“You know,” I add unhelpfully. “I know,” he confirms. “Good.” God, he’s hot. His whole unfaltering demeanor. His whole being. He nods back, tension brewing. Thatcher studies me a beat longer. He has that look again. Like he’s staring directly into the brightest, hottest sun. “I want to ask you something that might be hard for you to answer.” He eyes the entryway, then me. “Later tonight?”
