Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(27)

Jesus. “I’m great. Thanks for asking.”

“I didn’t ask.” His barbell rises with his brows, and my neck heats. “Where’d you go?”

“Neverland,” I quip.

He rolls his eyes, but his knowing gaze drips down all six-foot-two of my build. “Next time,” he says, “take me with you.”

You were already there.

I swallow the words and my infatuation. Because I’m too apparent. He looks like he’s about to catalogue this moment, frame it, and gift it to me. “I was thinking about the weather and tour route,” I explain.

“Sure you were.” His teasing smile strokes my cock. Fuck me. He notices my phone. “Making a call?”

“Yeah.” Focus. “I’ll put it on speaker.” I scroll back through my contacts, and a large gust blows through the parking lot. Without my outer jacket, I shake way more than I want to.

Farrow suddenly moves behind me.

I lick my lips, pulse heightening in anticipation of the unknown.

He drapes his arm over my shoulder, then he clutches me around my collarbones. And he draws my strong back to his hard chest.

His warmth sheaths me, the embrace more intimate than I’d allow anyone else. With Farrow, I almost ease back, letting myself sink against him.

“Separate!”

“Fuck,” I curse and rip apart from Farrow. I run my tongue over my teeth. Fucking A. Thatcher is hawk-eyeing us from the damn tour bus. I stand more rigid on the curb and try to refocus on my phone.

Farrow is nailing the coldest glare into Thatcher, and then he clicks his mic. “We weren’t even kissing.”

From afar, I notice Thatcher clicking his mic and speaking.

Farrow unhooks his earpiece, letting the cord dangle on his shoulder, and he raises the volume on the radio.

Thatcher’s voice filters through the earpiece speaker. “You look like a couple. You want to do that, do it on the bus. The windows are tinted.”

Farrow is about to click his mic.

I hold up a hand. “Just drop it,” I say. “We’re in public right now, and we can’t get caught.” Thatcher thought we’d be less cautious now that family and security know we’re together—and I’m starting to realize he was right. I didn’t even think twice, and I should’ve.

Farrow’s jaw muscle tics. “We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere at eight a.m.—the risk is nonexistent.”

“Not to him.” I gesture to Thatcher. “And I don’t want to burn that bridge. Not after he helped us.”

Farrow combs two hands through his bleach-white hair. His nose flares, and then he half-heartedly nods. “Fine.” He watches me scroll through my contacts. “Who are you calling?”

“Your father.” I find Dr. Keene’s number. “He keeps texting me to call him.” Now’s the time. I press the green button, and Farrow props his shoulder against the skeletal tree. He looks unconcerned but as curious as me.

“Moffy.” Dr. Keene answers on the first ring. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Sorry.” I lift the speaker to my mouth. “It’s been hectic.”

Farrow mouths, don’t apologize. As though I’m being too nice.

I give him a middle finger.

Farrow almost smiles, but he eyes the phone as his father says, “That’s not a problem. I heard you’ve been busy planning a meet-and-greet tour.”

“Yeah.” I turn my back to the roaring wind. “And I get why you’re calling, but Farrow and I are happy, we’re adults, and I hope you can respect our decision to be together. Even if it involved some risks.”

The line goes quiet.

Farrow pushes off the tree, brows knotting, and he comes to my side.

My voice is firm. “Dr. Keene?”

“You’re together?” he questions. “As in…dating?”

Holy. Shit.

I’m in a slow-mo car crash. I find myself sinking into a crouch, my face buried in one hand. Why the hell did I assume he knew?

Dear World, can you die from embarrassment? Sincerely, a dying or possibly already dead human.

“What happened?!” Donnelly shouts from the bus.

I quickly cup my hand over my phone’s speakers.

Farrow speaks hushed in his mic. “Shut up, Donnelly.” Then he crouches in front of me.

“I think I’m dead.” I grimace.

“You’re breathing. You’re alive.” Farrow rests a hand on the curve between my shoulder and neck. “Come on.”

I have to let this car crash happen. I crack a knuckle, then I uncover the speakers. “Dr. Keene?”

“I didn’t know you and my son were together,” he says, his voice unreadable.

I rise at the same time as Farrow. My muscles are set to broil. “I thought my parents told you,” I say, my tone even-keeled despite my body frying alive from my fuck-up. I rarely make these kinds of mistakes. “And I assumed that’s why you were calling.” Stupidly. I glance at Farrow and my hard gaze carries a million-and-one apologies.

He mouths, it’s fine.

“I’m calling,” Dr. Keene says, “because you haven’t had an STD screening in months. That didn’t seem like you.” He clears a tight ball from his throat. “Now I know why.”