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First thing people know about me, I’m tall. Second thing, I’m a twin. Third thing, I’m a pain in your fucking ass. If you’re not giving a hundred shits at rest or in high water, I will hammer you. One further, I’ll volunteer to be the bad guy if it means protecting lives and keeping minds right on the team.
Farrow Redford Keene looks between a swashbuckling pirate and a fucking guitarist in a rock band. He’s neither. In actuality, he’s a doctor. Now a bodyguard again.
Xander is a kid that Banks and I spent over five years protecting together. And what Xander means to me—means to us…there are no words that can even encapsulate how much I feel for that kid.
I possess the unfortunate inability to run away from my own mortification.
“You have nice muscles. Really quite nice.” I think I can live with that endnote. Treading the line carefully. It could be much, much worse. I could’ve said, Oh God, Thatcher, I’m dripping wet right now. You’ve soaked me like Niagara Falls. Please, please plunge your sinful tongue inside of me. Let me come out of this unscathed.
Thatcher is like a sacred text. I’m tempted to rush through the pages, but something has compelled me to draw out each line, each word. Reading so slowly and carefully so as to never miss a syllable. So a single book, a single person, could last me forever.
“Oh my God,” I breathe underneath my breath. I just checked out my bodyguard’s ass. It wouldn’t be the first time. “You’re most surely going to hell, Jane,” I whisper more softly to myself. Two out of my five brothers will certainly be there, so at least I won’t be alone. But knowing Tom and Eliot, those two menaces will destroy all eternal pits of fiery damnation the second they enter.
My mom is a brilliant, ball-busting woman who takes no shit from anyone, especially not from her husband. My dad acts like her rival, but they’re equals in every way, shape, and form. I love them dearly.
I won’t devalue her achievements just to find value in myself. My mom is brilliant and beautiful. And so am I. Just in my own way.
“It’s not checkmate yet,” I say to myself. I’m not a sad little cub about to be eaten. I’m a motherfucking lion.
“My grandmother has officially lost all sense of reality.” Her rich grandmother contacted the press, her rich grandmother paid for the ad, and I’ve been mentally calling her rich grandmother a fucking jackass. Still applies. Maybe even more. She’s about to cause her own granddaughter bad publicity and a dangerous amount of unwanted attention.
He wants to meet Jane. Good luck. She’s an American princess. Take a fucking number and wait forever. Because I’m never letting it happen. She’s my responsibly. My duty. He can go shove his dick in an exhaust pipe.
I halt to a dead stop, towel hung low on my waist. 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.
Jane continues on. “But in my family, there’s also a thrill in irritating my dad with superstitions. As you’re probably aware, along with the rest of the world, he’s solely logic-based, but my mom is very much fate-driven. I suppose I’m somewhere in the middle.”
I think Farrow is a beautiful person inside and out, and I will never desire to go backwards. To a time where he’s not with us. To just me and Maximoff. Our worlds are more full of life with him here.
Men who are quick to criticize my physical appearance. I’m not pretty enough. Not busty enough. Not full-assed enough. And I have too wide of hips. Too big of a stomach. But after much consideration, I’ve learned to love my body. Because it’s mine and there is only one of me. I don’t have all the right curves in the right places. I am chubby. But I love my belly rolls, and I adore my love handles and my flat pancake-like ass that’s dimpled with cellulite. The more I love myself, the more I feel a warm, invisible hug wrap around my body.
Eleven brains on top of mine could easily make the situation more dysfunctional, but the professional hierarchy in SFO makes them a functional team. Most of them are good about checking their egos. And when they don’t, it never bothers me. I was raised in a family with parents and siblings who love to be right. The ego of my dad alone could fill the entire Milky Way.
“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.
Her room is drenched in pastel colors, sequins, and animal prints. Coming here is like jumping into some type of milkshake-drinking bubblegum-blowing pop era that dresses up as the fucking 80s. Banks says it gives him agita. Makes him want to chug three bottles of Pepto-Bismol, and if it weren’t for Jane, I might feel the same. 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. It makes me never want to leave.
Her mouth falls and wavers into a shocked smile. “You just said out loud that you’re attracted to me.” She’s more surprised that I said the words than that I actually am attracted to her. Which means I did a piss-poor job at hiding it, but I already knew that.
My hand is clamped on my jaw and mouth. Trying not to think about my hand on her ass. Three Hail Marys is not enough to atone for what I’m feeling about her.
“You’re meant to be in my arms, Jane.” She pulses against me and sets her laced fingers along the back of my neck. “I…um.” She shakes out her scrambled thoughts. “We’ll be experts in the art of fake-dating in no time. Don’t you think?”
“About Jane.” Maximoff changes the subject. “I just want you to know that I’m appreciative of what you’re risking for her. It’s not a small thing, losing your privacy.” She’s worth it.
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. Their way is such an odd method, but it looks extraordinarily sexy. Like they just couldn’t bother with the fabric of a shirt anyway.
It’s been clear to me that we’re kerosene together. And we’ve finally lit the match. In my head, there’s no going back. I should be concerned about the un-crossable line that I just leapt over with two middle fingers—but I’m not.
She begins to smile more brightly. “It seems we are dreadfully tangled, you and I.” Couldn’t agree more.
Maximoff gestures towards our bodyguards while he speaks. “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.”
Thatcher looks down at me, and as added reassurance, he says, “It’s better this way, Jane.” “Maybe not for you,” I point out. He shakes his head, his brows drawn together. “Eliminating anyone who wants to hurt you is the better path for me.”
Because she’s my purpose. I want to be here for Jane more than anything; it’s my drive in life and I’m already squared away to push out.
I’m not sensitive. You can earn the right to rib me like that and I won’t bat an eye. Infantrymen did, bodyguards still do. But if I don’t know you and you tell me to go suck off my brother, then you’re just an asshole trying to piss me off. And don’t be surprised if I deck you.
I reach back and keep hold of her hand again. Tighter. You’re safe with me, honey. That’s a lasting promise I’ll always make.
“Jane motherfucking Cobalt,” the brunette gapes. “We love your mom.” “She’s our idol,” the blonde says. “Mine too,” Jane smiles more, and her eyes subtly flit to me.
“Oh Sullivan, dear, did you not get the email about the dress code?” “Got it, but I asked my dad and he told me it was fucking optional.” Sulli smiles into her next bite of pastry. In reality, her dad told her to wear what she wanted and blame it on him.
“When I noticed them forming, I was at Princeton,” I explain to Thatcher. “Alone. My best friend was miles away, and I had barely anyone to talk to. So I went to the internet. Which—was a massive oversight. Because all I could find were women talking about how they take pride in their mommy stretch marks. They’re badges of honor. And they are. But the more and more I searched for people to make me feel better about mine, all I could find were horrible, demeaning blog posts and comments in forums. They called them permanent, everlasting reminders of a mistake. Then they continued on explaining
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Breathless and panting, I’m in between a kiss, when he whispers against my ear, “Christ, you’re beautiful.” Those words sting my eyes for a second. I usually don’t need to hear those words to feel them. Especially from a man. But sometimes, it’s so very nice to have it reaffirmed. It feels so wonderfully good to be called beautiful. Especially from him.
“Ensemble,” I tell him. Together. All four of my brothers repeat the word. And then Eliot grins, mischievous twinkle in his eye, and he says something I’ve heard him recite a thousand-and-one times. But tonight, it’s never felt truer. “‘Let me play the lion too…I will roar.’”
If this were ancient Sparta, all her enemies would be dead right now. I’d kill them. No question. I felt this way for a long time, but something feels different.
This girl is heaven-sent, and I’m fucking an angel. And gripping a one-way ticket to hell.
“I don’t know why you’re here or how you know about the fake dating op, but one thing’s certain—you don’t know me and you sure as fucking hell don’t know my type. If you did, you’d realize it’s the girl right next to me.”
I want to be shielded within Thatcher Moretti’s powerful embrace tonight, tomorrow, and next week and far beyond Halloween. I’ve never met such a taunting dream. And this one is taunting me oh-so-very hard.
He’s considered the king of this American dynasty—and he’s Jane’s dad. Guys on the team say Connor Cobalt is all-knowing, all-seeing like the Wizard of fucking Oz and if you have the honor of protecting him, you’ll come back with a higher IQ.
“Maximoff—” I start. “Can’t know,” Luna says adamantly. “I can’t even imagine what his reaction would be if he knew Donnelly and I hooked up—for scientific purposes—but still.” She looks to Donnelly. “Moffy goes three-fourths Loren Hale, and there is no universe you’d ever survive one-half of my dad if he found out.” She’s right. Uncle Lo would surely do damage.
We release and I look to Donnelly. “Don’t you dare hurt her.” “I’d rather die.” Seriousness coats his voice. This is also the same person who has Cobalts Never Die tattooed on his kneecap and is incredibly close to Beckett—my most honest brother. I think there’s a reason for that.
I don’t want to be in the room when her dad sees that photo online. He might have a stroke. Hopefully Aunt Lily is with him. She always knows what to say to calm Uncle Lo.
“Oooh, I like this one.” Aunt Daisy playfully waves a cheetah print vest. “Or this one.” Aunt Lily scoots out from the bottom of my closet with a tulle mint-green skirt. And ladies and gentlemen, behind me is a sword, a cannon blast, a shoulder to cry on, a stroke of hope—my mom. In a form-fitting black dress, long matte black nails, and dark rouge lipstick, Rose Calloway Cobalt stands pin-straight, her posture stiff and rigid. And cold. But she wields such deep love for me in her piercing yellow-green eyes.
Daisy plucks a cat-ear headband off my mirror and places it atop her head. Blonde hair chopped bluntly a little below her shoulders. She smiles at me, radiant like the sun.
But I already am—I’m thinking about how Xander reminds me of the brother I lost. He always has, and I’ve always tried to let that raw thought go. But Xander is fifteen now. He’s the same age that Skylar died. And I can’t lose that kid like I lost my brother. He was mine to protect. They both were.
Quickly, I crouch to Xander, who groans and cups his nose. Lanky at six-foot-two, he’s pretty scrawny for fifteen—and without pause, I lift him in my arms. He tucks his head into my chest with some type of familiarity, seeking safety in my clutch. As though he knows exactly who I am without checking. I’m almost whiplashed with how many years I’ve spent protecting him, and as I carry Xander down the hill, I feel like he’s nine-years-old again. He’s safe.
All the walls I smashed down, that she smashed down, are being cemented back together. Right in front of me. But there’s one thing I’ve realized in all of this: I couldn’t compartmentalize Jane. Not very well in the past, not at all in the present, and there’s no fucking way I’ll be able to in the future. I’ve given up a lead position. I’ve lost my privacy. I’ve risked the safety of my family. All for her—and at the end of the fucking line, I can’t shove her in one box and walk away. I couldn’t then; I can’t now. She is everywhere inside of me. And that’s where I want her to be.
Price says, “Was it for the fame or the sex?” “Neither,” I say, not even hesitating. “It was just her.” It was always just her.
