We’re leaving.

It’s time, and this isn’t some alternate universe. This is actually, in real life, happening. Six inches of snow blankets a deserted parking lot. Right outside of a Food Lion. I shove the tenth suitcase into the storage bays of our parked tour bus.

Security Force Omega darts around and coordinates through their mics, carrying cases of water, beer, soda, and other supplies.

My four cousins hop on and off the black sleeper bus, bringing in snacks and pillows.

And paparazzi—they’re gone. Vanished. They trailed our families back to Philadelphia, and they probably believe we’re with them. But me, Jane, Sullivan, Beckett, Charlie, and six bodyguards are still in the Smoky Mountains.

It’s weird—not having a cameraman up in my face.

I keep thinking about that. And how I’m more used to their invasive presence than the unadulterated peace without them.

My family also decided to extend the hiatus for We Are Calloway. I called Jack Highland, an exec producer of the docuseries, and he agreed to push film dates until after the tour. So those cameras won’t be around for at least four months.

“Moffy?” Jane steps off the bus into the snow.

I heave another duffel into the bottom bay. “Bonjour, ma moitié.” My voice is tight. Because we haven’t talked without a peanut gallery—her brothers, my boyfriend, or any of the security team—in fucking forever.

And by forever, I mean days.

For us, that’s practically a century.

She nears. “Regarde-moi s’il te plaît.” Look at me, please.

I stand straighter and lift my gaze. Wind whips her tangled brown hair, and her outfit is classic Janie: furry pink boots, cat-stitched mittens (gifted by me years ago), a chunky zebra sweater, and a mint-green tutu over knit leggings.

Just seeing my best friend, my mouth aches to rise.

Jane touches her mittens to her rosy cheeks. “It’s just you and me, old chap, and a tour bus full of beautiful people. Friends and family.”

I start to smile. I can feel us finding footing in our friendship again. And I think we’re going to land upright. “You sure they’re beautiful?”

“You’re right. They’re dreadfully gorgeous.” A cheery smile overtakes her face, and we notice Quinn and Donnelly lingering by the rear wheels. Watching our exchange.

So Jane and I walk over to a curb that landscapes a skeletal tree. Grass probably hidden beneath snow. We’re out of earshot from the bus but still in view.

Jane ties her hair into a messy pony. “My little brothers keep calling this the Damage Control Tour, but to me, it’s something entirely different. It’s the Preserve Jane and Moffy’s Friendship Tour, and I miss you…terribly.”

I pull Jane into a hug, and she immediately wraps her arms around my waist. This is home. This is safety and love.

She is my best goddamn friend, and I don’t want anything to ever come between us again. I kiss her cheek and whisper, “I missed you too, Janie, and we’re going to get through this.”

“Ensemble,” she whispers a Cobalt declaration in French. That means together.

Together.

We part, and she props her chin on her knuckles. “What’d I miss?”

A lot, but I start with the first thing that crashes against me. “I told Farrow I love him.”

Her hands touch her mouth, and her bright blue eyes only grow brighter. “You did? And what’d he reply?”

My smile overwhelms me for a second—just feeling her happiness for me. “He said that he loves me too.”

Janie shakes my arms, elated, and then we catch each other up. Apparently the younger girls—Audrey Cobalt, Winona Meadows, and my sister Kinney—protested about not being able to join the tour. They made a PowerPoint presentation, and when our parents said no, they locked themselves in a lake house bedroom.

“It was dramatic and passionate,” Jane finishes, “but they lost.”

“Good. We don’t need the youngest kids on the tour with us.”

“Je suis d'accord.” I agree. “The meet-and-greets are already very spontaneous,” she says, “and Beckett and Sulli aren’t as used to the spotlight as us. Having the teenagers here would be twice as chaotic.”

My assistant just emailed me the schedule for the first leg of the tour, and I organized a crew to follow our bus. They’ll set up the meet-and-greets at each convention center. Taking care of the tech aspects.

The H.M.C. charity team and I decided on an unstructured tour. We’ll announce each FanCon city only the day before the meet-and-greet. It’ll create more buzz and social media interaction. Fans will try to guess which city we’ll be in next, and they’ll keep checking to see if we’ll be near them.

It also helps keep our location more anonymous on the road. And hopefully, more paparazzi will lose track of us.

I already know what else I need to tell Jane. “My sister thought she was pregnant,” I let that bomb drop.

Janie’s eyes widen. “Merde.”

“Shit is right.” I brush snow out of my hair. “She’s not. Thank God.” The test came back negative, and Luna just broke down sobbing in relief. “I thought about what you would’ve done if you were there.”

“You did?” Jane clutches her elbows, cold.

I unzip my outer jacket. “I put on The Fifth Element—”

“One of Luna’s favorite movies,” Jane says, already knowing.

I nod. “And I made her a Pop-Tart.”

Jane smiles. “She’s lucky to have you as a brother.”

“No, she’s lucky I tapped into Jane Eleanor Cobalt’s Best Sibling Guide.” I shrug off my Patagonia jacket and hand it to her.

She sticks her arms in the holes and zips it up. “Merci.”

I glance at the twelve-bunk sleeper bus. More of Omega lingers outside on purpose. Maybe they’re taking bets on the status of our friendship. Weirdly, I’m kind of glad they care.

I ask Jane, “How are you and your parents?”

“We’re not speaking really. I need time,” she says. “You?”

I think back to the talk with my dad and mom. “Honestly, I don’t know. They’re not ready to forgive themselves, and there’s not much I can do.”

She asks about their feelings on Farrow, but my parents didn’t even reach that topic. Maybe it’s what Farrow said. It has less to do with him as my boyfriend and more to do with him breaking their trust as a bodyguard. Those weeds are too tall for me to crawl in, and so I don’t start.

“What about your passion?” I ask, realizing that I haven’t even brought this up. Not once. “You’re supposed to be finding what you want to do.”

“I will. Just…not now.”

“Janie.”

“I brought knitting.” She crinkles her nose because she’s tried knitting and she’s not good. “It’s something, but I don’t think I’ll have time…don’t look at me like that. Our friendship comes first.”

“You come first.”

Jane pinches her eyes. “Don’t make me cry. My tear ducts are in pain. They haven’t been in this much use in ages.”

I hug her again, and we chat for about ten more minutes, then we walk back to the bus—fuck. “I need to make a call,” I tell her, our bodyguards reanimating and shoving the last of the supplies in the outside-accessible bays. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

A smile pulls her freckled cheeks. “Let’s never fight again.”

“Deal.”

I step away from the bus and trek back to the curb. Searching for a number in my contacts. Cold drives through my gray sweatshirt, and my arms shake a bit.

Farrow rounds the bus, black boots crunching snow, and our eyes latch. He combs a hand through his bleach-white hair. He dyed the strands early, early this morning.

His features pop a billion times more. A barbell pierces his brown eyebrow again, and he stands like no stress on planet Earth could weigh him down.

God, I am colossally, uncontrollably attracted to him. I motion Farrow over to me, 100% subconscious. My brain zeroes in on him and just computes one word: closer.

Farrow hikes over, his masculine stride so casual and unhurried.

My muscles contract, blood pumping in my veins and rushing down. In one blip, I imagine us tangled together. Legs, arms, bodies welded—I want him all over me. His hands, his eyes, his emotion, his mind.

I solidify at one jarring thought.

I want to be smothered by my boyfriend.

Fuck.

Me.

“Maximoff.” Farrow waves his hand at my face, pulling me from a somewhat-fantasy. His smile expands to James Franco territory.

Jesus. “I’m great. Thanks for asking.”

“I didn’t ask.” His barbell rises with his brows, and my neck heats. “Where’d you go?”

“Neverland,” I quip.

He rolls his eyes, but his knowing gaze drips down all six-foot-two of my build. “Next time,” he says, “take me with you.”

You were already there.

I swallow the words and my infatuation. Because I’m too apparent. He looks like he’s about to catalogue this moment, frame it, and gift it to me. “I was thinking about the weather and tour route,” I explain.

“Sure you were.” His teasing smile strokes my cock. Fuck me. He notices my phone. “Making a call?”

“Yeah.” Focus. “I’ll put it on speaker.” I scroll back through my contacts, and a large gust blows through the parking lot. Without my outer jacket, I shake way more than I want to.

Farrow suddenly moves behind me.

I lick my lips, pulse heightening in anticipation of the unknown.

He drapes his arm over my shoulder, then he clutches me around my collarbones. And he draws my strong back to his hard chest.

His warmth sheaths me, the embrace more intimate than I’d allow anyone else. With Farrow, I almost ease back, letting myself sink against him.

“Separate!”

“Fuck,” I curse and rip apart from Farrow. I run my tongue over my teeth. Fucking A. Thatcher is hawk-eyeing us from the damn tour bus. I stand more rigid on the curb and try to refocus on my phone.

Farrow is nailing the coldest glare into Thatcher, and then he clicks his mic. “We weren’t even kissing.”

From afar, I notice Thatcher clicking his mic and speaking.

Farrow unhooks his earpiece, letting the cord dangle on his shoulder, and he raises the volume on the radio.

Thatcher’s voice filters through the earpiece speaker. “You look like a couple. You want to do that, do it on the bus. The windows are tinted.”

Farrow is about to click his mic.

I hold up a hand. “Just drop it,” I say. “We’re in public right now, and we can’t get caught.” Thatcher thought we’d be less cautious now that family and security know we’re together—and I’m starting to realize he was right. I didn’t even think twice, and I should’ve.

Farrow’s jaw muscle tics. “We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere at eight a.m.—the risk is nonexistent.”

“Not to him.” I gesture to Thatcher. “And I don’t want to burn that bridge. Not after he helped us.”

Farrow combs two hands through his bleach-white hair. His nose flares, and then he half-heartedly nods. “Fine.” He watches me scroll through my contacts. “Who are you calling?”

“Your father.” I find Dr. Keene’s number. “He keeps texting me to call him.” Now’s the time. I press the green button, and Farrow props his shoulder against the skeletal tree. He looks unconcerned but as curious as me.

“Moffy.” Dr. Keene answers on the first ring. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Sorry.” I lift the speaker to my mouth. “It’s been hectic.”

Farrow mouths, don’t apologize. As though I’m being too nice.

I give him a middle finger.

Farrow almost smiles, but he eyes the phone as his father says, “That’s not a problem. I heard you’ve been busy planning a meet-and-greet tour.”

“Yeah.” I turn my back to the roaring wind. “And I get why you’re calling, but Farrow and I are happy, we’re adults, and I hope you can respect our decision to be together. Even if it involved some risks.”

The line goes quiet.

Farrow pushes off the tree, brows knotting, and he comes to my side.

My voice is firm. “Dr. Keene?”

“You’re together?” he questions. “As in…dating?”

Holy. Shit.

I’m in a slow-mo car crash. I find myself sinking into a crouch, my face buried in one hand. Why the hell did I assume he knew?

Dear World, can you die from embarrassment? Sincerely, a dying or possibly already dead human.

“What happened?!” Donnelly shouts from the bus.

I quickly cup my hand over my phone’s speakers.

Farrow speaks hushed in his mic. “Shut up, Donnelly.” Then he crouches in front of me.

“I think I’m dead.” I grimace.

“You’re breathing. You’re alive.” Farrow rests a hand on the curve between my shoulder and neck. “Come on.”

I have to let this car crash happen. I crack a knuckle, then I uncover the speakers. “Dr. Keene?”

“I didn’t know you and my son were together,” he says, his voice unreadable.

I rise at the same time as Farrow. My muscles are set to broil. “I thought my parents told you,” I say, my tone even-keeled despite my body frying alive from my fuck-up. I rarely make these kinds of mistakes. “And I assumed that’s why you were calling.” Stupidly. I glance at Farrow and my hard gaze carries a million-and-one apologies.

He mouths, it’s fine.

“I’m calling,” Dr. Keene says, “because you haven’t had an STD screening in months. That didn’t seem like you.” He clears a tight ball from his throat. “Now I know why.”

I’m fucking his son.

Dammit. I don’t know what to say. This is the first time I’ve dealt with a significant other’s parent. I’m not a normal human being either. I’m a celebrity from birth, American royalty, so I have no idea the correct protocol for any of this.

First thing that comes to my head, I tell Dr. Keene, “We’re safe.”

Farrow chokes on the brittle air, and he shakes his head vigorously at me and mouths, no. Like he doesn’t want his father in on his sex life. I get that now.

He’s twenty-seven. I’m sure he stopped talking to his father about that shit eons ago. That is, if he ever talked to him about it at all.

“Farrow is still your bodyguard?” Dr. Keene questions. “How?”

“Our relationship is staying secret from the public,” I tell him, and Farrow fixates on the phone in deep thought.

“Right. Be safe on the tour. Have a good rest of the day.”

After I say my goodbye, we hang up.

Farrow shakes his head a few times. “That’s not good.” He points at my phone. “That fucker has the strongest motive to leak our relationship to the public.”

I rub my sharpened jaw. “You really think he’d try to get you kicked off security?”

“To force me back onto a medical career path, yeah. I do.”

I start thinking about avenues we can take. “I’ll fix it.” I can make a call—

Farrow steals my phone.

“Farrow—”

“Wolf scout, you can’t patch bullet holes before the trigger is pulled. Take your own advice, and just drop it.”

I crack a crick in my neck. “The doing nothing thing—I’m not good at.”

“No shit.” He laughs when I glare.

I fight a smile. “Shut up.”

He leans towards me and lowers his voice to a sexy whisper, “See, every time you try to fix unfixable things, just imagine me pounding you so hard you cry when you come.”

Fuck me. My cock stirs, and I look at his mouth. Kiss me, man. “Sounds like fan fiction.”

Farrow watches me drinking him in, and his smile widens. “Trust me, it can easily be reality.” We somehow drift closer. Nearer. Hands on each other’s shoulders, slipping to the back of his neck, my neck—and my body thumps for more contact.

Mouths inches away, I breathe, “Bite me.”

He kisses me hard and then nips my lip, fuck yes—

“Separate!”

We do, and Farrow fits his earpiece in with the shake of his head. “If he does this the entire trip, I’m going to strangle him.”