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Kindle Notes & Highlights
I’ll volunteer to be the bad guy if it means protecting lives and keeping minds right on the team.
It’s what fuels me.
I see what you did here hehe
I read The Iliad in high school.
this is my sign to finally pick up my copy and just read it ...
They’re targets. Men that I will fucking take out before they breathe on Jane.
Truth is, I’d welcome Maximoff on the team. But he can’t be on it.
oh wow, this is surprising
And what Xander means to me—means to us…there are no words that can even encapsulate how much I feel for that kid.
Fuck. Jane. Not in that order. Not in that fucking way.
the man is in pain LOL
My mom is brilliant and beautiful. And so am I. Just in my own way.
“I think you’re twenty-three,” he tells me. “You don’t have to know exactly what you want.”
He’s a Marine.
as if he wasn't attractive enough
Security makes a lot of exceptions for Farrow, and back when I was a lead and a third of the Tri-Force, I even helped pave that path for him. Probably more than he realizes.
I didn’t really mind it, and to let Banks sleep longer, I’d do some of his tasks.
Jane is in my kitchen. As in Jane Eleanor Cobalt, as in my client, as in the girl I just fantasized fucking not even thirty minutes ago. I’m going to hell.
This is just me and her.
Tell her more.
It’s a clusterfuck of a language, but it’s our clusterfuck.”
Cut the tension, Thatcher. Don’t cut a thing. My brain is splitting in two directions, and it’s killing me. I hate indecision.
It’s either going to her six cats or a cereal bowl, and her cats are more important than one of the guys eating Frosted Flakes.
Meeting her gaze is where I want to be, but also where I shouldn’t be.
I’m so close to a smile, it fucking alarms me. Usually only Banks makes me smile.
Jane deserves the full hundred yards from me. Not just a fucking millimeter.
Towels don’t have to be sensual. Not even when they’re fastened to six-feet seven-inches of heaven and man.
If she looks at you a lot, it means she likes you. Childhood advice, man. It pops into my head like a bullet piercing a tin can. And now I’m staring at my client and thinking, look back at me.
I’d just like to be next to him. To be a wingwoman. His confidante. His right-hand.
“I feel a strong responsibility to you.” Dear God, let me breathe properly.
HAHAHAHA
“Just date Moretti,” Oscar suggests so suddenly, and the room explodes in two exclamations: “What?!” “Oscar?!” My big eyes have just popped out of my flushed face and rolled across the hardwood toward the source of my heat, shock, and all other tragically startled things. Thatcher. Thatcher. Thatcher. His name is a heartbeat in my head.
“I’d do anything to keep you safe, Jane,”
But I step foot in here and I just see all the sides of Jane Cobalt. Bold and soft. Outlandish and unabashed. Feminine and eager. Beautiful.
“No cost is greater than the cost of your life.”
“I’m not a stranger. You feel safe with me. Right?” I ask. “Yes.” “You still trust me?” “Immensely.”
There is only one of Jane, no other person can be all of who she is, and anyone who harasses this girl might as well be tearing the wings off an angel. I’m honored that I get to be the one to keep her safe.
“You’re meant to be in my arms, Jane.”
“Say that a little louder next time you see Farrow. He keeps thinking I’m the one who’s obsessed with him.” He lets out a dry laugh. “In his dreams.”
I never want to be jealous of their love. I want to be satisfied with what I have, but my stomach tumbles in strange patterns. I’m not sure what I really feel right now. I just know what I want to feel.
“You care beyond your duty.” He always says that when he brings up Jane.
Her ability to be comfortable in her own skin—it’s gorgeous.
“More like a Guinness.” It’s his favorite beer.
I CANNOT WITH THESE TWO AAAAAAA
I’ve always been extraordinarily curious about why men do that—shed their shirts from the back instead of taking the bottom of the fabric and tugging it up and off.
RIGHT?????
“Just rip it,” I say, breathless. Thatcher grabs at my collar with two hands and like the fabric is made of paper, he tears my shirt into two pieces. Oh… My…
“I love your voice.”
he makes me feel so very desired. And safe. And terribly beautiful.
“I didn’t want to be anywhere else that night but next to you.”
“You’re still good, honey.” My eyes bug and lips part—he called me honey. So innately and instinctively and with such tenderness.
“Gawking at Thatcher, who looks like a six-foot-seven version of Jon Snow after he killed White Walkers and made friends with wildlings—that’s physical attraction. Liking when a guy calls you honey is…” He scrunches his face. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not physical.”
“Eliminating anyone who wants to hurt you is the better path for me.”
“I want to know all about you, but I can’t ask fast enough—and when I think about you, I wonder what your hands have held. What your eyes have seen.” My pulse has skyrocketed, but I keep speaking. “What your ears have heard and where your feet have landed.”
You being comfortable enough to say what’s on your mind in front of me—and to me—is something I don’t take for granted.”
He seems to be aware of every little thing. Especially me.
“Sex feels different with you though.” We both tense at his admission. Treading carefully. “Good different?” I pry a little deeper. “Beyond fucking good, honey,”
“Maybe I can help with whatever you need. I fully recognize we’re fake boyfriend-and-girlfriend, but I’m a terrific wingwoman. I can be your right-hand.” His lips almost tic upward. “I have no doubt you’d be great. But I’m your right-hand, honey. I’m your wingman.”
