My mom answers, “We were reading the tabloids. Some think you’ve been with her for a while. Coulda told me about her sooner, but it must’ve been hard for you with work.” I hear her warm, slightly teasing smile.
To kiss a client in public—she knows I’d never do it. So she thinks what’s going on with Jane is serious.
I rub my mouth. “It just happened,” I say, voice deep.
Banks and I agreed that our family shouldn’t know that Jane and I are fake dating. To them, this is real. If the media were to contact our family or if their friends pry about Jane, it’s too much to ask them to lie on my behalf.
“We wanna meet this girl!” my grandma says. “Bring her here! Nicola and I will cook up a big pot of braggiol’. Banks can come along too. It’ll be real nice to see my boys again.”
Lately, we haven’t had as much time to stop by and see them. “I don’t want the media hassling you three, grandma.”
“Don’t youse worry about us now,” she says. “How’s your brother doin’?”
“Menzamenz,” I tell her. Half and half. Banks had a small migraine this morning. Didn’t last long. “Has anyone been at the house?”
My mom cuts back in, “A journalist kept knocking on the door, but I shut the blinds. Your uncles already came over and scared him off.”
Good.
One journalist is more than I’d want, but I’m aware of what Farrow’s stepsister dealt with—and this is nothing in comparison. Banks and I have been expecting some media to find our mom’s address and phone number.
We’ve been preparing for worse than that, and we’re putting 24/7 security on their house tonight. Everything is set up to protect our family in South Philly.
After another short exchange, we say our goodbyes, and as I return to Akara, I notice he’s off the phone too.
“How are they?” Banks asks me, tossing and catching a lime.
“Fine. One journalist so far.”
He bobs his head. “They’ll be alright.”
I nod too.
I turn to Akara. “What’s the word on Grandmother Calloway?” The last we’ve heard from her, she cancelled her afternoon tea. She didn’t even call or text Jane. Just let her assistant email her. Letting her know that under the circumstances with the current headlines, an afternoon tea with potential suitors would be inappropriate.
Akara looks to me. “Not a sound.” He pushes his black hair back, fitting on a baseball cap backwards.
Banks motions to the Omega lead. “I hear she’s crawling back underneath the dirt from which she came.”
Akara grabs the liquor bottle. “Hey, she even saw her shadow.”
I check over at the archway on instinct, then look back to them. “Looks like we’re due for a long winter, gents.”
Akara smiles. “If only she were actually a groundhog, man.”
We all know she’ll be back at some point.
No one spends that much effort on a fucking ad without being invested in the cause. And in this case, it happens to be setting Jane up with some upper crust, gold-brick-shitting asshole.
“Do we have eyes on their grandmother?” I ask, opening the fridge.
“Twenty-four-seven,” Akara confirms. “You can thank Jane’s dad for that.”
Connor Cobalt.
I don’t interact with him often, and I’m not sure if this op will change that. Unlike my family, her parents know this is all for show.
I grab a couple beer bottles. “Do you two even know how to make caipirinha?”
Banks throws the lime at me. “I thought you did.”
I catch the lime and chuck it back.
He grabs it easily.
“No,” I answer.
Akara shakes his head and then calls, “Hey, Quinn!”
Quinn pops in the archway. He’s rolling up the cuffs to his floral short-sleeve button-down. Recently he’s been wearing a lot of florals shirts. Today: green palm leaves with yellow flowers.
His brother already gave him shit for being LA trendy. Whatever that means.
All I know is that when Akara moved in, he and Quinn refused to let me and my brother bunk up. Banks and I offered. Of course. We’re twins. It’s the easiest shuffle.
But Akara said we shared a room most of our lives, and they both didn’t want us having to do it again. So like Luna and Sulli, Quinn and Akara now share a room.
It’s a big deal to me and my brother. Not many people would choose to have a roommate and sleep on a bunk bed for us.
In the kitchen, Quinn notices the empty pitcher. “You need help?” He wanted to make the Brazilian drink today because Luna said she’s never had one before.
Most of us in security have had them. Just never made them ourselves.
“Yes we do,” Akara says smoothly and shifts to let him in, and I give Quinn space, squeezing past everyone and leaving the kitchen.
Instinctively I scope out the living room for Jane. Finding her in mere seconds. She lounges on a stool next to Maximoff and Farrow, chip bags spread out over the high tabletop.
She pops one in her mouth. Smiling at something Farrow says to Maximoff.
“Twitter is going nuts,” Luna announces from the leather couch.
I see her in my peripheral. Laptop balancing on her knees, red marker underlines her eyes like she was in a flag football match. Knowing Luna, she probably just did it because she wanted to.
“Holy fuck.” Sulli reads from over her shoulder. “It’s trending. That’s what that means, right?” She points to the screen.
“Yep yep, definitely trending,” Luna says.
I shove off towards Jane.
Whispers and chatter from the table and couch seem to hush as I approach her. Until I’m right in front of Jane, and the room is awkwardly silent.
Here, among security and her family, we’re back to being bodyguard and client. No dating. Her face can’t be up against my face. Be professional.
I hand her the extra beer I grabbed.
Her lips rise. “Thank you.”
Maximoff and Farrow aren’t staking glares into me. They’re just eyeing me closely.
I focus on Jane. She runs her thumb over the rim of the bottle, and her eyes search mine. “About you being more in the public,” she says, “I wanted to let you know that whatever crops up on the internet about your life, I don’t plan to read it. I’d rather hear whatever you’re willing to share with me, but if you’d rather I just look, if that’s easier for you—”
“You don’t have to look,” I interject. “I don’t think the public will find much anyway.”
There is one thing…one thing that I’d rather she never find out through a fucking online search engine or internet troll.
One thing that I can’t figure out a good time to say. It’s so far gone. Over fifteen years ago, but once I drop it, the air usually snaps and the mood darkens.
I hate going there.
Hell, I don’t know how to go there most of the time.
“So it’s a plan then,” Jane notes.
I nod and remember what I needed to tell her. “The team wants us to wait to publicly confirm that we’re together.”
No posts.
No interviews.
No banners in the fucking sky.
Nothing.
We just have to appear like we’re getting sloppier about hiding our “secret” relationship. Media will do the heavy lifting.
“Sounds brilliant.” She sips her beer, then licks her lips. “Do we have our next objective as a couple?”
We do.
19
JANE COBALT
Security devises a plan that has tumbled my heart throughout my whole body like an erratic, too-eager-for-my-own-good pinball.
Thatcher and I are embarking on a weekend getaway at a local Bed & Breakfast. Our fake couple antics are starting strong. Just packing my travel suitcase, I felt like I was on an adrenaline high.
As I roll my luggage along the pretty floral carpet, I drink in the q
uaint Bed & Breakfast and cozy atmosphere, and I glance more than once at Thatcher.
He towers beside me like an archangel. His radio attached to his slacks, mic on the collar of his black long-sleeve tee, and I’m more aware this isn’t a real romantic vacation.
He’s still my bodyguard, and this is simply just a ruse. A strategy.
I have to keep my wits about me.
In the foyer, a brass chandelier hangs overhead and sunlight streams through stained-glass windows. A fifty-something innkeeper waits for us behind a polished mahogany desk.
I read her nametag as we approach. “Hi, Gretchen,” I greet with a smile.
She returns the smile with a warm one. “Welcome to the Concord B&B.”
“We have a reservation under…” I realize that I didn’t book the reservation. I might be terribly messy, but I’m very organized and can juggle more than what meets the eye. I usually plan travel details myself. Never leaving them up to assistants or family members.
But this weekend trip was different.
Thatcher steps forward, his large hand hovering near my hip. “It’s under Moretti.”
Why was that so very sexy? He put the reservation under his name. Possibly the Tri-Force told him to do so. I try to read his stern features, but he’s so vigilant at the moment. Constantly scanning the foyer, then glancing down at me.
Checking on me.
The back of my neck blazes, and I try to retrain my attention on the innkeeper.
“Let’s see here.” She plucks her reading glasses off her chest, a beaded chain linking them around her neck, and she perches them on her nose. Wispy blonde tendrils twist in a nest upon her head, and her honey brown eyes dart between me and the four bodyguards who flank my sides.
Thatcher, Banks, Oscar, and Donnelly.
This is a team mission, after all. Plus, SFO said there should be more security around, especially since a parade of paparazzi has been trailing our every move.
Now that Thatcher is gaining more fame, his job as a bodyguard is going to be harder, and Omega wants to protect him like they did Farrow.
I can still hear some of the fanatic shouting we left outside of the Bed & Breakfast.
“Jaaaaaane!”
“Thatcher!!”
I’m not sure how Oscar and Donnelly got off their details with my brothers. But I assume it might’ve been easiest to give Charlie and Beckett temp bodyguards this weekend.
Maximoff and Farrow would’ve come along. I wanted them here badly. There is a large absence that only they can fill in my life, and it’s a strange feeling not having them with me on such a huge endeavor.
But Moffy and I knew if we stayed overnight together at a B&B, it could potentially unbury the HaleCocest rumor. Regardless if he’s engaged to Farrow or not, it could happen, and that is the mother of all dumpster fires that we desperately do not want to reignite.
She types on a keyboard. “Breakfast starts at eight and ends at eleven.” She squints at her computer screen. “Ah yes, you’ve requested the Metropolis, Blue Ridge, and Victorian rooms.”
Skeleton keys are hung on wooden pegs behind the innkeeper, and there are only three out of six left. Meaning, strangers already occupy the other three rooms.
It’s purposeful. Security is hoping the guests will spot Thatcher and me together. We need strangers passing pictures and information to the press.
Paparazzi will question anyone who leaves the Concord.
Gretchen gingerly picks the remaining three keys. “The Blue Ridge is on the first floor, two twin beds. The Metropolis and Victorian are a short distance up the stairs, second floor on the right. If you need anything, you can find me in the study. Third door down the main hall.”
“Thank you,” I say, and she passes the keys to Thatcher.
She darts off to the study.
Thatcher hands a skeleton key to Oscar. “You or Donnelly need to be on night watch. So rack out as soon as you can.”
Donnelly surveys the ceiling, nooks, and corners of the old house.
“I’ll be on during night,” Oscar confirms.
Thatcher lowers his voice to a whisper. “I won’t be on comms, so text if you can’t hear us.”
Hear us.
I smooth my lips together to keep from smiling. By us , he means me and him. Pretend fucking. That is precisely what we’re doing here. Making sex noises in our room so other guests can hear from the thin walls.
I am terribly thrilled to fake sex with Thatcher. Maybe it’s the Cobalt in me that thrives on strategic plans and deception. We’re playing 3D chess, and my teammate happens to be serious and brooding and currently pinning his stern eyes onto me.
“Ready?” Thatcher asks, deep and husky.
I grip the handle to my weekend suitcase, my palms perspiring. “Yes, I am.” I rub my clammy hand on the thigh of my pale yellow jeans.
The other bodyguards on SFO don’t draw attention to my shallow breath. They’re very mature about this whole ordeal.
Donnelly and Oscar say quick goodbyes to me.
“Stay frosty, boys,” Banks tells them, and those two leave to locate their bedroom on the first floor.
Thatcher slings his backpack over his shoulder. “I can get that.” He reaches for my suitcase, but he stops when he sees me shake my head.
“I can wheel it, really. I’d rather carry my fair share.”
He nods, and as we make our way to the carpeted staircase, his hand falls to the small of my back, lightly brushing against my body. His fingers might as well carry static electricity, my nerves humming. Trembling.
We sneak glances at each other.
Banks follows behind us, duffel slung on his shoulder.
And we all ascend the creaky stairs. Before I try to drag my luggage, Thatcher reaches over and I let him take the handle. He hoists the suitcase up like it weighs no more than an inflatable beach ball.
He is impossibly attractive.
I skim him more openly and start to smile. I love that my terrible version of Say Anything with unnerving stalkers has now changed to something more enjoyable. More enthralling.
We reach the narrow hallway on the second-floor. Paintings hang off-kilter on dark wooden-paneled walls. I think we’ve been transported to a Nancy Drew novel, and so far, we haven’t run into any other guests.
It’s also possible that Gretchen could leak information. She hasn’t signed an NDA, so there are no legal ramifications if she spills details about our stay here.
We all walk down the hall.
“What’s the word on the Wi-Fi?” Banks asks his brother.
“None,” Thatcher answers.
I glance back at Banks. “Is it a security problem?”
“Nope,” Banks says.
Thatcher catches my gaze. “Queen of the Ring is on tonight.”
Sounds unfamiliar. “Queen of the Ring?”
“It’s a WPW pay-per-view match. World Pro Wrestling.”
Realization washes over me. “I’ve heard of WPW before, but I wouldn’t know the names of any big matches,” I say aloud. “I’ve never seen one.”
Thatcher is about to answer, but we reach our rooms.
Banks sticks his key in a door across from ours. The plaque reads: Metropolis. The Moretti brothers exchange a look that I can’t decipher, and then Thatcher nods before Banks disappears.
Thatcher and I are officially alone.
It makes what we’re about to do more real. Share a bed together for the night. Though, security reminded us to sleep on opposite ends. Bonus points if Thatcher takes the floor.
No cuddling produces zero temptations.
Or so they believe.
I think they’re placing complete trust in Thatcher’s professionalism. And I also think they’ve forgotten to add other variables. Like how I’m easily aroused by Thatcher, and all he has to do is be himself.
Assertive, considerate, stern and protective. And more, so much more—some layers I’ve only just glimpsed.
Thatche
r uses the skeleton key and unlocks the door. I trail inside behind him, and he has me stop at the entrance. He checks the bathroom, and while he assesses the rest of the space, the interior catches me off guard.
Pretty pale green wallpaper lines the room, and a king-sized bed overpowers the space, a glittery champagne comforter tucked nicely in the iron frame. Three pink stained-glass windows above normal panes let in soft light, and a Victorian velvet chaise rests near the bathroom door.
It’s eclectic and gorgeous and I’m immediately in love.
“This okay?” Thatcher asks, closing the door behind me.
“More than okay.” I place my suitcase near the foot of the bed. “It’s like someone dug around in my head and this exploded out of it.”
“Hold on.” He drops his backpack beside the chaise and then checks the latches on the windows. He tests the locks.
All seem to be secured, and then he snaps the blinds shut. The only source of light now comes from the stained glass above.
The sun has already begun to set, and I pull the tassel to a frilled lamp, a warm glow bathing the bed.
Quiet lingers, and nervous anticipation sizzles my skin and flip-flops my stomach. I eye him curiously, watching as he sits on the edge of the chaise and unties his boots.
If I don’t fill the silence, I may boil to death—or in the very least, sweat through my long-sleeve fuzzy shirt.
“Who from security proposed this idea?” I ask, placing my beet-shaped purse on the nightstand.
He yanks off his boots. “I’m not sure. I came into the meeting and it was already the most popular option.” He rolls up the sleeves of his black tee and then grabs his backpack.
He lifts his head, staring more strongly into me. His gaze is a thousand-watt bulb. Scorching me head to toe.
He asks, “Have you changed your mind about doing this?” His husky voice somehow contains deep concern and reassurance all at once.
“No, not at all.” I push a frizzed strand of hair off my cheek. “Is it odd to say that I’m actually excited? I’ve never faked an orgasm before. Usually I just tell the guy that they didn’t please me, and I’ll provide pointers and then let them solve the rest. So this is a first—the faking orgasm part.” I intake a short breath, my eyes widening at my unraveling thoughts that I’m purging out loud.
Tangled Like Us Page 18
