Sinful Like Us

by Ritchie, Krista

  He laughs with Tony and O’Malley at a four-person table.

  Will might be Sulli’s new boyfriend, but he was the one person Jane and I were hesitant to share intel about the twin swap with. Now that he’s best friends with Tony, I’m glad we told him nothing.

  He can be in the dark the whole trip.

  I lower the radio volume and focus on Beckett Cobalt. “Where do you want to go?” Until this plane takes off, I’m still attached to him, and I’ll follow him wherever he wants to sit. But I’m hoping he chooses next to his sister.

  He fixes his bed-head hair. “Back to New York.”

  “I meant on the plane.”

  “I know,” he says softly.

  I catch movement in my peripheral, and our heads veer towards curtains that conceal the front of the plane.

  An athletic-built girl pushes through the fabric, her dark brown curls bouncing as she looks around. I recognize Joana Oliveira instantly. Not only because I attended her Catholic confirmation, but because she’s Oscar and Quinn’s nineteen-year-old little sister.

  Joana carries a nylon backpack over her toned shoulder. Black leggings and a crop top show off her abs, and as soon as she sees me, she gives me a nod. “Hey, Banks.” She grins, knowing I’m not my brother.

  Unlike Will, I trusted Jo not to blab this fucking secret to Tony or O’Malley. There was no reason to trick her too.

  “Jo,” I greet. “Glad you could make it.” She’s tagging along to spend time with her brothers before she has a professional boxing match in London.

  “Me too.” She lingers and eyes the tattooed, shirtless, and lean but muscular ballet dancer next to me.

  He rests against the bathroom door. “I’m Beckett.” He nods in greeting. “I’d shake your hand, but…” He hoists his cuffed wrist and tries not to jerk mine.

  Jo’s brows rise. “Kinky.”

  He speaks calmly. “If it were kinky, I’d be enjoying it more.”

  She snorts and readjusts her backpack strap. “How many times have you used that line?”

  “It’s not a line.” He studies her in a quick sweep. “Believe me, you’d know if I was using a line on you.”

  Intrigue sparks her brown eyes. “Why is that?”

  “Because you’d already be in my bed.”

  My muscles bind. Very few men on the team have younger sisters, and Jo is one of them. I need to end this before he signs his death warrant, and under my breath, I whisper to Beckett, “You want to keep your balls, don’t hit on Oscar’s little sister.”

  “It’s okay, Banks.” Jo fits on her other backpack strap and stares right at Beckett. “I don’t speak douchebag so I didn’t hear a thing.” She walks ahead of us and searches the cabin. Only glancing back to ask me, “Where’s Maximoff? I want to thank him for inviting me.”

  “He should be with Jane in the fourth lounge. It’s the rear of the plane.”

  She mouths the word, fourth, with huge eyes before heading that way.

  All the while Beckett watches her ass as she goes.

  “Don’t,” I warn.

  “I wouldn’t hurt her.”

  “I never said you would.” He might think I’m protecting Jo, but I’m trying to protect him. He doesn’t need SFO on his ass. “Oscar and Quinn are going to kill you if you even look at her sideways.”

  “Yeah, well…” He exhales a deeper breath and steps away from the bathroom. “We’re preparing for a wedding, might as well have a funeral too.”

  17

  JANE COBALT

  The plane ride seems to last forever, but I enjoy the furtive glances Thatcher and I share and the stolen moments as we wander the plane to stretch. He kisses me in the narrow bar, pumping adrenaline in my lungs and a fire beneath my heart, and then we part as though we were strangers in…love.

  I smile all the way back to my seat, and the dance we play happens more than once, more than thrice, more than I can count—and by the time we land, I long to be back in the air with him again.

  Five rental cars later and a four-hour drive through a picturesque landscape of sprawling hills and valleys—grass a blend of brown and burnt green hues for winter, and the air chill with every crisp breath—we’ve finally reached our destination.

  Everyone carries or rolls their luggage into an old, family-owned inn called Mackintosh House, complete with turrets and worn burgundy stone. For one week, it’s all ours.

  Charlie meanders towards the garden, studying the relic of a building. He has a quiet love of old architecture.

  I glance behind me before I enter. Beyond our parked cars on the gravel path.

  Land stretches as far as my eye can see. Sheep roam with leisure, and if I strain my ears, I can almost hear the babble of a stream passing through this calm little hamlet.

  I begin to smile. I’m truly happy that this is a viable option for my best friend’s wedding. It’s peaceful here. Maximoff and Farrow also chose this remote spot in the countryside because it’d be an absolute pain for paparazzi to reach.

  It wasn’t even easy for us.

  Figuring out how to shuffle vendors and guests to this location is a brainteaser. But I love a good logic puzzle, and I haven’t been this excited in a while. Something must be in the Scottish air or the fact that Thatcher keeps stealing glances as we head inside.

  His boldness should heat me head-to-toe like a boiling furnace. It usually does, but there is a glaring issue with Mackintosh House.

  It’s hellishly cold.

  I shiver as I wheel in my suitcase.

  “This place is super creepy,” Sulli says under her breath, the wallpaper deep reds and greens, a winding banister leads to the dark upstairs, and old black and white photographs hang on the walls. Doily cloths are absolutely everywhere.

  “I love it,” I announce.

  Oscar passes me. “Retro Granny Realness.” He raises his hand for a high-five, and I tap his palm with a smile before he treks upstairs.

  “I bet it’s kinda haunted.” Luna snaps photos on her phone. “Kinney is gonna love this.” She inspects the picture she just captured. “Or she’ll hate that she’s missing out.” The young girls couldn’t ditch their last week in school before winter break.

  Sulli and Luna leave to go unpack, but I don’t follow.

  While footsteps and voices echo around the drafty eight-bedroom house, I’m on a hunt in the rustic kitchen. Knees on the icy hardwood, I fumble through a crooked junk drawer, searching for any manuals to the heaters.

  None will turn on, and Mackintosh House is far too large to be heated from a single living room fireplace.

  I reach the bottom stack of papers.

  “Any luck?” Thatcher saunters into the kitchen.

  I blow a frizzed hair off my lip. Oh…

  He’s…exceedingly tall. While I’m down here, on my knees.

  His white button-down and dog tags also take me aback for a second. Even if he appears like his brother, I could never mistake him for Banks like Tony and O’Malley already have.

  Neither one batted an eye on the plane.

  I skim him a little more, a sweltering breath in my lungs. I suppose Thatcher seeing me dressed in all black would be just as jarring for him.

  I shut the drawer. “The only manual I could find was for the washer/dryer.” I stand, a chill biting my neck, and I pull my zebra coat tighter around my breasts.

  Thatcher switches on the gas burner and oven. Flames lick the stovetop grates. “Come here.” He motions me closer.

  He is incredibly inviting. All six-foot-seven of him. Oh-so-warm and…hot.

  So eloquent.

  I follow his direction. More cautiously, I land next to him but keep my distance. A dreadful six inches separate our bodies.

  That should be enough.

  I’d normally stand this far from Banks.

  Thatcher stares down at me, as though assessing my temperature from sight alone, and I look up at him, aching to step a little closer.

  “It should heat up so
on,” Thatcher says, standing sturdy next to the oven door. He glances from the kitchen entryway to my arms that hug my body. “Can I?”

  My lips pull higher. “Can you…?”

  He reaches out and his fingers run gently along my wrist, tingling my soft flesh. I pulse between my legs, and I inhale without the ability to exhale. Warmth pricks my nerves like he’s carried me to a roaring fire.

  Our eyes dive deeper, and when I nod him on, his clutch strengthens. He guides my palm over the flaming stovetop, and his hand lingers on my wrist, not letting go of me.

  I don’t want him to.

  My hip brushes his stoic body, the six inches now shrunk to zero. Thatcher and I risk the nearness, and he’s so perceptive of his surroundings that I trust his instincts if we go too far.

  He subtly checks the entryway.

  I check more blatantly.

  Clear.

  Attention returned to each other, I whisper, “I’m glad you’re here with me.” I’ve said so a few times already. “I like you—I mean, I more than like you, which you know…” Nervous flush bathes me, and I stare at him, panic-eyed.

  He seems so put-together in this moment, and I’m still frazzled like an awkward mess. Yet, I love how he makes me feel utterly unraveled. As though he’s the only man who can reach a rare piece of me and pull and undo me at the seams.

  “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?”

  Curiosity has latched its sharp claws into me. “You can ask me now.” I whisper even more quietly. “If you think it’s safe to talk.” We hear footsteps above us and chatter in the distance, but the kitchen is ours in this second.

  He sweeps our surroundings one more time, then nods. “We can now, if you really want.”

  “I want to know.” I cage a breath in preparation. “Go ahead.”

  His mouth dips towards my ear, his voice low and gentle. “Why are you afraid to love me?”

  I shake my head on impulse, and a cold pain stabs my lungs. “I don’t…I’m…” I lean to the right.

  “Watch out—Jane.” Thatcher lifts my hand higher. I nearly pressed my palm to the iron stovetop.

  Hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I can’t blink or close my agape mouth, and I realize I’m pressed up against his chest.

  I ran into his body for safety.

  It overwhelms me, my throat swelling.

  My wrist is still in his grasp, and he keeps my hand raised in the air. We both breathe heavily, and I manage to say, “Usually…I can articulate what I’m thinking, but what I’m feeling—what I feel for you is so inexplicably complex and I feel like nothing is coming out quite right. Just that alone…scares me in the best and worst way.” I wince at myself. “And that was a terrible non-answer.”

  “No,” he refutes, his chest tightened like he’s controlling himself not to hold me. To touch me further and greater. He looks to the right, then back to me. “I understand.” He softens his gaze on me. “Look, I’m crawling through this with you—” He cuts himself off and his features lose all emotion, completely professional. “Be careful, Jane.” He’s still clutching my wrist.

  I frown, about to respond, but another voice slices into the kitchen.

  “Whoa, Banks.” O’Malley rolls to a halt with an armful of firewood, and Quinn bypasses him with another bundle. The Epsilon bodyguard eagle-eyes Thatcher like he’s lost his mind.

  Thatcher is surprisingly calm and casual. Like Banks would be. He lowers my arm to my side and steps back from my body. “What do you want?”

  O’Malley lets out a soft laugh. “You’re three inches from your brother’s girl and that’s not bizarre to you?”

  “I had to grab her before she touched the burner. She didn’t realize I turned it on.” He lifts a shoulder. “That’s it.”

  I shoot O’Malley a look. “Why? What’d you think Banks was doing?” I’m still a client, and he treats me with more respect than he does Thatcher.

  Apologies fill his eyes. “Sorry. My mistake, Jane. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He disappears towards the living room.

  Alone again, worry bunches my brows. “Did he buy it?” I whisper. “Or was he just placating me?”

  “He thinks I’m Banks.” Thatcher sounds assured. “Whether he thinks Banks could be into you—I don’t know.”

  I cringe. We knew it’d be a risk, but I don’t like the idea that Tony and O’Malley could believe I’m sleeping with both Moretti brothers. “Do you think we should be more careful?”

  He shakes his head. “They’ll think what they want no matter what they see.”

  I appraise our distance apart. “We aren’t that close,” I rationalize under my breath.

  His lip nearly lifts, his arms woven over his chest.

  I realize something horrific and my mouth falls.

  His muscles contract. “Jane?”

  “How are we going to have sex?” I whisper. “We can’t sleep in the same bedroom.”

  He opens his mouth to reply, but Maximoff hikes into the kitchen, cell clutched in a gloved hand. “I just got off the phone with the owners.”

  “And?” I turn more towards him.

  “The heaters are broken, and no one can come out here for another couple days. So we’ll have to work with whatever’s here until then.”

  “We’ll survive,” I say confidently. “There are enough brains and brawn here to make it two days in a cold house.”

  He nods, slipping his phone in his back pocket, and his forest-green eyes ping from Thatcher to me, back to Thatcher, then me. Under his breath, he says, “You two should…” He makes a motion with his hands for us to separate.

  Thatcher backs up and adds more cold space between our bodies.

  I try not to shiver. “We’re not that close,” I tell Moffy.

  He makes a face like I’m no longer residing on Earth.

  Possibly Thatcher is a magnet and I’m pulled in no matter the occasion, and I’ve really lost all sense of reality. And measurements. Spatial measurements.

  Because three inches from him to me doesn’t feel close enough. God, even zero inches is far too little. I desire him closer, deep in the epicenter of my soul, and it’s absolutely…

  Petrifying.

  “Janie,” Maximoff says. “You look flushed.”

  Oh no.

  I’m wide-eyed on my boyfriend.

  “She’s okay,” Thatcher assures my best friend. “We have this handled.”

  I perch my hands on my hips and take a more confident breath. “Yes, we do.”

  “Alright.” Maximoff trusts us, and he smiles at me and leans in close to whisper, “Have fun with your boyfriend.”

  I smile brighter. “I will. You have fun with your fiancé.”

  He grimaces, crinkling his nose. “I won’t.”

  I laugh. Maximoff looks lovesick and Farrow isn’t even in the kitchen.

  He stops at the doorway before he leaves. “How are we on groceries?” He gestures to the fridge, tapping into his survival-mode.

  “Stocked up for about two days. We’ll have to go to the store again.” The nearest market is about an hour drive from Mackintosh House, so it’ll be a trek.

  “Moffy! Where’s my duffel bag?!” Luna calls from upstairs. Maximoff excuses himself to go help his sister.

  Thatcher faces me. “What you were asking before.” He speaks vaguely, but I remember. Sex. “We’ll work it out.”

  My brows jump. “So it’s going to happen?” I raise my hands. “Just for clarification. Because it’s important that it does happen—I want it to happen, I mean.” I’m word vomiting, and I stop as Donnelly strolls into
the kitchen.

  He carries two woolen tartan blankets, plaid with a red base and deep green lines. “Want what to happen?” he asks us.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Absolutely nothing to happen. It was a figure of speech.”

  Donnelly frowns. “Really? ‘Cause I thought you were talking about sex.” He walks off ever so casually like he didn’t just explode a miniature bomb at my feet.

  Thatcher shakes his head, watching him leave. He mumbles an Italian word under his breath and glances back to me. “For clarification,” he tells me. “It’s going to happen.” He reaches an arm closer to me, and I breathe in sharp.

  Our eyes lock as he switches off the burner, his fingers brushing against my elbow. I’m still warm, and his body emits rolling waves of heat. I think he might lean closer.

  I think he might whisper something dirtier like, my cock in your pussy.

  His gaze consumes mine and holds me and hoists me and pushes up against me—but we aren’t touching. We aren’t speaking.

  I ache and ache, soaked and ready for him. I swallow, cross my ankles, and I lean further away from my boyfriend.

  He notices and nods like I’m doing well. This is the plan. But as he departs for the pantry, his body heat is replaced with a sudden biting cold.

  18

  THATCHER MORETTI

  Being iced out by Akara Kitsuwon feels like subzero winds barreling down on exposed flesh. It’s different than the silent treatment that Jane delivered last summer. This one is layered with baggage and un-mendable things.

  And pretending to be Banks—it has major downsides. Namely, I can’t sleep in Jane’s bedroom, and since my brother has no bad blood with Akara, room assignments played out like the invention of a new circle of hell.

  My flaming hellscape consists of ugly burgundy wallpaper and two brass twin beds assigned to me and Akara.

  I close the door, shutting out voices downstairs.

  Akara drops his duffel on the floorboards. He wears a baseball cap backwards and unzips his red winter jacket. I watch him shift aside the heavy, floral drapes. He assesses the window.