Page 86 of Lovers Like Us

Farrow and I—we’re still in the early stages of our relationship. I’m pretty damn sure. Like 70%. If we’re basing the “stages” on time, then I’m confidently 99%. Because we haven’t reached a six-month mark yet and that seems like a solid relationshipnumber.

I think. Because if we calculate hours spent together, our number is ridiculously high—stopthinking.

Obviously I don’t know how any of this works. There’s noplaybook for dating your bodyguard. If there was, I’d own about a million goddamn copies. But I still want all of his friends to treat me like a regular guy and not just Maximoff Hale the CelebrityClient.

I’m not even positive that’s an achievable goal. Maybe it’s something completely out-of-this-world impossible and I’m shooting beyond thestars.

But I gottatry.

I zip up my green jacket. “So which one is your best friend?” I ask Farrow as we ditch the elevator and jog down a flight of hotel stairs. Anything to move around a bit. The cavernous cement stairwell is also empty, no strangerslurking.

Farrow is step-for-step in line with me. Descending the stairs swiftly, he fixes his earpiece and says, “None ofthem.”

“Bullshit,” I retort, “they’re definitely your bestfriends.”

Farrow tosses his head from side-to-side, considering. “No.”

I make aface.

He puts a piece of gum in his mouth. “They’re all aggravating on any givenday.”

“What are you, allergic tofriendship?”

He rolls his eyes into a smile. “Allergic to friendship,” he repeats, chewing his gum. “I don’t enjoy owing people anything, and having ‘best friends’ is a commitment that I’m not actively signing upfor.”

“I get it,” I say. “You don’t like anyone tying youdown—”

“One person can tie me down,” he cuts me off and then glances at me. “You’resmiling.”

“I’m not.” I sort of was. I unhinge my jaw, ridding whatever expression is causing him to overflow withsatisfaction.

His grin has landed in James Franco territory. “I didn’t say that person wasyou.”

I blink. “You ever hear of that annoying six-foot-three guy with bleach-white hair who died in a Chicagostairwell?”

He laughs. “You mean the guy you have a hard-onfor.”

“No, the other one,” I say dryly, and when I jump a couple stairs, he easily keeps pace. “So which one do you hate the leastthen?”

“Like I said, they’re allaggravating.”

I sigh heavily and stretch my arms while we descend the stairs. “Give me some slack here, man. It’s not like you needed cliff notes when you met Jane. You practically already had the Jane CobaltEncyclopedia.”

His expression softens. “Okay. Cliff notes. I grew up in the same neighborhood as Akara, but we never talked, not even in high school. Different social circles. That shit.” We pass the fifth floor doors, and he adds, “I met Oscar at Yale. Donnelly, I met him a little before I went to college. Then he followed me, and he’d crash in my dorm, my apartment—he’s like an infection you can’trid.”

“An infection that did some of your tattoos,” Isay.

Farrow glances at me, more serious. “No, he did most of my tattoos. I met him when he was an apprentice, but he can draw and I liked his style. He became reallygood.”

Huh. “What’smost?”

“I’d say about eighty-five percent is PaulDonnelly.”

I stop on the third floor, and he follows suit, leaning casually on the railing. My eyes graze the crossed swords on his throat, wings on his neck. I’m not an expert on tattoos, but I always considered Farrow’s ink nothing short ofbreathtakingand fuckinggorgeous.

“So let me try to understand,” I say. “You’ve known Donnelly for almost ten years, you let him tattoo you, crash at your place, you probably introduced him to security work, and you still don’t consider him your best friend. In fact, you refer to him as aninfection.”

His lips rise. “If you knew him better, you’d realize he’d take that as acompliment.”