Headstrong Like Us (Like Us, #6)

by Krista Ritchie

But then again, I don’t want to just sit here. I don’t know…I don’t want to not go over to him. That feels worse, somehow.

Not far away, my sister Luna lies back and traces constellations with her finger, one eye shut.

I’m happy that I could fly home from college to celebrate my little sister turning ten. It’s a huge milestone. Ten-years-old.

I’m impeding their ability to teach people who are paying for an education. It still makes me feel like shit. Just knowing my presence is hurting someone.

I know it’s not meant for me. In the past couple months, I’ve been slowly realizing that I can’t have something so painfully normal.

Coming home to Philly, I’ve smiled ten thousand times more. Right now, the park is jam-packed with gawking strangers, camera-wielding fans and paparazzi, stoic bodyguards, and my famous family—it’s my usual mix. My normal.

It has nothing to do with college and everything to do with my mom’s new bodyguard: the twenty-four-year-old tattooed know-it-all who can’t know that I’m thinking about him.

Forcing myself not to scan the park for Farrow Redford Keene.

I know because I looked already, once…or twice. He didn’t notice me staring. Yeah, I fucking hope.

“If I spend thirty minutes with Farrow, I’m going to die of Chronic Agitation.”

“Any longer and I’ll need a stretcher and CPR.” I try not to remember that Farrow graduated from Yale medical school. He’s a doctor. He can perform CPR on me. Mouth-to-mouth—stop thinking.

At my mom, whose gangly frame is hidden in an oversized black cable-knit sweater. She’s heading to the pop-up concession tents. And her bodyguard is leading the way.

As I walk past the blanket with the four youngest girls (Audrey, Kinney, Winona, and Vada), I place a loving hand on each of their heads.

“You want anything to eat?” “The souls of my enemies,” she deadpans. I smile. “I’ll work on that.” I miss being home.

and my younger brother might as well have dressed up as a mummy. To hide from paparazzi and you. Because right now he’s shrouded behind dark sunglasses, a baseball cap, and hoodie.

My dad has joined my mom, and they haven’t reached the front yet. Currently a few teenagers are snapping selfies with them while their bodyguards loiter close.

Farrow observes the fan interaction, and I eye the skulls, pirates, ships, swallows, and more ink that decorates his lean-cut and sculpted MMA-build.

Half a skull peeks out of his black V-neck, his whole being screaming I’m too cool for school. From gorgeous tattooed wings on his neck, to his nose...

His stance is even casual and relaxed—like this job is the easiest in the world.

Farrow locks eyes with me. He assesses me in a quick sweep, and his smile stretches. He knows I’m coming towards him.

I mean, I’m not hiding the fact, but Christ, that widening smile—the one that reaches cheek-to-cheek and is too teasing, too confident—it bugs the hell out of me.

All I want is to look at Farrow. But in the same breath, I want to give him a hard time. To make him squirm like he’s easily making me feel…something.

Our eyes catch again, and I gesture to the candy apple tent. “I’m getting food for my family.” Farrow raises his brows. “I didn’t ask.” He’s an asshole, and I must be weird because I like that he’s not fawning all over me.

He tilts his head back to me. “You definitely said something, wolf scout.”

Whatever you forget, I’ll remember.” That last part blasts on repeat in my ears. Whatever you forget, I’ll remember.

“You’re not distracting me, wolf scout.” I glance back. We stare at each other in a more intense beat.

I can’t shake Farrow, and it’s not just that I’m physically attracted to him. Every time I’ve been knocked down lately, he’s appeared…and I wanted him to stay.

Teenagers have departed, leaving my parents in full-on PDA-mode. My dad hugs my mom from behind and gives her a wet willy. She squeals.

The black shirt. The one he threw off the yacht so I could staunch my bloody nose on the marina’s dock.

“You forgot what I told you.” “What?” He smiles, one that flickers in and out. “On the yacht, I said you could keep the shirt.” Yeah.

I couldn’t forget his words that night. My brain is too obsessed with him, but I don’t want to admit to Farrow that I remember everything. Down to how he stacked beer cans in his hand and walked backwards while talking to me.

Farrow Keene abandoned a medical career and changed paths with the snap of a finger, and here I am, miserable in college. Unable to move in a new direction.

I glance back. Farrow is climbing up the slope with my parents in tow. I don’t know why, but I smile.

“Can you wait like four seconds before you flip the page?” I ask my fiancé.

FIANCE

His eyebrows rise, and his smile slowly expands in an irritating, teasing wave.

No matter what anyone tells you, here’s the truth… He’s looking at me like he’s obsessed with me.

“Would you like me to count to four out loud, wolf scout?” My mouth falls. “You can count that high?”

I extend my arm over his muscular shoulder, and my eyes fall to his lips. He’s smiling knowingly, lovingly. “You want me to kiss you?” “No, I want to kiss you—”

I’m going to marry the love of my life. One day. Someday. Soon.

At first, I thought every time he played fetch with Gotham, it was so the dog would run away. But the more he’s around the Basset Hound, the more I realize he’s been training him to actually come back when he throws a ball. Because Gotham hasn’t always been great at fetch. Farrow will even reward him with treats or encouraging pets.

running a hand through his bleach-white hair. His ash-brown roots are growing in a lot. To where he’d usually dye the strands weeks ago.

I’m picturing the look on my sixteen-year-old face if he knew about this—someone, quick, invent time travel. Just so I can tell my teenage-self about the future where I’m temporarily living in my childhood home with my childhood crush. Who’s now my fiancé. Maybe it’s good that time travel doesn’t exist. I think I’d die.

Farrow leans back on his palms. He’s grinning. I rub my reddened neck. “Thank you for your sympathy. It was totally refreshing and so unlike you.”

His rough voice is too attractive. “Sixteen-year-old Maximoff with a hard-on for me—” “I never even thought about you.” That hurt. “Just kidding. I thought about pushing you out of my bedroom window.”

This living situation is temporary, but Farrow’s place in my life is permanent. That’s what breathes air into my lungs.

his eyes collide into mine.

He places a hand on my thigh and somehow it’s easier to breathe.

“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 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’s hand glides up to my neck, his thumb drawing soothing circles on my skin.