Page 8 of Headstrong Like Us
After filling Gotham’s bowl, I zip up the bag of kibble.
Farrow reaches for the binder and flips a page.
“Wait, man. We didn’t make a decision on the envelopes.”
The binder under his hand is thick and made by my best friend, who also happens to be planning this wedding. Jane nicknamed it theThis orThatbinder. Basically, she listed two options for a bunch of wedding shit, and we’re supposed to pickthisorthat.
I’m highly aware that she narrowed it down to two options just for me. So my neurotic brain doesn’t go into a full-on tailspin at the sight of twenty different table settings.
But Farrow—he doesn’t overthink this stuff. His instinct is to go with his gut, and I’m not even sure I have a gut reaction that doesn’t involve second-guessing myself.
Calmly, coolly, like he’s lounging on the deck of a yacht, Farrow flips back to the original page. “See, we did make a decision. You said you liked the envelopes with the swirls.”
“And then a second later, I said that the ones with the gold trim are also cool.” I leave the dresser, and Gotham chomps down on the kibble. When I sit on the rug next to Farrow, his eyes collide into mine.
“Maximoff. It’s the envelope of a wedding invitation. Most people will just rip apart that shit and throw it in the garbage. And the ones that scrapbook it won’t care if it has some fancy swirls or gold-foiled edge. Shit, they won’t even remember if it smells like thousand-dollar perfume.” He places a hand on my thigh and somehow it’s easier to breathe. “Not everything is going to be perfect.”
My eyes melt against his. “Is it that bad if I wish it could be perfect for you?”
His gaze caresses mine.
I add, “You said that you pictured your wedding when you werethirteen.”
He tilts his head from side-to-side. “Okay, but I also don’t want some of the shit I dreamed about at thirteen.” He counts off his thumb and fingers. “No five-piece orchestra, no red velvet cake, no Philly location. And I’m only telling you this to make you feel better—but I also wanted Taco Bell to cater the entire thing.”
I start to smile. “I thought you hate Taco Bell.”
His brows rise. “With a fucking passion.”
“Don’t tell my dad.” Tacos are his lifeblood, even ones at fast food joints.
Farrow moves his hand off my thigh, just to wrap his arm around my rigid back.
I hold his gaze. “I never grew up thinking I’d get married, and the fact that you dreamed about this day means something to me.” He knows this. He knows me even better than you. “A lot can go wrong between paparazzi, the media, and unknown factors raining down from the skies—and I feel like if we don’t have everything planned out perfectly, it’s all going to go to shit.”
Farrow’s hand glides up to my neck, his thumb drawing soothing circles on my skin. “But here’s the thing, as long as you’re there with me, wolf scout, it’s impossible for our wedding day not to be perfect.”
I exhale, letting this sink in. “So you’d elope then?” I try to tease him back.
He sucks in a breath. “No.”
I can’t help but smile. “Who would have thought the maverick bodyguard wants the most traditional wedding?”
His lips lift. “Does it really surprise you?”
I shake my head. “No.” Farrow has sought companionship andlovesince he was young, and I can easily see him craving to celebrate the love he shares with his future husband.
That’s me.
It knocks me back a bit.
I watch Farrow return his focus to the binder. “Jane insisted that we need to turn this back into her by the end of the week. And at your pace, wolf scout, she’ll get this binder when you’re eighty-years-old.”
I growl in frustration. But he’s right.
I hate that he’s right.Again.
“The swirls then,” I say. “You like those?”
