Sinful Like Us (Like Us, #5)

by Krista Ritchie

“You were twenty-two…when I met you.” I hold her gaze and pull off her right boot. “I was.” “I’m seventeen.” My mouth hikes in a larger smile. Clearly, she means she was seventeen back then, but she’s too drunk to catch the slip. “You were,” I nod and remove her left boot, setting both aside. “What did you think?” Jane whispers.

“I thought you were smarter than me,” I say deeply, carrying her to bed. She blushes, trying to suppress a smile. “How so?” “You knew words I didn’t.” I can’t remember the exact word. It’s been too long,

“I have you,” I whisper. She lets me dress her, and when she’s warm and clothed, she plops back down with a content smile. Before I pull up the covers, she rolls over and clutches my leg. “Stay.” Her body shakes as a chill ripples through the room. “Okay.”

I’m doing what I should’ve done on day one.” “What’s that?” She blinks hard, fighting a heavy sleep. I dip my head and whisper against her ear, “Let myself love you.”

“I love you.” It jolts me, and I hang onto those words, my veins pulsing. She’s only ever said I’m falling in love with you. It could just be a drunken slip, but it’s like a drug. And I fall to sleep with in an indescribable high.

“I had less control of my body,” I mention, “and I felt really quite safe with you.” My pulse is strangely on an ascent, as though I’m still climbing up the steep hill. “And not because you’re a bodyguard but because you’re you.” His chest rises. “Someone I trust. Someone I…” I falter, burning up from nerves. “And…and I very much liked this morning.”

I adored how he doted on me the second I woke up. How he asked me how I felt, gave me Advil, made me breakfast and slyly brought the poached eggs and waffle to my bed. All without the Epsilon bodyguards noticing, he took these risks just to help me fight a hangover. It made me feel…loved.

“There’s no cost to being with me, Jane. I don’t want to be reimbursed for cooking you breakfast or holding your hair back.” My neck flames. “But I don’t want to be your burden. I want to be your equal.” Realization slams at him, and I swear he careens back from the force. He inhales, then breathes strongly out. He dips his head to be nearer, his hand teasingly close to my hand. “You’re not my burden.” He hardly blinks. “And you already are my equal. I hate that I’ve given you an impression that you’re not.”

You don’t have to be perfect versions of the women who raised you.” My heart swells. “Women,” I repeat the word. “You included my aunts?” He nods once. “I know what they all mean to you.” If my mom were here, Thatcher Moretti would be her favorite almost instantaneously. She loves her sisters like they’re a part of her soul, and I love that he understands how much I look up to all the women in my life.

Aunt Daisy has taught me to use my voice, even if the world says stay quiet. Aunt Lily has taught me fierce courage, even on days when you feel lesser than. And Rose Calloway Cobalt, my mom—she’s taught me how to walk into a room full of men and never back down. She’s taught me familial love. And loyalty.

you’re allowed this part.” I cage breath. “This part?” “Of life,” he clarifies. “The stomach-flipping, head-scratching moments where you feel like everything is going off the tracks.” Curiosity ignites me. “You’ve been here before?” He lifts his shoulders. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved,” he reminds me. “But I’ve had to right a lot of wrong-tracked trains in my early twenties.” I remember that we’re in this together, and I can’t imagine experiencing this part of life with another man.

“Did you like that I took care of you last night?” “Yes,” I say so suddenly and from deep in my core. “So much so. More than just like, even.”

“How much do you remember?” I file through my hazy memories. “Most everything in the pub. Very little afterwards.” I squint. “I think the last moment I can picture is you pressing a washcloth on my forehead.” What I’d give to be a fly on the wall to Black-Out (SOS) Jane. He stares off for a moment.

“Moffy is glowing.” I turn my head. Off in the distance, I see them both chatting and in a position reminiscent of a slow-dance. Hands on shoulders and the back of the neck. Taking a romantic moment for themselves, as they should. Jack smiles brightly. “This place seems like their favorite so far.”

“It’s my dad.” “That’s the problem.” Thatcher gestures to the phone with my binder. “He tried to call Banks three times.” “And Banks has your phone,” I realize. Meaning, my dad has been trying to reach my boyfriend.

“Okay, I can fix this.” I stare wide-eyed at my ringing phone. “I just have to speak to my dad, who is scarily good at catching onto deceit. Though, we’ve tricked him once.” I talk quickly. Nervously. “He didn’t know that you actually had feelings for me. But I suppose that means you were better at pulling the wool over his eyes. Not necessarily me.” “Jane—” “Yes?” “It’s going to ring out.” He nods to my phone. Oh. “Right.”

“Do you have the right number?” I picture my dad arching a single brow. “Phone numbers aren’t that difficult to memorize, especially ones that matter.” I touch my smile with my fingertips. Thatcher matters to him.

“Why are you trying to reach him?” “I wanted to invite him to lunch tomorrow.” My eyes bug. Oh my God. This is very, very bad. He can’t have a face-to-face with Banks.

“Are you rescinding the invitation?” “No. But the more he avoids my calls, the more he reminds me of the only person who consistently hangs up on me—and I never imagined my firstborn daughter would date a man like Ryke Meadows.”

“Date is a weak word,” I correct. “What we are to each other is very serious, him and I.” I’m less nervous to admit this to my dad, strangely. I’m more nervous when I meet Thatcher’s strong eyes. My stomach backflips. “Have you two talked about marriage?” “No,” I squeak out. “No, no.” My face is red-hot. “Dad, that’s far too soon.” I step around Thatcher to welcome the aggressive breeze, hitting me in a cold wave.

the probability of someone marrying their first boyfriend or girlfriend is statistically low.” My pulse skips. “Maximoff is an outlier.” Stop talking. “So there’s that piece of helpful data.” Thatcher is staring at my back.

I’m the first of his children in a serious relationship. Guessing his motives concerning my boyfriend will be as accurate as shaking a Magic 8 Ball.

“Are you inviting Thatcher to lunch out of kindness or to interrogate him?” “That depends if we agree on the definition of interrogate,” he says smoothly like he, himself, is the arbiter of definitions.

“You said it’s statistically low that someone marries their first boyfriend or girlfriend. How does that work between you and me?” I’m confused until he adds, “You’re not my first girlfriend.” “Oh.” I flush. He nears. “I’m not as good at math as you, but in my head, it doesn’t make sense that our odds are different when we’d be marrying each other.” He blinks back something raw. “Hypothetically.” “Hypothetically.” I nod in agreement.

It all happens in a fucking blink. As we descend the hill, Jane slips on the slick grass. Her hand slips out of mine, and she slides and slides. Too rapidly to catch, and Maximoff loses his footing. He falls next. Farrow and I rush after them, but both land in the knee-deep, bone-chilling rocky stream. I’ve never moved this fast. I’ve never picked Jane up this quickly, and I’ve never felt her arms wrap around me this tight. How the fuck did this happen?

Shaking uncontrollably, Maximoff glances back at Jane. He looks how I feel. “Her lips…are blue,” he chatters. Jane stares petrified at him. Because his lips are blue too. Their panic just tanks the air,

“He’s okay,” I assure Jane. “She’ll be fine, Maximoff,” Farrow says with certainty.

“Back off or I swear to fucking God I will throw you against your car.” My hand is a white-knuckled fist. If he protests, I’m swinging. His brows pinch, something flickering in his eyes. He’s studying my features. “Banks?” I stiffen. I forgot that I’m my brother, and I didn’t think, out of everything, that my shorter fuse and blistering wrath would cause suspicion.

She rests her chin on my chest, just to look up at me. Her breath becomes shallow…then deeper. Finally. I clasp her cheek, our lips brushing before I press mine to hers in raw, deep passion. Breathing life into Jane, and she careens into the sweltering kiss. Her fingers gripping stronger on my biceps. My muscles contract and I pull her against me.

“What’s wrong, honey?” I whisper so they can’t hear. She has a pained face. “Moffy won’t pick this location for the ceremony. I know how much he loved it, but we all know it’s not safe, especially if it rains.” I skim her and can’t help but think that she’s the most loving person I’ve ever met. She just fell in freezing water, and instead of being concerned about her leg, she’s here empathizing with Maximoff.

Still, she’s so afraid to love me. I don’t know why. Not completely. I just don’t. And a part of me is scared of the full-blown answer. Maybe that’s why I haven’t pressed her hard enough to give me one.

you know how this works. I’m on-duty, which means you have to be in my sight at all times.” I draw in a heady breath. My first reaction: utter, unequivocal attraction. Dear God, I’m attracted to how much he’s around me. Always present like an ever-consuming forest fire. My second reaction: shame. Guilt. Horrible feelings that compound on each other. My head is telling me that I shouldn’t want these things. I shouldn’t want him around me all the time. I should be able to walk around a food market without my boyfriend.

She’s such a disappointment. Imagine being the daughter of Rose Calloway Cobalt and choosing to follow Maximoff Hale around like a lost puppy.’” I blink back a sliver of pain. “‘Jane Cobalt could have been our queen. Instead we got a weak imposter who can’t do anything on her own.’”

I can work for Moffy. I can work for my mom or dad or siblings. But I don’t need someone in my life. I don’t want for anything or anyone. The love I carry for myself is enough. It’s always been enough.” Tears burn my eyes. “Until I met you.”

“Keep going,” he demands. So I do. “It’s about the groceries.” I reroute to the beginning. “Because I want you around me every hour of every day. Not just as a bodyguard but as a boyfriend. In these small moments, I feel it tenfold. And I shouldn’t want it. I just shouldn’t. It makes me some co-dependent, weak-willed girl like all these people have theorized for years. I’m proving them right—and…and…” I can’t breathe. I tug at the collar of my sweater. Thatcher rushes forward and tries to touch me. But I keep him back and press my hand to his chest. Applying little force. His palms hover over my shoulders. “Stop for a second, honey. Just take a breath.”

“Just get away,” I say half-heartedly. My head wants him gone. My heart is telling me to fold into him. Let him wrap me up. Help me. God, I want that. But that’s the problem, I should be able to help myself. “Please,” I plead. He steps back, just one foot, and his hands drop off me.

“Jane, it’s fine—” “It’s not,” I say, adamant. “We’re done. I’m done.” Oh God. He grinds down on his teeth. “What are you saying?” I’m wide-eyed. “You’re breaking up with me?” “I am.” The words release quicker than I realize.

“I meant what I said in the limo before this trip. I’m going to match whatever pace you set. If you want to break up with me, fine. We’re broken up.”

stop. my heart <\3

“So that’s it?” I ask, hurt suddenly pinching me. I didn’t purposefully break up with him so he’d fight for me, but I also never thought he’d give me up so easily. “No,” Thatcher replies, seriousness pushing forth. “We’re going to talk more tonight. You’re overwhelmed right now, and I don’t want to push you. But if you think this discussion is over, it’s not.” Oh…

“If you’re going to say splitting up will be faster, I’m going to remind you again that it’s not an option.” He seems stricter. More adamant. Maybe he’s pissed we’re no longer dating. Maybe he’s just more serious now that the storm is looming and his comms are down.

Our fingers brush, skin-to-skin. My muscles tense. Images of her naked, sprawling across our bed flash before my eyes like some erotic movie. Heat blazes everywhere. She inhales a shuddered breath and retracts as if she’s been electrocuted. Goddammit.

just like that, we’re spinning. It happens faster and swifter than the first two times, and I have zero control over the wheels. Nothing I do will stop tires from skating like four hockey pucks on ice, but I try to right us without causing more problems. Disorientation kicks in for a split-second before we stop. I assess our surroundings with almost no visibility, but two tires dip a bit. Which means we’re probably on the bank of the road. I turn to her. “Jane, are you okay?” I reach for her before I remember we’re not together, and she might not want me to touch her. I pull back.

“I love how practical you are.” She flushes immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. It just slipped.” Her eyes are reddened from crying earlier. “Which, I suppose, is why they call it a slip of the tongue. And I’ll just stop talking…” I want to tell her to never stop. I want to tell her that I could listen to her forever. We’re broken up.

“We should turn off the car in a couple minutes to preserve battery. And only turn it back on every two or four hours after that. I’ve also cracked this window about a half-inch to avoid carbon monoxide poisoning. Just in case snow covers the exhaust pipe while we’re asleep.” I won’t be going to sleep tonight, but I don’t tell her that.

“Ready?” I ask. Her gaze dips down to my crotch. She blushes and raises her blues back to my face. “I didn’t mean to look at your dick. It was involuntary. You usually ask that during sex. And I shouldn’t even be thinking about us having sex right now.”

“Talk to an ex-boyfriend.” I don’t blink. This is worse than I thought. She’s already filed me under the ex-boyfriend category. I should have prepared for this. She’s the type of person that will slice you open but immediately cauterize the wound. By breaking up with me, she thinks she’s protecting me from herself. But I don’t want her protection.

“To be clear, you broke up with me because you feel like you’re not treating me well.” “Precisely.” She places her hands on her knees, gripping them tight. “You don’t deserve to be pulled in and then pushed away by anyone. And I can’t promise I won’t keep doing it. My head is a jumbled mess.” I run a rough hand through my hair. “Most people don’t have thousands of strangers bearing down on them with their shit opinions. Acting like they have a say in your life and know who you are—I understand if that’s fucking with your head. It’d drive anyone insane.”

“What you just said—it’s the problem.” I don’t get it. “Why?” I ask. “Because I’m wrong?” “Because you’re right.” She fists her crumpled sweater, balled in her hands. “Because you’re making me feel better, and that’s the issue, Thatcher. You are helping me when everyone says I should be helping myself. These aren’t horrible comments about my weight or appearance or upbringing.

“I’ve never had to rely on a man for emotional support…I’ve never wanted that. But I find myself wanting your reassurance, your help, your everything. It terrifies me to know that want inside of me could turn to need, and there are moments I feel myself suffocating under the weight of that fear.”

love you completely, Jane, and I want and need you during the worst and best moments of my life.” Her voice is a whisper. “You don’t have to placate me.” “What I said is true.” I fight emotion that fists my lungs. “I fucking need you, honey. I’d be going out of my mind with guilt if I couldn’t turn to you. So many times I’ve thought about you, and you’ve made me feel good about myself.” I stop there, a rock lodged in my throat.