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I lift my chin to meet his gaze, my hands naturally perching on my wide hips. “We’ve obviously met many times before,” I say aloud. He nods. “Yeah. We have.” The corner of his lip almost lifts, I think, but then he rubs his mouth.
with your brother?” He’s nodding. And my hands fall off my hips, and my heart plummets. It’s what I feared. That this rumor will forever destroy my relationship with Moffy. “It made us closer,” Thatcher says. “We got stronger.” Stronger.
Plus, Thatcher knew the names of all my cats when he wasn’t even on my detail. That fact alone is highly attractive. And it means that he’s paid attention to my life before being assigned to protect me.
I lace my fingers together. “My handwriting can be illegible, so I’d be happy to type out the list for you.” He concentrates on the notes. “I can read your handwriting.” I can’t help but smile. “You must be able to read all chicken scratch.” “No,” he says, multitasking well by talking to me and doing his job. “It took practice to read yours.”
Fact: Thatcher Moretti taught himself to decipher my handwriting. He didn’t have to do that. My old retired bodyguard never did.
“You know,” I say, thinking aloud, “I’ve known of you since I was seventeen.” He looks up at me. “Which you already know,” I add quickly, flush creeping up my neck. “Because that’s when we met. I was seventeen…” Oh my God, why am I repeating this fact? “And you were twenty-two. Now you’re twenty-seven.” I waft my pajama top away from my sweating breasts. “You look older, very much a strong…twenty-seven.”
Lol
“Merci.” I pause. “Do you know French?” He returns to the notes. “I’m trying to learn, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to pick up more than simple phrases.”
“I might grab onto your back in large crowds,” I warn him. “That’s what I’m there for.” Thatcher looks over at me. “If there are hostile threats, I’ll need to touch you. Are you okay with that?” “Yes.” I’m more than okay with that.
Reminding me that he’s a former Marine, he’s twenty-eight to my twenty-three, and he carries the severity and focus of an experienced leader. Despite not being on my detail anymore, Thatcher Moretti still looks at me like his sole mission is to shield me and ground me and build a fortress of peace around me.
It’s sinking in, for us both. How my room is now our room. We’ve only been an official couple for two days. Just two, and he’s already moving in with me. But if I calculate our time spent fake-dating in public, we’ve been together for much longer.
“Wait, Thatcher,” I say before he grabs more clothes out of my hold. His hard gaze fixes on me. “I grew up with one drawer, then I lived out of a fucking rucksack. I don’t even have enough shit for 15% of that closet.” My eyes widen. “Stop decreasing your percentage.” His lips almost lift. “Jane—” “The fact that you’ve lived out of a single drawer, then a bag for most of your life is precisely why you deserve the whole closet. At least let me give you 50%.”
I smooth my lips together and then clarify, “It’s distracting.” Why am I clarifying at all? Hands full, I nod to his package. “Your dick.” End this quickly, Jane. “You’re big, which you know—we both know.” Oh my God. He goes to speak, and I cut him off, “It’s just that you’re not wearing boxer-briefs.” He’s my boyfriend; I shouldn’t be this flustered around him anymore. Thatcher nods, looking me over from head-to-toe. “I almost never wear them with drawstring pants.” “And the fabric is thin,” I add for some reason.
Lol
I readjust my grip on my clothes again. “You realize I’m more used to the sexual aspect of a relationship—seeing as how I’ve only had friends-with-benefits.” My voice drops to a whisper. “Anything else is entirely new to me.” Thatcher nods. “I know.” He puts on his black slacks. “If it means anything, it’s not like I’ve dated an American princess before.”
Thatcher buttons his pants. “I’m putting my duffel under your bed. All of your clothes can go back in the closet.” I crinkle my brows. “You’re not living out of a bag.” “It doesn’t bother me—” “It bothers me,” I rebut. “Greatly.” I think quickly while he sidles next to me. “So you’d prefer not to unpack? Would you rather live somewhere else?” “Hell no.” Skin pleats his forehead. “I already said I want to be here.” More strongly, he emphasizes, “I want to live with you, Jane.”
Thatcher stares into me. “No. I wouldn’t want any girlfriend of mine, rich or fucking poor, to shove her clothes under a bed to make room for me.”
“We’re still kerosene.” Flammable. Combustible. I smile. “Sounds disastrously right.”
He stops on the right page. “You’ll need to type this out and either email him or print it. He can’t read your handwriting.” My stomach twists. “…I forgot he couldn’t.” I’ve been so spoiled having Thatcher, who made a huge effort when he started on my detail. Learning to read my illegible handwriting and all.
This is a weird position to be in. Days ago, Connor Cobalt and Rose Calloway knew me as a professional, stringent bodyguard. Nothing more. Today, I’m the man that’s been dating their daughter.
In the past, in a professional setting—conversing over security matters—Connor has been approachable and easy-going. But I understand he’s no less deadly than the woman he married. The only difference is that Rose shows you her dagger, and he keeps his behind his back.
“Do you want to offer me a drink?” Connor asks, pulling my attention. “Water, lemonade, bourbon? You live here now, so I’m to assume you can act as a host.” Fuck all things to hell. I nod towards the fridge. “Would you like a drink?” I ask. “I can get whatever you want.” “Not right now. But I appreciate the offer, even delayed and obviously coerced.” He’s not going to make this easy.
lmao
I’ve only been living here for less than an hour, sir.” Connor doesn’t even pause. “You’ve been sleeping with her for much longer than an hour.” Holy fuck.
lol ahhh poor thatcher
“And I would want the same thing,” I say and then shake my head. “That’s not true, actually.” Connor tilts his head, but his stare is blank. “You wouldn’t want someone who forced themselves on Jane to be put in jail?” “No, I wouldn’t.” My voice is deep and assured. “I’d want them dead.” I’d also like to be the one to carry out the murder, but I don’t add that fact. I’m not sure Connor would appreciate how easily I could kill someone, even if it’d be for Jane.
What do you think?” It’s not slow. Don’t fucking say that, Thatcher. “It’s the speed that works for us, sir.” “But you didn’t think to wait to move in until you met her parents or told her siblings you were dating their sister.” No. Because I’m apparently really damn good at moving out of order. I grind down on my teeth. “Respectfully, sir, I’m not going to apologize for following my heart. And Jane was just following hers.”
Rose gives me a long once-over. “You’re still alive, so I take it Richard didn’t do a good job annihilating you. Did he tell you that you’re moving too fast?” Jane’s mouth drops. “Mom.” I nod. “Yes—” I stop myself from saying “ma’am” because Rose has always requested security not to call her that. “Connor did tell me we’re moving fast.” Rose eyes me. “Did he tell you that your cock will be on the end of a skewer, if you so much as hurt a hair on her head?”
lmao
To Rose, I say, “We didn’t get to that yet.” That, as in cock-skewering. “And we never will,” Connor says. “Hyperboles are your affliction, darling.”
She lets out a frustrated growl and her yellow-green eyes land back on me. “Look at these, please.” She passes me the photo album. “Don’t do it,” Jane tells me. “It’s a terrible, awful trick.” Rose rolls her eyes. “Gremlin, I’m not tricking your boyfriend.”
A lot of them are of her crying. I narrow a look on Jane in the kitchen. Her hands have dropped to her side, and she smiles. “I was a fussy toddler.” Rose sips her coffee. “You had the loudest cry. It was earsplitting. Look at those photos and remember that all babies cry. They will wake you up at odd hours of the night. They are not cute little squishy things. They are menaces.” Her fiery glare drills into me. “So when you’re thinking about having unprotected sex with my daughter, remember these photos.”
LMAO OMG
“Page seventeen.” I flip to the page. Another crying photo of Jane. This time she’s in her childhood home and at the foot of her bed. Face beet-red and mouth in an opened scream. She was a cute kid—even crying. My lips begin to really lift. “Why are you smiling?” Rose snaps at me. My mouth flattens. “Because I think my girlfriend’s baby pictures are cute.” Jane brightens like radiant sunlight. Rose nods strongly. “She was a very cute baby.”
“Dramatics and props aside,” Connor says, focused on me. “You need to keep our daughter safe. Your job is to protect her from the person she’s sleeping with, and since that man is now you, you have a bigger responsibility to Jane.” He’s talking like I’m still on her detail. “I’m not her bodyguard anymore, sir.” “Last time I checked, you also weren’t her bodyguard when she was choked in her own bedroom. But now you are her boyfriend.”
“I would never hurt her,” I say strongly. “You’re six-seven.” “I know.” “She’s five-seven. And if you choose to prioritize yourself over her during intercourse, she could get hurt in an instant, and I wouldn’t call that an accident.”
“I know,” I tell him, not shying. “But I’ve been six-seven all of my adult life, and there’s not a single time I don’t think about the power I have in bed. Her safety is always on my mind. In every aspect of our relationship. Especially when we’re sleeping together.” “This is true,” Jane says like this is a business meeting. “I can confirm, but I’d like to keep the details of it private. Thank you.”
“If something happened to Jane and it were my fault,” I tell them, “I don’t know if I could live with myself.” And that’s just the honest truth.
Rose plucks a buzzing phone out of her Chanel purse. “Your Aunt Lily is calling. I have to take this.” She struts off, heels clacking on the floorboards. “No, I’m not doing another bake sale for that school. They’ve insulted my baked goods enough.” She pauses. “Yes, they were from Whole Foods. That’s not the point.”
lmao
Maybe I shouldn’t ask—but I do anyway. “What’d your dad say?” She takes a shallow breath. “He said you’re not invited to Wednesday Night Dinner. Not yet.”
Farrow raises his brows at Moffy. “I thought you didn’t ‘hate’ Tony.” He uses air-quotes. Moffy gestures to the door. “If he hurts Jane, I’m going to more than hate him.” I already know that Farrow isn’t a Tony fan.
“My mom and dad were here this morning.” I stroke my cat’s tuxedo fur. “It was as frightening as expected.” Moffy gives me an empathetic wince. “That bad?” Farrow has a boot on the chair. “Moretti is still alive.” He eyes Thatcher who leaves the kitchen, carrying kibble in little cat bowls. Walrus and Carpenter make a mad dash to him, jumping at his calves. “It wasn’t that bad,” Thatcher says seriously.
“You really weren’t scared when my dad started talking about how you’re six-seven and could hurt me while we’re having sex?” Farrow almost chokes on a bite of Lo Mein. Maximoff laughs like he just beat his fiancé at Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots.
lmao ugh my favorite people
His shoulders are braced as though I’m about to reject him. “Would you plan our wedding for us? I know it’s a big undertaking and a ton of work—” “Yes,” I cut him off, my smile already reappearing. “Yes?” he asks in disbelief. “Yes, of course. I will plan your wedding. I’d love to.”
“You put everything on hold for me, and this is just another thing. I shouldn’t even be asking you—” “Please stop.” I rise to my feet, setting the water jug aside. “You’re not interfering. There’s nothing to interfere with. I am a jobless, aimless person right now, so it’s the perfect time to ask me.” He grimaces. “No, you should be focusing on you and finding your passion.” He looks to Farrow. “I shouldn’t have asked her.” “We wanted her help. You already asked,” Farrow says coolly. “And she said yes.” They wanted my help. Farrow wanted me too.
He lets out a distressed breath and looks to Thatcher. “Please tell me you at least see where I’m coming from.” It feels like Moffy is actively trying to include Thatcher more, and my heart flutters. Thatcher stares up from Ophelia, brush in hand, and he tells Maximoff, “She’s excited and she’ll be good at it.”
“You’ll need to talk to Farrow about details,” Maximoff says. I frown. “Why not you both?” “He’s been dreaming up his wedding since he was a kid. I never thought I’d get married.” Farrow passes him a to-go container. “Just because I’ve dreamed up shit doesn’t mean I don’t need your opinions. We’re not doing everything I want…” He grins. “Even though that would be nice.”
I look over at my twenty-eight-year-old brother. Banks Moretti. My identical twin, my soul and conscience, someone I couldn’t live without. The sun could be crashing down on the world, and Banks would be right by my side burning alive to push it back into the sky.
I’m head-deep, un-fucking-believably in love with this girl, and I would do anything for her.
Banks cracks a quarter of a smile. “I’m pretty sure you liked living in hell and have no clue what heaven looks like.” I instantly picture Jane at the mention of heaven. I’m trying to get there. I cross my arms. “Where do you think you’ll end up? Heaven or hell?” He raises a shoulder in a stiff shrug. “I just know I want to be wherever you are.” He smacks my chest again. “And you’ll be chain-smoking in the afterlife with me.”
His brows furrow. “Haven’t the Cobalt brothers been icing you out?” “Like a fucking arctic wind.” I text Charlie Cobalt my location, slip my phone in my back pocket, and tinker with my radio for better reception. Once her five brothers learned that I’m their sister’s real boyfriend, I thought they’d all have something to say to me. Cobalts aren’t known to holster their opinions. Instead, I got tumbleweeds. Somehow that was worse.
Jane isn’t really a peacemaker and terminator of conflict. She’s the co-pilot, the second-in-command, and she unites side by side with whoever the hell needs another pistol in the fight. But I hesitate to say no to my brother because… “That’s something a wing-woman would do?” Banks nods. “Fuck yeah.” Goddammit.
Once Xander was in for the night, I got off-duty too. Not long ago, I drove Xander home after a boxing session at Studio 9. The kid still wants to fight, even after his dad told him, “Not over my dead decaying body.”
She gestures between me and Banks. “Are you two twins?” “Yes, ma’am,” we say automatically. Her face lights up. “And you spoke at the same time!” She laughs.
He leers over the bar. “Women around here aren’t good enough for you? You gotta go eat that expensive pus—” “You want your head inside your asshole, keep fucking talking,” I growl, blood coursing hot through my veins.
“What is it?” He has something on his mind. Banks licks beer off his lips. “I’m supposed to go on this trip and help protect Maximoff, and you’re supposed to stay behind and protect Xander.” His lip rises. “Switch places with me.”
no fucking way
