One hand on the wheel, I drive towards a grocery store. I raise my phone to my lips with the other and speak into a notes app. “Laundry detergent, eggs, dish soap—”

“Lawndo egg soup,” the automated voice reads back.

Are you fucking kidding me? I glare at my phone.

Farrow’s amusement is palpable in the passenger seat. “Brake.”

“Dammit.” I slam on my brakes before I bulldoze into a white sedan. Two days of Farrow as my bodyguard and I’m already feeling the effects.

Scatterbrained.

Rattled.

Sexually tensed up.

I haven’t had sex in 48 hours. I masturbated in the shower this morning, and I tried so goddamn hard not to imagine him. Hot water pelted my squared shoulders, my head dipped forward while warmth doused my brown hair. My left hand was closed into a white-knuckled fist against the tiled wall. My right hand stroked my throbbing cock that stood at hard attention.

Begging for a release.

One fantasy plays on a loop, no matter how much I say off. Turn off. Farrow enters the shower right behind me. Fog steams the glass doors. Layering the stifling heat.

His commanding, assertive presence pushes up against my muscular back. Then his strong arm extends around my build, and his large palm encases my white-knuckled hand on the tiled wall.

He holds tight. Water cascading over the sharp planes and valleys of his muscles. My gaze travels along his inked skin. His soft lips skim the base of my neck. To my ear.

Where he whispers in the deepest, most gravelly voice he owns.

“Maximoff.” Farrow snaps his fingers at my face—shit.

I yank myself out of a fantasy. Coming to the present where I’m driving. Where I’m gripping my phone way too tightly in one hand. Where Farrow is staring at me like I’ve just flown to an unknown dimension. How did I even fall into that shower scene again?

I was just trying to remind myself to forget it. Forever.

Farrow opens his mouth, and before he asks where I mentally departed, I beat him to the punch.

“I was thinking about Janie.” What the fuck is wrong with me? Jane, really? I restrain the urge to cringe. She may be my best friend, but she’s also my cousin. Swiftly, I add, “You know, I’m on my way to see her.” At the grocery. That part is true. We do almost everything together.

Farrow studies me for an even longer moment, not saying anything. I fix the air conditioning. My muscles constricted, body hot. At least I didn’t sweat through my gray crew-neck. At least I didn’t get hard.

He extends his arm towards me.

My brows knot at him.

Farrow leaves his arm on the back of my seat. “Do you need a second?”

“For what?” I go absolutely rigid, but my gaze spends half its time on him and half its time on the road. I think he’s about to make a jerking motion with his hand.

His lips slowly rise, and he scratches his brow where his barbell piercings lie. “You seem distracted,” is all he says.

“I’m fine.” I grip the steering wheel ten times harder, and I keep licking my lips like I’m about to say something else. I have nothing to offer except fuck me.

He’s your bodyguard. Yeah, well when I give him that title, it’s starting to make him more attractive. I didn’t think that’d be possible. But when he’s not following me around, I picture him with me. My brain refuses to detach my bodyguard for a single moment of Farrow-free peace.

“Give it.” Farrow motions to my hand.

My phone? “What?”

“Since you won’t let me drive, I can do the bare minimum and type out your grocery list.”

I should let go of this task, but I hesitate to pass it off to Farrow. I enjoy doing shit myself. “You’re not my assistant.”

“I’m the guy trying to ensure you don’t run us both off the road. You obviously need two hands on the wheel, so…” He waves me to release the phone, and in my silence, he adds, “Or you can pull over and let me drive—”

I drop my phone on his lap.

“You really don’t want me to drive.” He puts his boot on his seat, elbow to his bent knee, and he cups my phone. “The day when I finally drive you around will just be much more gratifying.”

“The day,” I say dryly. “You mean the day that’s never happening? That one?” I spot the roll of his eyes before I point at my phone. “Is it unlocked?”

“I’m already in your notes.” He fixes the spelling errors made by the app.

“Janie texted me stuff she needs.” I switch lanes. Two paparazzi vans trail me now, so I constantly check my rearview mirror. “Her text thread should be the top one.”

He lets out a long whistle. “One hundred unread text messages.” I sense his surprise as he says, “You’re actually breaking your moral code.”

I glare and then go for the phone.

He retracts it out of my reach. “Thou shall not ignore thy family.”

“You think you’re so damn smart.” I effortlessly weave between two pick-up trucks and bypass the paparazzi. “Those texts are just from today, Sherlock.” I flick off my blinker.

“You’re serious?”

“Yep. I’m in twelve group chats with different family members.” I have eleven cousins alone. That’s not including my siblings and my parents. Or my aunts and uncles. We all talk. “If I can’t answer during the day, I go through my texts at night.”

He scrolls through Jane’s thread. “If someone has an emergency, what do you do?”

“I’ll glance at the texts in case someone’s freaking out, but most of the time, they’ll call if it’s serious.” I strangely have an easy time freeing these facts. Ones that I generally keep to myself.

I trust him.

It helps that he’s been a part of my world long before he was a bodyguard. It’s also the issue, but that’s another thing entirely.

As quiet descends, he types on my notes app and says, “Jane is asking for chocolate turtles, pretzels, tampons, and lemonade packets.” He adjusts the air vents and points the ice-cold at me.

I glance from him to the road. “You cold?” I can adjust the air for him.

He types on my notepad app. “You looked hot.”

How the fuck can he tell? “I’m not,” I refute and crank the air to a warmer temperature.

Farrow scrolls through his phone, too. “I still have time to call the store. I can get someone to fill a cart with all the items on your list.” It’s a safe route.

So shoppers won’t bombard me in aisles. Alpha is known to go one step further and shut down the grocery store. Giving my parents, aunts and uncles privacy and secure exits and entrances.

“No,” I say firmly. “I’d rather just get the groceries myself.” It takes me two hours, but I don’t like the idea of being waited on and taking up someone else’s time.

“Okay.” He sounds genuinely okay with that scenario.

I was expecting a two-minute argument. My strained muscles ease a fraction. “Fair warning,” I tell him, “paparazzi will bum-rush me when I leave the store. They’ll get up close to take shots of my bags.”

He listens carefully.

“I don’t care if they can see what I bought, so don’t worry about pushing them back. I just need to be able to get out in a reasonable amount of time.”

“I’ll get you out.” His staunch certainty heats my core. He raises my phone. “Anything else you need?”

“Ground beef, chips, taco seasoning, everything-bagels, oatmeal, protein bars and shakes—” I need condoms. And more lube. Fuck.

At my abrupt stop, I sense his confusion brewing, but he finishes typing those items.

I shouldn’t be censoring myself around him.

At some point, I’m going to have a one-night stand. He may hear me orgasm through the fucking door or wall. I’ve also tried not to make sex a taboo subject in my life. With people I trust, I try to speak about it as easily as the weather. My parents raised me to see sex in a positive light.

That’s continuing. Until I’m a dead, lifeless corpse.

“What else?” Farrow looks over at me.

I change my grip on the steering wheel. “At least three boxes of condoms and water-based lube,” I say, my edged voice more like a serrated knife right now. Ready to butcher him. Calm down. I’m high-strung.

I get that.

Farrow drops his foot to the car mat. Sitting straighter. He types on my phone, the silence thickening. I can’t read his reaction. Not while I concentrate on the evening traffic and a van that almost touches my bumper.

I’ve been trying to drive only fifteen over the limit. To show him it’s not a “speeding habit” but a choice that I can control. A choice I make.

But it’s hard not revving to thirty-over when paparazzi latch this close.

I speed.

Just to pass a Mustang and switch lanes. Putting distance between me and the paparazzi. As I decelerate, Farrow drops his arm to the middle console.

Done typing, he says, “Silicone-based lube feels better than water-based.”

I glance at him. Just once. “I’ve never tried it.”

He keeps his hand to his mouth. What does that mean?

I start glancing to the road. To him, the road, him, and I realize—he’s smiling. When I catch his expression, he lets his hand fall, his lips stretched so wide, and he shifts in his seat and hunches forward as he types out something on my phone.

“What are you doing?”

He turns his head to me, and bleach-white strands of hair slip to his lashes. “Writing down my favorite lube for you, wolf scout.”

I flex my abs to stop from hardening. Dear World, I hate you. Worst regards, a human being who’s trying not to bust a nut.

“Cool,” I say as he passes me my phone. Yeah, so cool. Let my childhood-crush-also-turned-bodyguard pick out my lube for me. That will make not fantasizing about him so much easier.

So smart of me.

Genius.

Maybe I shouldn’t have dropped out of Harvard.