“Alright.” Moffy nods. “And so my brain isn’t all over the place, I need to know. Are you here as my bodyguard or my husband—future husband.” He rolls his neck back, glaring at the ceiling. The air tenses with his slip. Mostly because Farrow isn’t joking back like he normally would. This really is a serious matter to our bodyguards. “Both,” Farrow tells him. “But you need a bodyguard more right now to tell you you’re being stubborn.”
