Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(52)

I give Janie a weird look, but she’s tuning me out. I turn to Farrow, but he’s zeroed in on the interaction.

“Thought you might need this,” Thatcher says as he hands her a hot water bottle.

Jane gawks in surprise, fingers to her avocado-masked cheek. She clears her throat slightly. “Merci.” She nods to him.

He nods back and leaves without another word.

“What the fuck was that?” I whisper.

Farrow glares at Jane. “You can’t like him.”

“She doesn’t like him,” I say to Farrow. “She would’ve told me.”

Jane is still staring at the spot where he left. Blue eyes enlarging like a god granted immortality to her cats. “He must’ve seen my Instagram story. I said that I had cramps and forgot to bring a heating pad on the bus.” She glances at the hot water bottle that’ll help her cramps.

“She likes him,” Farrow says in pissed disbelief. “Jane.”

“Who? What?” She finally turns to us and our words seem to register. “No, no.” She shakes her head a few times. “I just find him beautiful to look at. Like an Italian painting. He’s exquisite, don’t you think?”

“No,” we say together.

Jane smiles coyly. “Liars. You both know he’s handsome.”

I don’t say anything and remove my ice pack. Is Thatcher fucking hot? Scruffy, muscular, six-foot-seven and domineering. Yeah.

He’s hot.

He could probably star in movies if he wanted to. But Farrow hates him, and Thatcher is dropping off my favorites list.

Farrow narrows his gaze on me. “I’m waiting for you to say he’s ugly.”

“I’m waiting for you to say the same fucking thing.” I pull my Batman shirt over my head.

“He’s ugly,” Farrow says distantly, skimming the cut of my biceps and six-pack. Mostly, he hones in on my shoulder blade.

“Agreed,” I lie and motion to Jane. “And?”

“He’s handsome and sweet, and that’s all that’s happening.” She sends us a look that says, do not badger me on senseless things, and she curls back up and tucks her hot water bottle to her stomach.

“Lean forward,” Farrow says.

I do, my elbows on his knees that still steeple my legs. He has a better view of my shoulder. He presses on the muscle.

I bite down. Christ, that feels tender and sore.

“Raise your arm.”

I stretch my arm upward. The muscle is pretty tight. I rotate my arm—that’s really tight.

“You need to keep icing it,” Farrow says.

I nod. Calling his father for advice opens a can of worms, and I’m not sure how much longer I should wait.





18





MAXIMOFF HALE





I wake early and forage for cereal in the first lounge. Yawning into my bicep a fucking ton.

I think Oscar is behind the wheel, but the privacy door is shut. So I can’t see into the driver’s quarters.

Near the bathroom door, a coffee pot sits on a granite counter. I bend down and open a cabinet, finding most of the dry foods.

I hear movement from the narrowed hall. Where the bunks are located.

Farrow climbs out of his. Feet hitting the cold floor. I watch him rub his eyes roughly with the heel of his palm. Hair messy, he’s shirtless, and his drawstring pants hang low on his sculpted waist. Tattooed sparrows peeking out of the elastic band.

God, my chest rises in a shallow breath. My body, brain, and everything in between is begging me to abandon my cereal hunt and push him up against the wall.

I’m used to fucking Farrow morning and night—and that routine has been shot to hell with the bus set-up.

Don’t think about jumping his bones. Don’t think about his dick rubbing against your dick. Don’t think about his arms wrapped around you or his hand sliding down your chest and up to your throat.

I’m obviously thinking about every position, every embrace—every nerve that wants pricked and lit. I stare off and imagine all of it.

I blink a couple times to tear out of a fantasy.

And his eyes are on mine, his know-it-all smile slowly rising. I kid you not, I have to look away like I’m in fifth fucking grade and worried I’ll spring a boner in class.

Focus.

Cereal. Right.

I push aside a box of Cocoa Crispies, which belong to Sulli, and that’s when I sense his presence like overwhelming lightning. Raw voltage strikes my body. Head-to-fucking-toe. It ripples down my arms, legs and chest.

Scorching me.

He leans on the damn counter, his feet right up against me. I have a fantastic view of his bare calves, an inked ship on the left.

I rub my jaw, my muscles blistering with a million desires. Focus. My gaze narrows to fired pinpoints, and I purposefully ignore him. Continuing my search.

“Someone looks like they’re having fun,” he says.

I’m afraid if I respond it’ll be with fuck me. Right now, that needs to be more of a fuck you and not the sexual fuck you.

Like a real fuck you, fuck you.

“I’d help you,” Farrow tells me, “but I kind of like this view.”

I push around a box of Cheerios. “You do love to do that whole towering over me thing.” I don’t even know what the hell I’m trying to find anymore.