I’m going to propose here. This five-day vacation with Farrow—God, it’s hands-down the most romantic of my life. I have the ring. I just need to wait for the perfect moment.

Early morning, we lounge on the sunbathing cushion in boxer-briefs, a shaded pergola shielding the rising sun. A photo-worthy Greek breakfast is spread on a wooden slab: eggs baked in tomato, onion, feta, spinach, along with sesame-coated koulouri bread and two glasses of orange juice.

We talked for hours last night and fell asleep under the stars. I never used to think a lot about romance, but being with him, I think about these things. All the damn time.

“She put a Team Marrow bumper sticker on her car before we left,” Farrow says, scooping eggs onto his fork. I catch sight of his amused smile.

How we started talking about my mom and Team Marrow bumper stickers and her unconditional love of our relationship, I have no idea.

But it turns my mind. “What do you think about our ship name?” I ask him seriously, picking up a glass of orange juice.

Farrow lies more relaxed on his side. I’m sitting upright, but every now and then, he’ll reach out and rub my back or skate his fingers through my hair—and I can’t hide my fucking smile.

He swallows his food and tells me, “I love ‘Marrow’ because you’re obsessed with it.”

I pause before I swig my orange juice, brows furrowing. “Why do you think I’m obsessed with it?” I’m not my mom. I haven’t put bumper stickers on my car, bought Marrow T-shirts, or sent out a billion tweets professing my undying love. So I wonder why he drew that conclusion.

And that conclusion—it’s not wrong.

Farrow glances at the orange rising sun, then to me. “Whenever anyone mentions the name, you stare faraway for a bit, then you start smiling. I figured it meant something to you…” He looks me over like he’d love to know what went on inside my brain in those moments.

I nod. “It does mean something to me.” I sip orange juice, cool citrus sliding down my throat. “Have you skimmed Thoreau’s ‘Walden’?”

“Skimmed?” he repeats with the roll of his eyes. His lips quirk. “No, smartass. I haven’t skimmed that one.”

I cup the cold glass in my hand, and I hold his gaze while I quote, “‘I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life.’ I think about that whole passage every time someone says Marrow.”

Farrow looks enamored. “Go on.”

I try to explain in my own words, and I gesture to his chest. “It’s in your bones; it’s what keeps you alive. The foundation of your body. To suck out all the marrow of life…I think about how Thoreau went into the woods and stripped life to the barest necessities. To learn what life is really made of, the feeling of water slipping between fingers, the chilled glass in my hand, the wind that rustles your damn hair. And I think about how I feel these barest things every day with you. To live life at its most essential level so as to fully live.”

Farrow has his hand to his mouth, overwhelmed, his eyes unable to shift off my eyes.

I add, “And Marrow starts with the letter of my name.”

Hand dropping, he smiles unbearably wide. “That’s what you have to tell yourself since my name occupies five of the six letters.”

I flip him off, but I can’t fucking grimace if I tried. I smile into another swig of orange juice—and I think, this is it. I can go to my suitcase inside the villa, go grab the ring.

And then the doorbell buzzes.

Our heads turn, but we can’t see the front entrance from the private patio. We look back at each other, and I say, “It could be the villa’s owner.” But we’re both aware that the owner said she wouldn’t contact us during our stay.

Farrow places his fork back on the wooden slab, and he sits up. “I’ll call the owner and see if it’s her.”

I find his phone beneath a light blue decorative pillow. The screen is lit up with text notifications, and I catch the name before I toss it to him. “Who’s Jordan?”

He shuts his eyes in a bout of annoyance, contempt for Jordan raiding his features. “Fuck this guy.” He exhales an edged breath before telling me, “He was a second-year resident and hated everything about me. He must’ve gotten my number from Shaw.”

“Was this the first time you worked at the hospital or the second?” I ask while he opens the texts.

“Second time.” His nose flares as he skims the texts. This Jordan guy knew where to jab Farrow because it’s a direct hit. He grinds his teeth and combs his hand through his hair. Multiple times. “He sent me screenshots of tweets.”

I wrap my arm across his shoulders, muscles stiffened. Ready for survival. But my stomach is knotting. Before I ask to see, he holds the phone out and shows me the screenshots.

My eyes narrow at the phone screen. “Fuck them,” I say. Farrow isn’t the only doctor who practices without being board-certified. There are plenty doing good work at clinics, private practices, and the hospitals that don’t require it.

Farrow deletes the messages and blocks the number. “I’m not as angered by the tweets as I am by the fucking prick who took the time to text them to me…” he trails off, the doorbell ringing a second time. Followed by knocking.

We forget about the texts and focus on this issue. More urgently, Farrow dials the owner’s number, phone to his ear.

I stand off the sunbathing cushion and head into the airy bedroom. Natural light streaming inside. For hanging here all day, all night, the villa is pretty clean. Bed made, clothes in drawers, and wet towels drying on hooks.

I rake back my windswept hair and put on gray sweatpants.

My weatherproof duffle-suitcase lies unpacked next to a birch dresser. I can almost picture the square black ring box in the front pocket—and then the doorbell buzzes.

Again.

Almost incessantly.

That’s not the owner. My head swerves as Farrow rushes into the bedroom.

“The owner isn’t here,” he says quickly, putting on black joggers, elastic band to his waist, and my brain is reeling.

I’m pretty sure there’s a natural disaster on the other side of that door, and I think, my family. My family.

My family.

My goddamn family. I’m rigid, wading deep in crisis mode, and I grab my charged phone off the dresser. I power it on. “My family would’ve called you if they couldn’t get ahold of me?” I ask him.

Farrow lifts his brows at me. “A hundred percent. It’s not them, wolf scout.”

Knocking returns, more impatient sounding this time.

I get that my family was instructed not to come here, but there’s always an asterisk that says, unless there’s a dire emergency. If they were in trouble and needed me, I’d welcome them to interrupt everything. Like a birthday, a honeymoon, a fucking rocket takeoff to Mars.

I don’t have time to comb through the hundreds of missed group chat messages. Because the doorbell jingles again.

Farrow leans on the dresser. “I’m going to call security.” His jaw tics, irritated without a radio, which would be faster.

“Maybe the media knows we’re not in Tahiti and our location leaked.” I already know it’s unlikely before Farrow tells me.

“It’d be all over the news.”

And it’s not.

After the umpteenth doorbell ring and urgent knock, I start walking down the narrow hall. Towards a sky-blue door with a chalkboard sign that says welcome in Greek.

Farrow jogs to catch me, his inked fingers in my waistband. Pulling me back. “Wait, wolf scout.” He gives me a hard look that says we’re not doing this shit again.

Again.

Nate.

My stalker.

It’s why he’s overly cautious. Why he hasn’t bombarded the front door himself. And I can see it eating at him, having to grip onto a cell instead of a gun.

I stand like I’m ready for whatever hell exists on the other side. A war, a hurricane, I can handle it. “Bruno is at least fifteen minutes away. If that is my family, I need to answer it now.”

Farrow speaks into the phone while staring right at me. His gaze says, I’m with you; don’t go alone. “We’re fine. Someone’s at the door,” he tells security. “We’d just like a couple guys out here. Yeah, thanks.” He hangs up and then nods to the door. “I’m going first.”

He’s already passing me, his stride long and fast.

I’m right by his side.

“Stay behind me,” Farrow instructs.

I don’t remind him that he’s not my bodyguard. He still has the experience from training and being on-duty for years. But putting Farrow in danger—it’s never been as easy as putting myself in harm’s way. He’d say the exact same.

So I don’t slip behind him. I stay by his side. He has no time to call me stubborn, another fist raps the door.

Farrow puts his hand on the knob. “Who is it?!” he yells, his voice commanding and threatening all at once. My pulse pounds hard.

Silence ekes out the other end, and that…yeah, that sends my blood cold.

Farrow hisses at me, “Back up. I’m not messing around anymore.”

I glower. “You don’t even have a canister of pepper spray.” I reach for my knife on my ankle—I don’t have a fucking tactical knife on me. Or a switchblade. I feel more unprepared. And I’m not even positive what I’m supposed to be preparing for.

Farrow extends his arm over my chest. Keeping me a foot or two behind him. “I don’t need a weapon,” he whispers lowly. “You’re safe; I’ll be safe. Just stay back. Or this door stays closed until Bruno gets here. And I know neither of us will like that.”

I hang onto the part where he says he’ll be safe.

Alright.

Alright.

I don’t push forward. As he cracks the door open, Farrow has the view. I only see the sky-blue painted wood, which blocks the person from my sight.

I watch my boyfriend’s expression change from territorial protectiveness to outright anger. He tries to swing the door closed on them.

That person sticks their foot in the crevice. A nice leather loafer jams the door open.

“Move your motherfucking foot,” Farrow sneers. “Or I will break it.”

“I have photos!”

What.

Blood drains out of my head. And I don’t recognize that urgent male voice. Farrow must though, and he’s one second from shoving his weight into the door and breaking that guy’s foot.

“Nude photos!” the guy shouts. “Of both of you!”

Bullshit.

There’s no way.

There’s no way, I think over and over again. I start layering my demeanor, my features, with brick and brick, mortaring down for the storm to come. “Farrow,” I say, voice strict. I have to see this guy. I can’t be in the dark anymore.

Farrow knows.

It’s why he doesn’t argue. He just yanks the door wider to allow me a better view. But he fills the doorway with his six-foot-three frame and muscular MMA build. Whoever is on the other side would have to barrel through Farrow to reach me.

Five people.

Five people stand outside our villa, cypress trees landscaping the private front yard and pebbled parking spot. The ratio blares in my brain: five to two.

We’re outnumbered.

Two heftier men in the back carry bulky cameras, and two taller guys have black duffel bags slung across their chests. Lighting equipment of some kind.

But the late-twenty-something guy out in front, wearing a baby blue suit and yellow pocket square, steals most of my attention. I zero in on his ashy-brown hair, a quarterback build and gunmetal eyes.

Familiarity creeps into me, but I can’t quite place him. The picture is lost in the cobwebs of my brain.

Who are you?

My boyfriend white-knuckles the doorframe, one second from slamming it shut. “You’re full of shit,” Farrow sneers. “Get your camera crew off our front steps. This is private property.”

The gunmetal-eyed guy ignores him. “Maximoff,” he says quickly. “We weren’t properly introduced. I’m Ace Steel—”

“What,” I snap heatedly. Fucking Christ.

This is the porn star. I wonder how much the company is paying him to be here. To try to convince me to work for them.

He starts again, “I—”

“No,” I cut in. “Whatever you want from me, no.” Anger gnaws at me, clawing to take hold and destroy before I’m destroyed. I breathe and turn to my boyfriend. “Farrow.” I want him to shut the door. His earlier instincts were spot on. Get this fucking guy out of here.

“I’ll leak the nudes!” Ace yells before Farrow can do anything.

He’s not serious.

I charge and Farrow actually blocks me from bombarding the door, his arm across my chest.

“You’re blackmailing me?” I growl. “To my face?!”

“It’s not blackmail.” Ace glances cautiously to the four men around him, then back to me, “I just want to talk. Give me five minutes. Do you understand what I had to go through to get a face-to-face with you?”

Yeah…he had to bid two million dollars on me at an auction, and he still couldn’t get that time with me. I don’t even want to know what he did to track us down here.

I don’t want to know.

I don’t want to feel even more violated than I do right now.

“You don’t have nudes,” I say like it’s a real fact. It has to be. Anything else feels wrong.

Farrow has reached back and wrapped an arm around my waist, all while facing forward and keeping his focus on Ace. He’s trying to protect me, but I want to raise our armies for him. I want to tear this guy to fucking pieces.

“I do have them.” Ace stares unblinkingly at me.

He’s bluffing. “Do you even understand the legal ramifications of you admitting that right now?” I ask, dumbfounded. “I’ll bury you.”

The Hales have dug graves for weaker transgressions than what he’s confessing. My dad, my grandfather, have ruined countless men.

I can ruin him.

But I’m not sure that’d erase this slithering feeling that tries to worm its way inside of me.

“I didn’t take the photos myself,” Ace clarifies. “A drone did.”

A drone. I didn’t see one in the air. Neither did Farrow, who’s vigilant about these things. We missed it, and we’re usually careful. We think of everything, but the one time where we both wanted to feel free…

It was a risk.

I think we both knew it was.

Ace unbuttons his suit jacket, hot and uncomfortable. “But I have the photos.”

“Then show us them,” Farrow says coldly.

Ace takes out his phone and pops up a picture.

I see Farrow kissing me on the sundeck, his ass completely exposed, but I’m covered, pressed against his body. Ace swipes up. The next photo is just of me. Walking towards the pool.

It’s full frontal.

Farrow decks Ace in the face with skilled, enraged force, a massive amount of power going into that single blow. And I hear a sickening crack in his cheekbone, and the porn star hits the stone porch.

My pulse jackhammers—I was about to swing at Ace, but Farrow beat me to it and now that it’s done, all I want to do is get this goddamn camera crew out of here.

“Leave,” I growl at them while Ace stays on the ground, moaning in pain.

A hipster-looking guy with a handlebar mustache holds out his hand. “Wait, we only want to leak a couple of these photos with your permission. We can even pick the tame ones for you.”

“What?” I breathe hard, confused as fuck.

Farrow grips the edge of the door. Seconds from smashing it in their face.

“You both get to be in the press,” he explains. “It’ll increase your social media following, and in exchange, you’ll drop some hints on an Instagram Live or two about Sensual Flixxxs. How it’s your favorite website. It’s good marketing and a win-win for all of us.”

What the hell…

“Get the fuck out,” Farrow says through gritted teeth, “or you’ll join your friend on the fucking ground—”

“We could film a chaste kissing scene,” he adds quickly, taking a step back. Afraid of Farrow. “No sex or penetration. We’ve got the crew here. We could do it right now. We’ll pay you twenty million.” His gaze swerves to Farrow at the talk of money. Like he knows that’d be his incentive.

Fuck him.

Fuck this.

Farrow lets go of the door, about to throw another knockout punch. But I put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from starting a drag-out fight with five men. Doing what he’d do for me.

And then an SUV slams to a stop onto the pebbled path. We both go still.

“It’s not a bad offer,” the hipster tells us, but we’re looking behind him. “Other celebrities would have taken it.”

“Redford!” Oscar yells from the car. His curly hair blows in the wind. He’s the only guy here from SFO. Bruno and the rest from SFA file in and close around the camera crew.

“Confiscate their phones,” Farrow tells security before the words leave my mouth, and I watch six bodyguards all descend upon the trespassers to protect us.

“We’re leaving,” Ace chokes out, picking himself up. His hand to his face. “We’re leaving.”

“You’re not leaving,” Farrow sneers. “I already gave you that chance. Now you’re going to stay until we’ve—they’ve combed through your equipment.”

“And then we’re pressing charges,” I say, my voice stilted.

I don’t know what I feel. Grateful that the full frontal is of me and not him. I know I feel that.

Farrow kicks the door closed, and it shuts with a loud thud. I back up a few feet, and as soon as he turns towards me, we latch onto one another. Our arms slide around each other’s shoulders.

Chest to chest, we tighten the embrace, and his heavy pulse thumps against mine. We’re okay.

His hand warms my neck. “Maximoff,” he breathes.

He stops there.

Because he knows.

Like I do.

There’s such a small chance that those photos won’t be leaked. I don’t know who else has them, and if they were smart, they would have already sent the pictures to their bosses. Once a photo is taken, the line between a leak and privacy is so damn thin.

I can only hope that my lawyers will be fast enough to file cease and desists. That they’ll obtain the photos before it snowballs out of control.

And the last thing I think, I can’t propose today. Somehow, that hurts the most.