Page 51 of Tangled Like Us

“That fucker was driving down that road all on his own,” Farrow tells Maximoff. “I was nowhere near it.” His palm encases Maximoff’s sharp jaw, and Moffy runs his hand up to the base of Farrow’s skull.

I can tell they’re about to kiss.

Maximoff mutters something under his breath, and Farrow murmurs back, their lips drawing closer—and like he’s injected with a shot of Best Friend Guilt, Maximoff abruptly tears out of the embrace. Stepping to the side, he winces at himself, his nose flaring.

And he plants his apologetic eyes on me.

I wince at Maximoff’s wince. “Moffy—”

“I’m totally focused on you,” he reminds me.

Farrow is nowhere near annoyed. He’s staring more protectively at Maximoff like he just wants to shield him from all his hang-ups and worries.

“Of course you are,” I say with all my heart. “And I don’t mind if you take a minute or even an hour to kiss the man you love.”

His neck reddens. “But what about you?”

“What about me?”

Farrow picks up his bowl, trying to stay out of our exchange.

Maximoff’s concern is like a hot blanket. Draping over the whole room. “One-way streets of love—you know those are wrong turns. It’s the do-not-enter street.”

I inhale sharply and try to nod.

He’s afraid I’ll be hurt in this process, and from his vantage, this has to be painful. Here he was able to fall in love with a bodyguard who could reciprocate his feelings tenfold.

And in his mind, here I am—his other half—about to head down a one-way road.

* * *

Ten minutes later,a new pot of coffee is brewing and our plan has officially taken beautiful flight. Like a grasshopper springing off the lawn. “He looks promising.” I pass Maximoff a photograph of a twenty-something athlete with auburn hair, butterscotch eyes, and a hooked nose. “He’s a professional football player.”

I printed out his picture from Instagram. He sent me a direct message last night, along with 4,593 other people.

Not all are suitors.

Reyroo3245told me to shut up and die.

So unnecessary.

I haven’t checked my DMs since 1 a.m., and I’m sure my inbox is severely bloated. But I’m more timid to sink back into that cesspool.

Maximoff examines the photo. “Yeah, what kind of twenty-something plays football instead of owning his own sports team. Can we say, underachiever?”

His impression of Grandmother Calloway is spot-on. Those would be her thoughts.

“And he’s not even thestarquarterback.”

Maximoff grabs a pushpin. “She’d probably pale at the wordfootball.”

“Far too much tackling,” I note.

He pins the photo onto a corkboard, which we hung on the brick wall. Next to the adjoining door.

I wonder what Thatcher is up to while he’s over there and I’m here. Is he thinking about our run-in from earlier at all?

“Famous ones.”