Page 179 of Lovers Like Us

* * *

“Ten, nine, eight…”Maximoff counts down to midnight on his watch. Back in his attic bedroom, I hover over his build on the mattress. Sweat built on our skin, our hair damp. We’re down to pants and boxer-briefs. My hands are planted on either side of his broadshoulders.

Fuck, I’ve never been more ready for my birthday to end—and then I tense. A sharp noise rakes the window. I sit up offMaximoff.

“Farrow.” He props himself on hiselbows.

My gut says,it’s a tree branch, Farrow. Calm the fuck down.I am calm as I climb off him and the bed to check his only windowpane. I have to know forsure.

Maximoff glances at his watch. “Now it’s April 5th. It’s over,man.”

“It’s not over until the stalker is caught,” I say and fling thecurtain.

A twig scrapes the glass with another gust of wind. My shoulders slacken. Paparazzi are in sight of the old townhouse, lingering on the street curb below. I shut the curtain before they seeme.

Exhaustion tries to draw me back to bed. But I rest on the edge of the windowsill. I cross my arms casually, but fuck, I wish that’d been the stalker. Then I could’ve chased and tackled thatdipshit.

Before I even look up at Maximoff, my phone rings in my pocket. Caller ID: Acelighter (Tech)

TechTeam.

I put the phone to my ear. “Farrow,” I answer and listen to them update me on the stalker. I frown. “Are yousure?”

Maximoff stands, coming closer. I mouth,tech teamto him. He nods, and I thank the team and hangup.

“Your ex-swimmer friend, Jason Motlic,” I explain. “Apparently, he left Philly. He’s now in San Diego.” If the stalker lives in Philly, it makes little sense why they’d leave once Maximoff justreturned.

Maximoff digests this news. “He’s probably not thestalker.”

“Probably not,” I agree. Crossing off Jason means that I only have two top suspects left. Vincent Webber, the asshole one-night stand who talked shit about Maximoff on socialmedia.

And myfather.

42

FARROW KEENE

“Get the fuck outta Philly!”

That heckle originates from the south end of the smoky billiards and darts bar, too packed to distinguish faces. But from the gawking and middle fingers slung in our direction, I see clearly who’s beingheckled.

And it’s not Maximoff or Jane or any of the famousones.

Oscar racks up the pool balls and surveys the crowded bar and pissed off faces. “Donnelly is going to flip when he getshere.”

He’s definitely not the type who’d appreciate someone demanding that he vacate his own city. We all call Philly home, and the jeers began the moment Oscar and I stepped into The Independent. Our go-to spot whenever we’re off-duty and not at the Studio 9gym.

Becoming “somewhat” famous doesn’t mean everyone loves you. I’ve spent plenty of hours with Lily Calloway and Maximoff, and I’ve seen how unwarranted hate festers out ofnotoriety.

I grab a cue stick and catch eyes with a bearded, tattooed dipshit. He flips me off with two hands and careens forward on his stool. His attempt to rope me into aconfrontation.

I almost laugh and spin the cue stick. I’m not that easily snared. Sidling up to the pool table, I tell Oscar with the tilt of my head, “It’s like they don’t realize we’re all trainedfighters.”

Oscar grins. “Idiots.” He tries to align the pool balls perfectly, and his curly hair falls over a rolled bandana that’s tied across hisforehead.

My phone buzzes in my pant’s pocket. I pull it out with a piece of gum. Newtext.

“When my little bro gets here, Redford, tell him you’ve only played pool once or twice.” Oscar grabs a stick off thewall.