“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?
I feign confusion. “Was that you and me? Could’ve been another guy who looks like you.”
“No one else looks like me,” he says in that matter-of-fact voice that grips my body. He rises to his knees and twists…away from my face. He’s smiling wide, still teasing the hell out of me.
It’s working.
I swelter inside out, and I keep a hand on my ice pack to cool off.
Jane points her phone at us and snaps a candid photo of me and Farrow.
I tell Janie, “That better be evidence that he looks more infatuated than me.”
“Memories.” She examines the photo. “And from what I can see, you share equal infatuation.”
I gesture to Farrow. “There it is.”
He pushes back his hair, and our eyes caress in a powerful moment.
I inhale—and I break eye contact. My phone vibrating on the floor. Jane just texted me the picture. Perks of extra phone security, I now have photos of my boyfriend without fear of hacks.
But I leave my phone where it is and reroute back to the topic. “If Janie can’t even think of someone who’d make a murder account, then we’re doomed.”
Farrow crunches up. “You’re telling me no one was jealous of you? You’re a wealthy, attractive celebrity who swam competitively.”
I stare off, thinking.
“Moffy.” Jane perks up in a sudden thought. “Jason, Ray, and Clark.”
“Who?” Farrow asks, noticing my darkened frown. He stays upright, his arm on the back of the couch.
“Guys on the swim team with me,” I answer. Remembering the yacht, the summer bash, from years ago. My cheekbones sharpen. “The last time I talked to them, we beat the shit out of each other.”
Farrow sweeps my features. “I need more than that.”
“Before I fought with Charlie on the yacht,” I say, “I overheard them talking about my mom in the master cabin. And I went off.” I shake my head a few times. “I was almost in a blackout rage, okay? I’m not proud.”
Farrow stares deeper.
“What?” I ask.
“I was on that boat.” Farrow pauses, his jaw tensed. “It’s just hitting me that while I was laughing and drinking, you were below the deck getting beat to shit.”
I let out a sharp breath. “I did worse to them—”
“You’re not a trained fighter, and it was three-on-one. You were probably on the ground.”
He’s not wrong. “I held my own.” I study his protective gaze, and I realize he wishes he could’ve been there for me. “You want a time machine?”
Farrow almost cracks a smile, but the gravity of the situation keeps him more serious. “What are their last names?”
Jane picks at her avocado mask. “Ray and Clark were both awarded scholarships to swim out of state. They wouldn’t have a Philadelphia IP address.”
“Jason Motlic would,” I say. “He stayed in Philly.” I look to Farrow. “You can put his name on the list.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t reach for a notebook or his phone or anything.
“So it’s an imaginary list.”
Farrow arches his brows. “My memory is better than yours. I don’t need to type out and print eighty-four lists.”
I make a face. “How do I like you, man?”
“I think you mean love,” he teases.
Don’t fucking smile. I lick my lips again and again, and before I reply, I notice Janie lying down on the other side of the couch. She kind of tucks her knees to her chest. Something she only does when she has cramps.
“Ça va?” I ask. Are you okay?
“Oui.” She splays the back of her hand on her forehead.
“Si tu ne te sens pas bien, je peux te trouver quelque chose.” If you don’t feel well, I can find you something.
“I weather this storm every month. I can manage on a bus.” She blows out a measured breath. “Peaches McEntire.”
My brows scrunch. “No way.”
Farrow starts another rep of sit-ups. “Peaches is a fruit or a…?”
“Girl,” I explain. “She’s our age, and we were all counselors at Camp Calloway together. She was even a troop captain in Wolf Scouts
.” I look at Jane, her cat pajamas wrinkled. “And she’s nice.”
“She was hopelessly, madly in love with you, and she was a passionate person. She could’ve felt scorned when you told her you just wanted to be summer camp friends. Don’t you remember, she stopped speaking to you after that?”
I sigh heavily, frustrated that I may’ve hurt someone unknowingly. “Maybe.” I glance at Farrow as he crunches upward. “You can add Peaches to your brain.”
He’d probably reply, but Thatcher breaches the second lounge.
We all go quiet.
The security team has no clue that Jane and I know all about the @maximoffdeadhale account. Farrow has “gone rogue” in the team many times before, so it’s not exactly a new dilemma.
Farrow looks more annoyed by Thatcher than anything.
The Omega co-lead pretty much ignores me and Farrow, and he takes a seat near Jane’s feet. She scratches her neck and props herself on her arm. “Thatcher,” she greets.
“Jane,” he greets too, like they haven’t seen each other all day. When clearly they have.
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.