Climb him, Jane. “I want you,” I whisper. “Jane.” “Thatcher.” I’m a drunken fool, but Flirty Jane doesn’t give a damn. I’m one second from straddling Thatcher when hands clasp my waist. Farrow pulls me back, and Thatcher shoots to a stance, his concern still on me. But the world rotates and blurs, and I try to cling to all the voices that pitch around me. “Did she just call you Thatcher?” O’Malley asks.
Omg
