farrow, who has a single hand coolly on the steering wheel. He uses the rearview mirror to check on Ripley in the car seat.

All the puppies are too young to bring to Italy, so we hired a dog sitter while we’re away.

We’re both alert, and I scan the highway. Cars crammed with paparazzi crowd our Audi, closing us in. I know the same is happening to my family in their vehicles.

My brother sent me a photo of him flipping off a cameraman, but he’s inside the car with the windows rolledupand tinted. My mom’s bodyguard at the wheel.

Paparazzi didn’t capture his middle finger.

I thought if Farrow and I drove separately from my cousins and took a longer route, we’d throw some off. Apparently not.

“Who’s messaging you?” Farrow asks.

“Three-fourths of my family.” I click into pinging group chats. “Tom just texted,this is nuts.”

We go quiet, a cameraman slamming on his fucking brakes in front of us, and Farrow steps on his, nowhere to maneuver. I reach back, instinctively holding the car seat. Even though it’s secured and Ripley is buckled. I triple-checked.

The Audi jerks a bit.

“Shit,” Farrow curses under his breath.

“I’ve never seen this many paparazzi out at once. It’s like they flew in from Hollywood to tail us.”

“They probably did.” Farrow sounds relatively calm, but he’s really hawkeyed. Observant of our surroundings.

Akara gave him theokayto wear his radio, even if he’s off-duty, and he’s been listening to comms. He glances to me, then the road. “I’d be more concerned if we were flying commercial.”

Right.

We’re driving up onto the tarmac. Private jets are waiting. “Perks of being filthy rich, huh?”

His lip quirks. “You wouldn’t have a paparazzi problem if you weren’t fifthly fucking rich. And you wouldn’t need the private jet or a bodyguard.”

But I’d still need you.I almost say the words, but I let them rest inside me. Pre-wedding bells have already made me too sappy in front of my childhood crush. I’m trying to containsomesap so I don’t turn into a fucking maple tree before the ceremony.

Farrow checks his side mirror. “We’re almost there.”

* * *

Mayhem.

It could be defined asmy famous family arriving in Naples.

We’ve traveled a lot as a massive family—Hales, Meadows, Cobalts, Stokes, and Abbeys—but I’ve never been on a trip where the celebration is just about me, along with the guy I love.

I’m usually the one carrying Luna’s backpack for her as we deboard. The one keeping a protective hand on Xander’s shoulder, while Kinney proudly claims she needs zero assistance and the media flock our parents.

Now they’re flocking me.

“Maximoff, who’s walking down the aisle?!”

“Are you writing vows, Farrow?!”