Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(50)

Security called the FanCon a wash. Ending the event early—it’s an irremovable knife in my chest.

No promised Q&A. Majority of fans never met us. Some spent a lot of money just traveling to Cleveland.

And we fucked them over.

I tried to resolve the problem. I made calls, talked to the crew, and I could’ve shifted the event to another conference room in a nearby hotel.

Akara and Thatcher refused. We haven’t done prep for a different hotel, they said. It’s not possible.

I’m supposed to move on and forget Cleveland’s mishap. Think of this like trial-and-error, Akara told me. The Chicago FanCon will be better.

I can’t just forget. These errors I make hurt people—and I’m not okay with that.

“You need to brainstorm,” Farrow tells me while he crunches his abs in a sit-up.

We’re in the second lounge with Janie, a U-shaped couch back here. Pretty quiet since half the bus is asleep in their bunks.

Farrow isn’t working out on the ground. He’s lengthwise on the gray couch. I sit so damn close that his bent knees steeple my legs. My hand has been sliding down his thigh, and my other forearm rests on his kneecap while I cup my phone.

My childhood crush doing sit-ups right up against me—that should without a doubt be the best damn distraction from bad press. Sweat glistens his inked skin, pirate tattoos peek from his black Adidas V-neck, and a piece of white hair keeps falling to his brown lashes. Causing his fingers to constantly push the strands back.

Jesus, it’s unnatural how hot he is. And how fucking attracted I am to him. And still, my mind derails and circumnavigates to Cleveland. To a colossal fuck-up.

He lifts his body in a crunch. His face a centimeter from my face, and he eyes my phone. The screen is popped up on a news article that I’ve read a billion times.

The H.M.C. FanCon tour in Cleveland was a massive technical disaster with no backup plan. Maximoff Hale was unprepared to handle an event of this magnitude. If this is any indication of how he runs H.M.C. Philanthropies, it’s clear he’s too young, unprofessional, and inexperienced to be the CEO of a corporate company.



Farrow skims the words in point-two seconds and then chucks my phone behind his head. It hits a pillow and thuds on the floor.

“Thanks,” I say dryly.

“Fuck them,” he tells me with raised brows. “Calling you young and unprofessional is a cheap shot, and those journalists will take it every time.” He lowers his back and rises in another sit-up. “That’s the truth. I’m not blowing smoke because I’m dating and fucking you.”

He lowers again, casual and cool. Acting like he reported a simple weather forecast.

Fuck me. I feel my smile try to take shape.

“Je suis d'accord avec lui, Moffy,” Janie says, sitting on the couch’s other long side. Mirror propped on her thighs. She applies an avocado mask, her hair twisted in a pink towel.

I agree with him, Moffy.

My mouth inches upward a bit more. I’m trying my best to let go, but some things are clinging to me like fucking tar.

I adjust my ice pack on my sore shoulder and remember what Farrow said about brainstorming.

So I lower my voice, ensuring Beckett, Charlie, and Sulli won’t hear me. “I’ve thought about people who’d want to create a murder account,” I tell him, “and I came up with absolutely nothing.”

Farrow increases his sit-up pace. “Not one name?”

He already said he’s taking care of the one-night stand NDAs, and he’s been waiting for lawyers to send him those contracts. I only need to help brainstorm other people. Like a high school rival, a pissed off neighbor, or a scorned college student.

I picture…no one. Not really.

I did deal with my fair share of harassment in high school. Like the snide comments about my mom, the dick drawings, and accusing me of being a bastard. Some guys hated me because they needed someone to hate. But I can’t see them, years later, wanting me dead.

“If they exist,” I tell Farrow, “I don’t know about them.”

His muscles flex on his way up.

“Janie?” I ask.

She cleans her hands on a towel and shuts her mirror. Blue eyes on me, she offers her complete attention. “You were always sweet to people and well-liked. And very famous. Many people had a crush on you in high school. Even the neighbors.”

Farrow rolls his eyes.

I give him a look. “Come on, if I’d been around your age growing up, you would’ve had a crush on me too.”

“And there goes your humility.” On his way up, he twists to the right, near enough to kiss me.

Kiss me.

His mouth quirks before he leans back down. Such a tease.

I lick my lips. “Just stating the truth.”

Amusement rests behind his eyes. “The truth is that you would’ve ‘wanted’ me to have a crush on you.” He rises. “And you always, always would’ve been infatuated with me.”

“That’s already bullshit since I’ve never been infatuated with you.”

He lets out a short, dry laugh before his smile expands. “Weren’t you the one who dreamed of me taking your virginity in a shower?”

I blink.

Yeah.

I feel like he flipped over whatever metaphorical board game we were playing. Chess? Backgammon? Candy Land?