Tangled Like Us (Like Us, #4)

by Krista Ritchie

well, he was slightly naked.” “Naked?” Farrow repeats, his brown brows spiking. “Moretti? The fucking hall monitor?”

“Man, she’s hot and bothered, and there’s only one bodyguard who makes her turn that red.” Very true.

Maximoff and Farrow are the only two people I ever told that I’ve been attracted to Thatcher in the past…and the present.

Maximoff and Farrow are staring at me with piercing concern. Possibly because I’m speaking about someone they’re not fond of, and I don’t want any of what I just said to feel like betrayal. Like I’m not with them. I’m with them. Always.

Of course I notice how considerate Thatcher is. But that’s me seeing my bodyguard hours and hours throughout a single day. Maximoff and Farrow only witness moments, and I just never thought they’d see even a fraction of his kindness.

Farrow counts off his fingers, beginning with his thumb. “One, Thatcher made an ‘oath’ with you.” He also uses air quotes. “Just to stay on your detail,” Maximoff adds.

“Two.” Farrow raises his pointer finger. “Back in Greece, you weren’t even on speaking terms. It would’ve been easier for that motherfucker to ask for a transfer and just protect someone else. Instead of doing that, he committed to you.” A smile tugs at my lips, remembering the bonfire. How we took a short walk. How I shivered and he gave me his button-down without a single hesitation.

Maximoff homes in on Farrow’s inked fingers. “Pretty sure your second point is still the oath.” “Pretty sure I couldn’t care less,” Farrow says easily while taking in all of Maximoff. He feigns surprise. “I totally forgot you can’t count. I’m sorry, man.”

Farrow rubs his strong jawline, his muscles tensed. I freeze. Farrow and I have been deeply concerned about Maximoff feeling guilty about splitting his attention between us. He overthinks about the wrong and right timing and whether he’s being unfair.

I slide a furtive glance to Farrow, and we share a look of understanding. Protect and love Maximoff Hale.

“Three.” Farrow lifts his middle finger.

You don’t do what Moretti did without liking a client, and I’d know because I’d do whatever it took to stay on Maximoff’s detail.”

So they believe, through the oath, that Thatcher finally showed his cards, and now they know that he must like me on some personal level.

“So he likes me on a personal level. I’m attracted to him. It’s not like anything can happen.”

Maximoff pops his knuckles, a bad habit.

We’re both twenty-eight, not eighteen. We’d put protecting you two above every fucking thing.”

They see Thatcher as an experienced, expertly-skilled bodyguard, and they know he’ll keep me safe. Regardless of any bad blood. So they still trust him, but they don’t like him.

“Putting all that shit aside, I’m going to be honest here: Thatcher won’t do what I did. He won’t break the rules for you like I broke them for Maximoff. I can’t even see him breaking a rule for his own twin brother.”

Love is a two-way street that neither of us are driving down.” Maximoff stares faraway in thought. “Famous ones.” Farrow looks between the two of us with slowly rising brows. “Your inexperience is showing.”

Maximoff is still staring off into space, cracking his knuckles. Farrow has a hard time pulling his gaze off him,

“Love can definitely be a one-way street, and trust me, you don’t want to be the one who drives down it.”

Maximoff tunes in. “Drive where?” We laugh. He blinks slowly into a glare. “I apparated to another dimension.” “Still in Philly, wolf scout.” Farrow smiles wider and then stands up, just to take a seat on the armrest, but he’s much closer to his fiancé.

Revenge is pointless, my dad would say.

“That fucker was driving down that road all on his own,” Farrow tells Maximoff. “I was nowhere near it.” His palm encases Maximoff’s sharp jaw, and Moffy runs his hand up to the base of Farrow’s skull. I can tell they’re about to kiss.

And in his mind, here I am—his other half—about to head down a one-way road.

So I’m technically not alone, but as my dad always says, some battles are best fought with a sidekick. These three men are mine.

“There’s more than enough room in the garage, Sulli,” Jane reassures, “I promise your Jeep will fit.”

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.

She smiles brightly at something that I can’t see. Maybe the phone in Maximoff’s hand. I shouldn’t want to be that phone. I shouldn’t want to be the receiver of Jane’s vibrant energy or any fucking thing that belongs to her mind or body, but I keep thinking, look at me.

She turns her head. And looks right at me. I’m not shifting away. Our gazes latch for a solid beat, but I stand about four meters from her position. Roughly fifteen feet apart.

She misses the question. I’m distracting my client. Fucking unprofessional.

But Farrow—he’s been sitting and lacing up his black boots at the iron café table. He’s less than two meters away from me, and his threatening glare feels even fucking closer.

Regret surges, biting. It’s hard every time I see Farrow. Because it’s nearly impossible not to think about my mistake.

How much hurt I caused, what I deserve in return, and all the debts I feel like I can never repay.

We have a lot in common. We like a lot of the same shit. Same interest in martial arts, Philly sports teams. Same taste in music. How he jokes around—constant ribs and digs at his friends, I used to be around that a lot in the military.

We have more in common. Worse things, and sometimes I wonder if he’s realized that I’ve known he’s been experiencing some form of PTSD.

In Greece, I had to hand a bottle of water to Banks to give to Farrow.

I’m not one to talk. I can barely say the word out loud. Shouldn’t be that way, but it is.

I look right at Farrow while he stands up—done tying his boots—and I’m positive he’s silenced his radio. Wouldn’t be the first time.

He’s vigilant, always a skilled set of hands, and constantly on guard, even if he’s cracking jokes, smiling, or lounging on furniture like the world isn’t on fire when it’s actually up in fucking flames.

Farrow gets away with it because he’s never made a real mistake. Because he picks up slack. Without needing to be asked.

Because he’s so calm and reliable under fire, and that…just can’t be taught. When lives are at stake, not just these families but the safety of the team, we want the best bodyguards here.

I can’t say every new hire on the team sees the depth of Farrow’s value. Not when they’re slapped on the wrist or fired for the same moves he pulls.

To the point where I had one man taking personal shots at Donnelly just to piss off Farrow. Being a lead means making hard calls.

Their jealousy was escalating. Something bad was going to happen. I could see it. I could hear it. SFE and Farrow don’t get along to this day.

Akara would’ve been willing to be the bad guy, but he’s better at balancing the friend and boss role than I am.

“You two doing the good-cop, bad-cop routine, and it’s starting to make me look like the fucking cowboy.”

It’s ironic that I spent so long trying to control the situation, and I ended up being the one to lose my temper and punch him. There’s no excuse for it.

Now he’s facing me in a cluttered living room that smells like fresh flowers and spring—like Jane—and he’s wondering why I’m not hounding him for comms.

“Just don’t coddle me. Don’t kiss my ass as penance. Don’t fuck with my fiancé or Jane, and we won’t have a problem.”