Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(14)

He’s your bodyguard. Yeah, well when I give him that title, it’s starting to make him more attractive. I didn’t think that’d be possible. But when he’s not following me around, I picture him with me. My brain refuses to detach my bodyguard for a single moment of Farrow-free peace.

“Give it.” Farrow motions to my hand.

My phone? “What?”

“Since you won’t let me drive, I can do the bare minimum and type out your grocery list.”

I should let go of this task, but I hesitate to pass it off to Farrow. I enjoy doing shit myself. “You’re not my assistant.”

“I’m the guy trying to ensure you don’t run us both off the road. You obviously need two hands on the wheel, so…” He waves me to release the phone, and in my silence, he adds, “Or you can pull over and let me drive—”

I drop my phone on his lap.

“You really don’t want me to drive.” He puts his boot on his seat, elbow to his bent knee, and he cups my phone. “The day when I finally drive you around will just be much more gratifying.”

“The day,” I say dryly. “You mean the day that’s never happening? That one?” I spot the roll of his eyes before I point at my phone. “Is it unlocked?”

“I’m already in your notes.” He fixes the spelling errors made by the app.

“Janie texted me stuff she needs.” I switch lanes. Two paparazzi vans trail me now, so I constantly check my rearview mirror. “Her text thread should be the top one.”

He lets out a long whistle. “One hundred unread text messages.” I sense his surprise as he says, “You’re actually breaking your moral code.”

I glare and then go for the phone.

He retracts it out of my reach. “Thou shall not ignore thy family.”

“You think you’re so damn smart.” I effortlessly weave between two pick-up trucks and bypass the paparazzi. “Those texts are just from today, Sherlock.” I flick off my blinker.

“You’re serious?”

“Yep. I’m in twelve group chats with different family members.” I have eleven cousins alone. That’s not including my siblings and my parents. Or my aunts and uncles. We all talk. “If I can’t answer during the day, I go through my texts at night.”

He scrolls through Jane’s thread. “If someone has an emergency, what do you do?”

“I’ll glance at the texts in case someone’s freaking out, but most of the time, they’ll call if it’s serious.” I strangely have an easy time freeing these facts. Ones that I generally keep to myself.

I trust him.

It helps that he’s been a part of my world long before he was a bodyguard. It’s also the issue, but that’s another thing entirely.

As quiet descends, he types on my notes app and says, “Jane is asking for chocolate turtles, pretzels, tampons, and lemonade packets.” He adjusts the air vents and points the ice-cold at me.

I glance from him to the road. “You cold?” I can adjust the air for him.

He types on my notepad app. “You looked hot.”

How the fuck can he tell? “I’m not,” I refute and crank the air to a warmer temperature.

Farrow scrolls through his phone, too. “I still have time to call the store. I can get someone to fill a cart with all the items on your list.” It’s a safe route.

So shoppers won’t bombard me in aisles. Alpha is known to go one step further and shut down the grocery store. Giving my parents, aunts and uncles privacy and secure exits and entrances.

“No,” I say firmly. “I’d rather just get the groceries myself.” It takes me two hours, but I don’t like the idea of being waited on and taking up someone else’s time.

“Okay.” He sounds genuinely okay with that scenario.

I was expecting a two-minute argument. My strained muscles ease a fraction. “Fair warning,” I tell him, “paparazzi will bum-rush me when I leave the store. They’ll get up close to take shots of my bags.”

He listens carefully.

“I don’t care if they can see what I bought, so don’t worry about pushing them back. I just need to be able to get out in a reasonable amount of time.”

“I’ll get you out.” His staunch certainty heats my core. He raises my phone. “Anything else you need?”

“Ground beef, chips, taco seasoning, everything-bagels, oatmeal, protein bars and shakes—” I need condoms. And more lube. Fuck.

At my abrupt stop, I sense his confusion brewing, but he finishes typing those items.

I shouldn’t be censoring myself around him.

At some point, I’m going to have a one-night stand. He may hear me orgasm through the fucking door or wall. I’ve also tried not to make sex a taboo subject in my life. With people I trust, I try to speak about it as easily as the weather. My parents raised me to see sex in a positive light.

That’s continuing. Until I’m a dead, lifeless corpse.

“What else?” Farrow looks over at me.

I change my grip on the steering wheel. “At least three boxes of condoms and water-based lube,” I say, my edged voice more like a serrated knife right now. Ready to butcher him. Calm down. I’m high-strung.