At the minimum.
Thatcher suddenly takes my hand in his, and with no hesitation or confusion, he’s leading me towards the messy register. Piles of plastic binders, papers, and receipt books are strewn across an antique desk. Ms. Ramella, the wispy gray-haired storeowner, stares thunderstruck at the gathering media outside.
Thatcher shifts his grip so we’re naturally clasping hands, and I feel hard calluses on his large palm. Too many conflicting emotions tumble through me.
My bodyguard has never held my hand for this long, side-by-side, and I look up at him questioningly. Curiously.
But he’s already drawing my body forward.
Oh.
He just wants me to walk in front of him. So he can block the paparazzi’s view of me with his build.
Right.
Once I’m out in front, he lets go of our hands. My pulse is in my throat, but I keep course, my bare feet squishing on the humid carpet. In my quick sprint, my jeans slid down a little, and I pull the waistband back up over my love handles.
Much more comfortable.
Thatcher Moretti is an iron shield behind me, and I sense his palm hovering beside my hip.
I breathe harder and check my phone. Moffy is calling again, but like the others, it drops within seconds.
I peek back at Thatcher while I approach the register. “Should we find a rear exit?”
He nods once, but then his eyes form lethal pinpoints. He speaks into comms. “Say again?” He listens.
“Youse twos.” Ms. Ramella is waving us over to the antique desk, her Philly lilt thick on top of a few Italian words.
I’m only fluent in English and French, but I’ve heard Thatcher speak some Italian, mostly words mixed with English, and I’m not so sure his dialect is formal or a language one would learn in Italy or through textbooks.
I reach the register with Thatcher. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Ramella,” I apologize for the noise outside. “The cameras and all the men will be gone as soon as I am.”
She’s stabbing a glare above me.
At Thatcher.
I crane my neck over my shoulder, and his serious eyes meet mine for half a second, almost softening in an apology.
He knows her.
Thatcher lifts the mic to his lips, tendons strained in his rigid shoulders. “Solid copy.”
I turn more into his chest and adjust my slipping purse strap, cross-body again. “You know what’s happened?” I whisper.
“Bits and pieces.” He hasn’t acknowledged the storeowner yet. His hand brushes against my hip, and his muscles contract. Accidental. That was an accidental touch. “It has nothing to do with your family.”
Yet, his squared shoulders never loosen, and his lethal glare grows darker.
“It’s about me,” I realize.
He barely nods, not too elated, but I’m relaxing for the first time.
“I can handle a me crisis,” I say confidently. “This is good news.”
His grip strengthens on my gaze, looking dreadfully more protective of me than before. “We need to find a magazine.”
I must be in the tabloids.
What gossip column has spread rumors about me this time? Nothing can be worse than the HaleCocest rumor that is now buried and gone, but it rocked and rattled my friendship with Moffy more than anything ever had before.
Nearly a year later since that awful day, we’re at a much better place.
“So it’s just tabloid gossip?” I ask Thatcher.
“No. I don’t think it is.”
I frown.
What could it be then?
If he knew the details, I think he’d share them, but he said he’s only receiving fragments over comms. He must be piecing the information together.
Maybe this mysterious news has reached the internet. We both check our phones for cell service.
None for me.
Thatcher shakes his head and slips his phone in his pocket.
“Ms. Ramella.” I spin toward the cluttered desk. “You wouldn’t happen to have an entertainment magazine with you? Like Star, Us Weekly, Celebrity Crush ?”
“I don’t read any of that.” She’s still drilling a ginormous crater into Thatcher’s forehead.
Thatcher finally settles his gaze on Ms. Ramella. “Michelina—”
“You come into my store and you don’t even say a hello?” She throws up her frail, age-spotted hands at Thatcher. “And then you bring all this…” She spouts off another Italian word, her pointer finger jabbing toward the glass entrance where cameramen scream my name. “What’s wrong with youse? Ha? ”
Thatcher hardly bats an eye. He stays behind me, but with his height, he’s able to stretch over to the elderly storeowner. “I’ll make sure they clear out when we leave. It’s nice to see you.” He cups her face tenderly and kisses her cheek in greeting. “You look good.”
I glance keenly from her to him, him to her. I’m seeing much more of Thatcher today than I would’ve ever expected.
She huffs but simmers down a great deal, and then she taps his jaw twice in affection. “Don’t be a…” The Italian word may as well be redacted for me.
I can’t be sure what she called him.
Ms. Ramella tries to lower her voice, but she’s still very audible. “You take care of that famous girl, you hear? What’s her name?”
“Jane,” Thatcher says, nearly cradling the one syllable like he’s protecting all four letters from harm.
My lips ache to rise. Why do I love that so much?
Ms. Ramella seems to know more about Thatcher working in security than she knows about my famous family. Which is terribly sweet.
“Are you related?” I ask while she’s eyeing me.
“No.” She points to him. “I play pinochle and Canasta with his grandma on Thursdays, and my grandson is the boys’ age.”
The boys. She must be referring to Banks, too.
Thatcher talks more urgently to Ms. Ramella, and after a short exchange, she hands him this morning’s paper.
He eagle-eyes the rowdy paparazzi and then looks down at me. “Let’s go in the back. It’ll be more private.”
“Why the newspaper?” I ask before we move a foot.
“The team is now telling me it’s in The Philadelphia Chronicle .”
I used to read that newspaper when I was a little girl. My mom would pass me the business and finance section whenever I asked for them.
But I’m at a loss now. Why would I be mentioned in a reputable newspaper that rarely prints salacious gossip about my family?
“You don’t know what it is?” I ask my bodyguard.
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
5
THATCHER MORETTI
Fucking comms.
Bad signal—it’s frustrating, but after I get word that this situation revolves around Jane, most of my irritation goes up in flames. Leaving my purpose clear.
Focused.
Protecting her is all that fucking matters.
At the back of Michelina’s store, I lead Jane to a small, enclosed area where fabric swatches are staple-gunned in chaotic array to the wall. Supplies like scissors and rulers are packed in cardboard boxes on utility shelves—shelves that Banks and I helped put together for Michelina years ago.
It’s not every week or even every year that my childhood collides with work. On the ride here, I’d been hoping that Michelina would be absent. Home picking parsley from her pots or stuck watching morning game shows.
Not because I wouldn’t want Jane to meet my grandma’s friend (I shouldn’t want that)—but because when I’m on-duty, I need to be on-duty.
Family and family friends—they’d rather I switch that off and act like I’m on a fucking weekend stroll sipping boxed Chardonnay.
But being vigilant is usually my default setting, no matter what, and Jane’s life is too important to me to be anything less than what I know and who I am.
Muffled voices crack in my eardrum. Comms chatter is close to fu
lly down, but I received enough intel to figure out the rest on our own.
After she skims our new surroundings, Jane perches her hands on her hips. Blue eyes fixed on me with a poised determination. Like she’s ready to help a fighter pilot navigate air space in combat.
I love that—don’t fucking go there, Thatcher. I have a job to do. My cock needs to stand the fuck down.
Neither of us shifts our gazes.
Jane asks, “Is there anything I can do?”
Protocol: do not engage your client in a crisis. It could inflict unnecessary stress on them. For Xander Hale, the protocol is applicable. But pushing Jane out of these conflicts has always made her more anxious.
I edge closer. “You know how to read these?”
“I do. There should be a table of contents in the front.” She glances quickly at me. “Have you read a newspaper before?”
I stand right beside Jane. “I never read through one.” I pause and decide to add, “My grandma reads them all the time and she’ll line drawers with old newspapers. I just use them to clean grill grates.”
She smiles at that image, for some reason. I think I’m a pretty plain person. Too quiet, too serious, I’ve been told. But she appreciates even the simplest things I say.
I lower the newspaper to her height. Careful not to touch my body to any part of her body, the space between us like a tense void, and I fan out the paper with strict hands.
She skims the inked words. “The entertainment section begins on page thirty.”
“We’re not looking for that section from what I heard.” A sharp electronic frequency from the comms suddenly nails my ear. I breathe in. Angry bands of my muscles tighten, but I can’t recoil. I stay fixed in place.
Fixed on this mission.
I hold her gaze. “We’re looking for an ad.”
Her brows jump. “An ad?”
“I don’t know what kind,” I explain. “All I could hear was that there’s an ad in a newspaper. It might not even be in this one.”
She nods and then peers closer, practically tucked to my side. My muscles tighten while I resist an impulse to place my hand on the small of her back.
Jane points a finger to the table of contents. “Ads should all be in this section. The classifieds.”
Page 52.
Good to go. I flip pages while I hold the paper between us.
One more page.
I turn the last one—and the advertisement is impossible to miss.
Jane freezes, wide-eyed at the paper, and my harsh gaze narrows on the typed headline and full-page ad below.
MODERN DAY CINDERELLA: JANE ELEANOR COBALT IS LOOKING FOR HER PRINCE CHARMING.
Are you single and searching for love? Are you a gentleman ready to spend your life with a studious young woman? Jane Cobalt, daughter of Rose Calloway Cobalt & Richard Connor Cobalt, is seeking a man who is…
1. Formally educated: college degree required, masters or doctorate preferred, bonus points if Ivy League.
2. Property owner: a man who bought his own place is sexy.
3. Businessman: can be a hobby or profession, bonus points if finance is involved.
4. Financially set: a six-figure salary minimum, and don’t leave her with the bill, even if she’s worth more than you.
5. Must own a 2nd mode of transportation, other than a car: yacht, private jet, helicopter, etc. Motorcycle does not count, sorry boys!
If you meet these five requirements, please contact 215-555-4908 or [email protected]. A resume and photo are required before the selection process begins.
Whatever deluded jackass wrote this pile of shit—they just put Jane in real danger, and instantly, I want to shield her from all of it. This ad won’t go unnoticed. I’ve been a bodyguard long enough to know this’ll attract a certain kind of man.
My eyes flash hot like missile strikes at the newspaper, blood boiling.
I’m not letting anyone near Jane.
She expels a breath. “The initial shock is starting to wear off.” Leaning closer, she rereads the ad with a methodical expression.
I look her over in another critical sweep. She’s my first concern.
First priority.
And she’s been through enough hellfire to be numb to a ton of fucked-up things. More than imaginable. I’m not surprised she’s taking an analytical approach right now.
I lower my voice. “The team and I will deal with this. The Tri-Force should already be involving lawyers.” When I used to be the lead of Epsilon, I had to handle those details, and I would’ve already had legal on call.
“Thank you,” she says, almost in a whisper. “The paparazzi’s enthusiasm outside is making more sense now.” Her brows bunch, confused about something.
The team actively tries to stay ahead of the media, but no one tipped us off about the ad. Now that it’s in print, I home in on a bigger security issue: who’s behind this bullshit?
“Is that phone number familiar to you?” I ask Jane.
“Not at all.”
I study the number. “It’s a Philly area code.”
“It is,” she agrees, and then takes a brief pause. “Thatcher, this is a full-page ad. It must’ve cost…a great amount of money.” Her eyes flit to me with intel that I need. Jane Cobalt is smart as all hell, and the whole world knows that fact.
But I’m fortunate enough that I get to see all of who she is on a daily basis.
I process what she’s telling me, and my jaw hardens. “Whoever made the ad has money to burn.”
“Precisely.” She squints at the paper. “That picture they printed is from my Instagram.” Her fingertip brushes the photo. “They retouched my hair and face.”
I grip the newspaper with two hands and lift it higher. Inspecting the headshot of Jane where she’s smiling mid-laugh and wearing a turtleneck.
All the normally frizzed strands of her hair are erased, and her freckles are gone.
The fucking jackass who did this—they shrunk her nose and moved her eyes closer together. Naturally, one of her blue eyes is round, the other oval, and they’re the same size in this picture. Her features more symmetrical and even.
I’m going to fucking kill him.
“It’s so odd,” Jane mutters. “You’d think if this were an elaborate prank—‘make Jane Cobalt look like a snobby heiress with shallow taste’—that they’d choose an unflattering photo, not Photoshop me to look prettier.”
“You’re prettier without it,” I say without thinking. Goddammit. It’s too late, and I’m not about to retract what I believe and form a fucking lie. I glance down at her.
Shock slowly breaks apart her lips.
Because I rarely word vomit anything. Anger makes me say what I shouldn’t say, and right now, I’m pissed at an unknown jackass who’s fucking with Jane. My client , I remind myself.
Shouldn’t be thinking about her as anything else.
My stance is stern. Hopefully this just blows in a more appropriate direction. Hopefully it doesn’t —yeah, that devil on my shoulder can take a fucking hike to hell.
Jane presses her lips together, suppressing a bright smile. “If you’re just trying to make me feel better, I’m okay, really. I don’t need reassurance.”
“I know you don’t,” I say seriously. She rarely ever looks for it. “I didn’t say it with any motive.” It just slipped.
Her smile dimples her cheeks, more flushed. She tries to focus on the ad. “Regardless of…that… these Photoshop alterations make me fit with media and societal standards of beauty, so whoever is behind the ad must’ve wanted me to look prettier to the public.”
I drop the newspaper back down to her height. “Could be created by a fan who wants to see you fall in love.” My harsh gaze scorches holes into those five requirements. This jackass wants Jane to be with someone in high society. A business mogul. A helicopter-riding, yacht-owning educated rich prick.
Someone so unlike me.
“It could be,” she says with a no
d. “That seems most likely. I could exhaustively tell the world a million times that I’m perfectly fine on my own and I’m closed for dating and sex forever , and they’d still pull a stunt like this.”
I hear her emphasis on forever.
My bones are iron. I can’t help but think about Nate. That fucking bastard. His name makes me want a boxing bag. Searing a red-hot aggression in my veins.
She’s made a life-long vow of celibacy because of what happened with him. I’m aware. The entire security team is aware. It’s a hot topic among some bodyguards that I’m trying to turn cold.
Every time I walk in on men shooting the shit about Jane and sex, I shut it down.
“Is there a back?” she asks.
I turn the page, and we both read small print at the bottom: turn to page 23 for the accompanying article to the Cinderella ad.
We both flip pages of the newspaper together. With a lot more urgency.
“Here it is,” Jane breathes.
We stop on the article, the ink faded in some spots.
JANE COBALT IS READY FOR LOVE
A close source to America’s most famous families—the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts—has told the Chronicle that the 23-year-old American princess is “over” being single. Jane is seeking a Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet.
This comes after the announcement that her best friend & cousin, Maximoff Hale, is now engaged to his boyfriend & bodyguard, Farrow Keene. Their impending nuptials has sparked a desire in Jane to find a “special someone” to spend the rest of her life with.
It’s been hard for Jane to find true companionship, and avoiding men who want her for fame or money has been difficult in the past. Our source, Jane’s grandmother, confirms.
Now things are about to change as she searches for love the royal way. (See page 52 for the Cinderella ad.)
Tangled Like Us Page 6
