Sinful Like Us

by Ritchie, Krista

  Last night, Jane. We’re discussing last night, and I shake the cobwebs from my head. “…I appreciate, more than anything, you taking care of me when I was…”

  Sloppy drunk.

  A sloshed fool.

  Just plain messy Jane.

  “Indisposed,” I say aloud.

  He almost smiles again. “You were cute indisposed.”

  I brighten. “You mean I was a hot mess?”

  Thatcher looks me over. “I’ve seen hot messes before, and you’re your own thing.”

  “Cute indisposed,” I muse.

  “Cute indisposed,” he confirms with a nod.

  We stare deeper, and emotion tries to burrow further into me. I try to stay on track. “I meant to say more.”

  He nods me on.

  “About last night…” I add again.

  I feel and see Thatcher hanging onto my every word. Like I’m building towards a climax and it could be disastrous or the most glorious extreme we’ve ever reached.

  It’s up to me where I take us, I realize. Which is so different from when we were fake-dating; our fate was in his hands back then.

  “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.” Why am I so abysmally frightened admitting this to him?

  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.

  Yet, my emotions pull and push in a tug-of-war with my head. Logically, I know that I’m taking far too much.

  I tilt my head up to meet his eyes. “And if you ever need a sober-someone to take care of you, then I’m more than willing to return the favor. It’s what I’m most used to, you know. Taking care of my family.”

  Thatcher never looks away. “You don’t need to give me what you give your siblings. I’m not your little brother, honey.”

  Flush ascends my cheeks as I picture his dick inside me. “You’re definitely not my brother, I agree completely.” Sweating, I unzip my jacket. “But if I could give you something in return for last night, what would you want?”

  He runs a hand over his unshaven jaw, staring stronger into me as though he’s trying to figure out the depth of what I’m saying. “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.”

  I believe him, but I can’t quite grasp what I’ve done for Thatcher in the same regard as to what he’s done for me.

  It still feels awfully lopsided, especially after the boozy pub night.

  I’m quiet.

  Thatcher rubs his mouth with a look of concern. Dare I say, he even appears nervous. He drops his hand to his side.

  I murmur, “I’m sorry—”

  “No,” he interjects. “You never need to apologize to me for expressing what you feel.”

  I exhale a pained breath. “One part of me hates that I even apologized to begin with. I feel like I’m losing sense of what I’ve learned from the women before me. From Aunt Daisy, from my mom.” My eyes burn. “But I also love that you reminded me that it’s okay to feel what I feel, even if it’s terribly confusing.”

  He shakes his head, a thought pinching his brows and tightening his eyes. He shifts his visceral intensity off me.

  “What is it?” I whisper, aching to hear everything that rattles his brain.

  He softens his eyes before placing them on me. “You’re so fucking hard on yourself.” In a silent beat, deep understanding passes between us because he’s also tough on himself with most everything. “You’re just twenty-three, Jane. 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.

  She’s taught me how femininity is everything and anything. Harsh and icy. Soft and stiff. Boisterous and unruly. Timid and unrelenting. Oxymorons and complements and conundrums that no one needs to understand.

  We’re women because we say so. We feel so. And that realization freed me.

  Very deeply, Thatcher tells me, “When they were your age, they were figuring out being in their twenties and in love—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. His patience and respect constantly boosts me into another stratosphere.

  He deserves better than me.

  I push down that hurtful voice in my ear.

  I’m amazing too. I’m triumphant and beautiful, and I deserve his love.

  I have so much to offer him. Love (that I’m withholding), Strength (that keeps vacillating), Great Sex (sure, there’s that).

  Slapping aside my insecurities, I tell him the good I feel. “I’m really glad it’s you who’s experiencing this part with me.” I smile at a thought. “If I had a glass slipper, I’d put it on your foot right about now.”

  His mouth curves upward. “You choose me?”

  “Oui.” I breathe. “Toujours.” Always.

  Fear tries to stab me. My shoulders bind and my back arches a little. We look into one another, and though his eyes never stray from mine, I can feel him studying my stiff posture. He’s a perceptive man, which I love.

  Wind whistles, and our fingers nearly brush. A strand of hair slips out from behind his ear and caresses his cheek. He tucks back the brown tendril, then swivels a knob on the radio. He straightens some and speaks hushed in the mic.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  He nods, muscles flexed. “Tony thinks we’re standing too close.”

  My brows jump. “Do we need to back away?”

  “No.” His eyes devour me. “I told him that you’re cold.”

  I begin to smile. “Thank God for the weather.”

  His lips lift, then lower, and lines crease his forehead. “I just need confirmation about something.”

  “Of course.” I inhale, more on edge.

  “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.”

  He nods a f
ew times, his shoulders relaxing, and then asks, “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.

  I peel a flyaway hair off my wind-chapped lips. “Did I do or say anything mortifying last night?”

  He shakes his head, about to speak but his phone rings. Checking the Caller ID, his expression hardens. “It’s Banks.”

  I hug my binder closer. “Shouldn’t he be on-duty?”

  He tenses. “Yeah.”

  We share a look of apprehension. Something’s not right in Philly. It’s our greatest worry, and before he answers his twin brother, Jack Highland approaches us, strapping his Canon camera across his toned chest.

  “You go talk to your brother. I’ll talk to Jack,” I tell my boyfriend. “Diviser et conquérir.” Divide and conquer.

  “Sounds good.” Thatcher glances at my lips, a volcanic swelter bubbling around us, and we have a difficult time separating.

  “See you in a bit,” I whisper.

  He breathes harder, and I wish he could kiss me but Tony is obviously hawk-eyeing us from down below.

  Thatcher glares in that direction and then moves. “I’ll be right back.” He leaves just as Jack arrives, his smile radiant.

  Jack is by far the happiest person I’ve ever met in the best and worst times. “Any footage will be gorgeous here, especially when the light hits the horizon.” He points to where the sun will set.

  I open my binder and click my fuzzy pen. “I’ll mark that down.” I write under the pros section of Possible Wedding Location #6. “Anything that could cause an issue?”

  He motions to the rocky incline we climbed. “Crew is going to struggle up that hill, and so will guests.”

  I jot down more notes. Besides Maximoff and Farrow, Jack is the most important person on the location-scouting trip. Whatever outdoor venue they choose has to work for production—in the event that my best friend and his soon-to-be husband want to film their wedding.

  They haven’t fully committed, but Jack thought it’d be a good idea to tag along in case they do want the world to see their ceremony.

  “Logistically, I can find a way around the hill,” I tell Jack. “I can have temporary stairs placed that won’t hurt the terrain.” I’ve already made a few calls when we first arrived.

  “Perfect.” He grips his camera and clicks through photos. “Look.” He shows me a picture of Maximoff and Farrow as they stroll across the plateau hand-in-hand, and Maximoff is sweeping the lush landscape in silent awe. All the while, Farrow is staring deeply at him with a cheek-to-cheek smile.

  Happiness pours through me. “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.”

  “A top contender,” I agree, making a few more notes. I wish the others could have seen this spot.

  Most of the group accompanied us to Possible Wedding Locations #1 and #2: a bridge over a brook, and then a garden—but hunger struck and they all caravanned back to the house about an hour ago.

  I peek up from my binder to check on Thatcher.

  He has a boot on a boulder and speaks sternly into the phone. Eyes narrowed, body flexed. His voice is inaudible from here. But a sheep literally creeps away from him.

  Thatcher is scaring the animals.

  I want to be at his side, but while I have Jack’s attention, I decide to pry just a little.

  Out of cousin duties.

  Specifically my loyalties to Sullivan Meadows.

  “Jack.” I slip my pen in a binder pocket. “You’re friends with Akara.” It’s not so much a question, but a building block to my next point.

  “Yeah.” He lets go of his camera and it hangs at his side. “We’re good friends.”

  I’d say so, considering I heard they’ve double-dated girls that Jack knew from college.

  “Then you must have some idea why Akara is acting standoffish around Sulli. Usually he’s friendly and more of a buddy-guard towards her.”

  Jack laughs with the shake of his head. “That, I wouldn’t know.”

  I zip my puffy jacket back up as wind accelerates. “You don’t talk about Sulli?”

  “Not if it’s about protecting her.”

  I tip my head. “How come?”

  “Security and production don’t always see eye-to-eye when it comes to you and your family. Honestly, my friendship with Akara has stayed intact because we don’t constantly bring up his client and my time filming you all.”

  Merde.

  I already asked Thatcher for answers, and he said Akara wouldn’t tell him anything since they’re on the outs. Farrow also has no clue what’s changed. He explained, “See, Akara will rarely vent or complain to us. He’s our lead.”

  I’ll have to report back the no new news to Sulli.

  Gusts of wind blow harshly through. Jack shivers, zipping a lightweight jacket up to his neck, his skin a tanned blend of red-gold and light brown hues. He’s biracial: his dad is white and his mom is Filipina.

  Since he’s born-and-raised in sunny Southern California, he claims he didn’t come prepared for the brutal cold.

  Another large gust.

  “Fuck,” Jack curses under his breath. Strands of his dark brown hair are airborne—cut short but long enough to take flight and block his eyes.

  Mine flaps wildly at my face, and we laugh.

  “If only I had one of Oscar’s bandanas,” Jack smiles, trying to push his hair back to no avail.

  I set my binder down and retie my hair. “I actually think Oscar may’ve left one in the car.”

  “Really?” He tucks his camera more protectively, about to leave.

  “I’m almost certain I saw one in the front seat.”

  He heads to the descent and smiles back. He makes the hang loose hand gesture. “Shaka brah.”

  I wave goodbye, collect my things, and rejoin my boyfriend.

  Sheep have given Thatcher and his lasered gaze a wide, wide berth. One is practically cowering behind a rock.

  He shoves his phone in his pocket. “We have a problem.”

  Before I can ask, my phone rings. He holds my binder for me, and with a gloved hand, I procure my cell from my sequined purse and read the screen.

  My brows bunch. “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.”

  “You don’t have to lie to your parents,” Thatcher says strongly. “I know you don’t want to, and I don’t want you to go there.”

  “Okay.” I take a single breath in preparation. “I’ll find a non-deceptive avenue if I can.” I answer on the last ring. “Dad?”

  He greets, “Mon coeur.” My heart. Hearing his voice causes a small wave of homesickness. There’s no one like my dad, and I love him very much so.

  “How’s everything back home?” I hope I sound 0% fretful. Thatcher edges nearer, nodding in encouragement. His towering build is like a stone wall, shielding the raucous wi
nd from me.

  “We’re all doing well here.” His voice is smooth and untroubled. “I’m just wondering why your boyfriend is screening my calls.”

  Thatcher fixates on the phone like I’m clutching a weapon, and if he blinks, it’ll detonate in my palm.

  I lift the speakers closer to my lips. “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. I take a breath and turn the tables. “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.

  Thatcher’s biceps look like they’re going to explode in his cross-armed state. He nods to me and mouths, deflect.

  Right.

  Deflection. “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.” He sounds a little bothered by this fact, though I know he cares deeply for Uncle Ryke.

  “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.

  Thatcher uncrosses his arms, his gaze tracking my movement. The lack of holster on his waistband reminds me that security has no firearms on this trip, due to gun laws. All are armed with legal tactical knives.

  Facts.

  Facts are easy. Simple. Emotionless at times. And distracting.

  “And you’ll be happy to know,” I tell him, “that 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.