“It could be worse.” I offer my beer to Banks. He takes the glass, his brows knitting. “How?” “You could’ve tattooed it on your ass.” Thatcher laughs first, the sudden noise deep but light. Banks smiles into laughter too, and I brighten and realize how somewhere deep down, I knew Thatcher would find humor in this exchange. He’s become less of a mystery, and I’m so incredibly fond of the man next to me. Or rather…the man I’m sitting on. I blow out a breath, my heart beating wildly. He presses a kiss to the top of my head. I’m in love. Don’t be frightened, Jane. I’m trying.
