Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(10)

Since I’m a celebrity and a client, I probably would’ve excused myself and let them work out whatever they need to alone. But they’re now aware that I’m Farrow’s boyfriend, and these aren’t just his coworkers.

They’re the closest guys in his life. His friends. And if he’s all-in on my world, I think I should be all-in on his.

So I’m staying.

I approach Thatcher Moretti. “When’d you get here?” I ask.

In my peripheral, Farrow nears Donnelly on the couch and lightly kicks his ankle, both speaking under their breaths. Donnelly gestures with his head at me. So they’re talking about me.

If only I had bionic hearing.

Thatcher stands, five inches taller than me. “I drove in about four hours ago.”

We shake hands. I’m sure to most people a six-foot-seven, unshaven Italian-American man with a perpetually stern gaze would be intimidating.

For me, he’s not even close.

Thatcher used to protect my little brother, and talking to him in the past, the topics never diverged from security. He’s as professional as they come and also the biggest thorn in Farrow’s side.

Now he’s a secondary bodyguard to Jane and unofficial chaperone to me and Farrow. A small price to pay to keep Farrow as my 24/7 bodyguard. If the public finds out that I’m dating a bodyguard, it could cause all of SFO to become famous by association.

That can’t happen, and Thatcher said he’d ensure it doesn’t.

“Thanks for voting to keep Farrow as my bodyguard,” I tell Thatcher. “It meant a lot.”

He nods. “I was voting for what you’d want. Personal grievances aside, I’m here for you and your family.”

It reminds me that he wasn’t the only vote. “Where’s Akara?”

“Out for a run with Sulli.” Thatcher twists a knob on his radio. “Last night, Akara and I agreed we’re going to share the lead position in Omega. If you need to inform security about anything, it’s still Akara, Price, and me you should contact.”

The Tri-Force is still intact then.

I bet it’s all the same to Farrow since he’s not a rule-follower anyway.

“Hey, Moffy—” Donnelly is cut off by Farrow’s hand over his mouth.

“Excuse Donnelly,” Farrow says to me, really at ease. He sits on the armrest of the couch. And his bowl of eggs skillfully balances on his thigh. “He has an undiagnosed condition called verbo-emesis.”

My brows furrow.

Oscar swigs a Lightning Bolt! and translates, “Word vomit.”

Huh.

I have no clue what “Hey, Moffy” was about to morph into, but with the surface of my childhood nickname, I’m unfortunately more aware of my age difference between all of them and me.

“Security should only call me Maximoff,” I state here and now.

Farrow lowers his hand from Donnelly’s mouth, and some of the bodyguards exchange furtive glances. And Farrow tries to restrain an amused laugh, but as he looks to me, his eyes almost caress mine in affection.

Alright, I must’ve sounded like a dick.

Or a conceited dick.

An entitled prick.

All of the above? Probably.

Thatcher tells me, “I’ll let the whole team know.”

I nod and try to loosen my shoulders. Just to appear somewhat less domineering.

Boundaries here are blurrier than usual, and I don’t want to be just the client in their eyes. But two milliseconds ago, I made a declaration that sounded more like a dickish celebrity requesting a special menu than a regular guy asking to be treated fairly.

I try to figure out a better plan of action. One that doesn’t include me leaving this damn study. Retreating—that’s not an option.

Suddenly, Farrow stands. Nearing me, but he speaks to Thatcher. “Did you put me on temporary probation from security meetings?”

“No.”

“Then why the hell didn’t I hear about the one where Omega discussed the tour?” Farrow stops beside me and offers me his bowl of eggs.

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

He only peels his eyes off of me when Thatcher responds.

“You were in the bedroom with Maximoff.” He ends there. Like that explains everything.

Farrow glares at Thatcher.

Thatcher glares back, not relenting. This is the equivalent of a silent pissing match.

I gesture to the co-lead of Omega. “Is knocking not in the bodyguard handbook?”

Neither of them moves.

Oscar unwraps a Honey Bun. “You’re still a client who prefers privacy.”

“And you were with your boyfriend, Mof—Maximoff. Fuck,” Donnelly mutters.

They left Farrow in the dark because of me. That’s not fucking happening again. “Thatcher,” I say, and he breaks the glare to acknowledge me. “Farrow’s job comes first.”

“His job is you,” Thatcher emphasizes. “This is complicated—”

“Then let’s un-complicate it,” I say simply. “Anything related to security, you can disrupt me and get him. I’d prefer it. And if there’s any other confusion, just ask.”

I swear I hear Farrow mutter an impressed, “Damn,” beneath his breath.

The whole talk screeches to a halt as the door creaks. Jane and Beckett slip inside. Carrying trays of coffee for everyone. Jane hands me a mug of hot tea, and we all scatter around the study.