Just until the temp bodyguards, the ones trailing us in the Range Rovers, arrive here. When the temps take over door-duty, Thatcher and Farrow will flank our sides once again.
It’s very systematic.
Which provides a great deal of calmness to my life.
I can’t bite my tongue. “Thatcher called me honey ,” I confess in a whisper to Maximoff. It is a small, innocent confession, seeing as how the much greater one is under lock and key.
That Thatcher spends the night fucking me.
Maximoff’s brows furrow. “In what way did he say it?”
I push aside a few leather corsets. “Caringly, and like it was the most natural thing in the world.” I feel oddly giddy; my lungs might as well be inflated with helium, levitating inside my chest.
He scrutinizes me. “I’ve never seen you like a guy this much.”
I send him a furtive look. “It’s just physical attraction.”
Maximoff gestures towards our bodyguards while he speaks. “Gawking at Thatcher, who looks like a six-foot-seven version of Jon Snow after he killed White Walkers and made friends with wildlings—that’s physical attraction. Liking when a guy calls you honey is…” He scrunches his face. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not physical .”
“It’s verbal,” I point out. “Verbal communication comes from the tongue, which is in fact a physical appendage.”
He blinks and then stares off. “Tu as peut-être raison.” Maybe you’re right.
I smile. “Thatcher is also…” I catch myself before I blurt out, Thatcher is also good with his tongue in more physical ways.
I want to express how Thatcher’s otherworldly talents in bed are by far the best I’ve had between my legs. But roping Maximoff into this secret will complicate his life when he just uncomplicated it.
Sheltering these moments in my life from Moffy is so difficult. I have a giant urge to gush forth what’s happening. Just like he told me all about his first time sleeping with Farrow.
There are so few people I trust in the world, and since we learned to talk, Maximoff and I shared everything.
“Thatcher is also what?” Maximoff picks out a spiked brown leather jacket.
I try to recover. “He’s also exceptionally sweet.”
“Jesus, that is nowhere near physical attraction.” He motions to me. “You’re supposed to be light-years smarter than me.” He gives me a look like I’m acting strange.
I’m sweating beneath my pale yellow faux-fur vest. I try to smile, but it feels a little forced.
Maximoff can tell. “Everything okay?” He sets the leather jacket back and focuses on me.
“Fake dating is just complex, but not in a bad way.” I smile in thought. “It’s more stimulating, actually.”
Stimulating. Really, Jane? I suppose I could’ve chosen a more sexual word. At least I didn’t say erotic . I tie my wavy hair back into a low pony, my neck flushed.
Maximoff is in deeper thought, and he cracks a few knuckles.
I pull back my shoulders. Confidence. I can survive tiptoeing around this secret. “And I’d rather talk about you, old chap.”
He’s about to speak, but Thatcher and Farrow approach us as temp guards claim their positions.
Teenagers shriek outside the windows as our 24/7 bodyguards walk over to us. Cellphones braced at the glass, along with paparazzi’s professional cameras. Everyone takes such keen interest in Thatcher and Farrow, who do their best to ignore the extra attention.
I’m taking a very keen interest in Thatcher Moretti at the moment too.
As he nears, he’s only staring at me.
“Thatcher,” I greet, a smile playing at my lips.
“Jane,” he says huskily, looking into me with open-booked desire. In public.
It’s not only allowed, it’s encouraged .
My heartbeat accelerates to unknown, unquantifiable speeds, and as soon as I take one step closer to Thatcher, he’s already here.
His large hands clasp the back of my thighs, and my arms take flight around his broad shoulders. All in one seamless movement. He hoists me up and my legs wrap around him. Breath abandoning my body.
His hand travels in a boiling trail up my spine, and he pulls me into his muscular build with a deep, full kiss that I reciprocate in kind.
I run my fingers across his scruffy jaw, and as I catch my breath, my lips stinging, we both seem to register the onslaught of passionate squealing.
“JANE! THATCHER!!”
We’re not glancing in that direction just yet, and I whisper, “We’re selling this well.” Another small smile tugs my cheeks. “It’s like we’re partners in crime, you and I.”
Light touches his vigilant eyes, and his gaze drifts at the next wave of shrieking. More so to double-check the safety of the perimeter.
His attention returns to me, his seriousness never waning. He’s safety, the forceful gravity that grounds me, that helps stop me from rattling sideways inside a world that tries and tries to shake me.
Thatcher drops his voice to a deep whisper. “The team will love this.” He cups my cheek in affection before setting me on my feet, his hand pressed to the small of my back. “But not more than me.”
I go to speak, but flush has overtaken my face and my tongue is tied.
My eyes glimmer with so many questions and curiosities. I want to know every miniscule detail about Thatcher. I feel as though we’ve just started this exploration. We’ve just pressed play , and we keep hitting pause to draw this out longer.
As we near Maximoff and Farrow, Thatcher’s hand falls into mine like second-nature, having no hesitation at treating me like a real girlfriend for our fake relationship.
All of our heads turn as a girl outside shrieks bloody-murder, “MAKE LOVE TO ME, THATCHER MORETTI!”
It’s not so humorous. She can’t be older than a very young thirteen.
Thatcher is unflinching. He’s used to these impassioned declarations, but not directed his way. Yet, this hardly seems to bother him.
I frown a little—there is guilt knowing that I’ve traded the suitors who were only interested in me for crowds that are now obsessed with him and us.
We all look back at each other, and they spot my unease.
“They’re harmless.” Farrow lifts his aviators to his head, pushing back his platinum hair. “That girl isn’t going to force herself on Moretti. But the sick dipshits who think they have a shot with you…” He raises his brows.
“They’re threats,” Thatcher says curtly.
“True.” I tip my head towards Thatcher.
“And those potential stalkers are gone ,” Maximoff emphasizes to me, his strong arm across Farrow’s shoulders.
I want to mention that 35% still remain. Just to be more specific. None of these threats concern me because stalkers will always exist, and I trust our security team to handle them. But I can see that Maximoff wants me to feel safe. And I do, especially with Thatcher so close.
So I don’t mention the statistics.
Thatcher looks down at me, and as added reassurance, he says, “It’s better this way, Jane.”
“Maybe not for you,” I point out.
He shakes his head, his brows drawn together. “Eliminating anyone who wants to hurt you is the better path for me.”
He sounds incredibly sincere. I trust him. And I’m fortunate to have him. “That’s…” I grapple for words that tumble in my head. “You know, I…” I take a breath. “I like…”
You.
I clear my throat. “I like that you feel that way.”
Thatcher starts to smile. Really and truly, and then he threads our fingers, his hand so much larger than mine.
My pulse speeds, and I glance back at Maximoff and Farrow. “Have you two decided on a couple’s Halloween costume yet?” I know Moffy has been leaning towards a superhero pairing, but he’s also wanted to see what Farrow would choose.
“No,” Maximoff says. “Because Farrow is being an asshole and
leaving this shit up to me.”
Farrow rolls his eyes into a wider smile, staring at Maximoff with such pure love. “You want me to hold your hand and walk you through this shit because I will, but only for you.”
Maximoff grimaces and smiles all at once. Trying to hide his affections. I give my best friend a weak 4 out of 10 this time, deductions for poor effort.
He’s suddenly more rigid, his forest-green eyes on me. “You and Thatcher are picking out couple costumes too, right? You haven’t said anything about it.”
“I don’t know if it’s up to me,” I say. “I’m assuming security will need to verify whatever we choose?” I look up at Thatcher for confirmation.
“I already asked,” Thatcher tells me, more than he speaks to Moffy. “The team agreed on no couple costumes.” His voice is strict, and his chest is tight like this isn’t news he wanted. But he has to obey.
Maximoff growls, “What, why?”
“Is there a reason?” I ask too, not expecting this kind of finality from security.
Thatcher lowers his voice. “They said it’s probable that our breakup will happen before Halloween.” His gaze softens a fraction on me.
That soon? October just began. My eyes grow in shock. “Wow.” I let go of his hand and tuck a flyaway frizzed hair behind my ear. “Well, I suppose this isn’t terrible…we have a clearer timeline to work with now.”
The bottom of my stomach has dropped, and I wish it’d float back to its proper anatomical position, please.
His chest concaves with a constricted breath, and he’s about to speak—but Maximoff beats him to it. “Just tell the team that Jane wants this to go past October.”
“I tried at the meeting,” Thatcher explains. “Farrow did too.”
My lungs swell, liking that they’re both on my side. Even if the outcome isn’t necessarily what I would’ve hoped for, and anyway, it was presumptuous to expect to spend Halloween with my fake boyfriend.
There was always going to be an end.
But we just started.
“They said probable , right?” Maximoff says, on edge. “So it’s not set in stone, and if you and Farrow really hammer in the fact that Jane wants this—”
“What I want and she wants doesn’t fucking matter,” Thatcher says tightly. “Our feelings aren’t important to security’s op. That’s just how it is.”
I’ve understood this part, but Maximoff is like my heart fighting for something deeper inside me that I can’t even unearth. I wonder if Banks were here, if he’d be fighting for something deeper inside Thatcher too.
Maximoff crosses his arms. “So security related: if this is a shotgun breakup, all the stalkers outside will just come back. Tell them that.”
“We did,” Thatcher says sternly. “The leads don’t want to risk more exposure to SFO. They think me being with Jane longer than necessary will draw too much attention to the rest of the team.”
SFO has already been in the public spotlight from the Hot Santa video, and some fans have paired us off and made creative ship names. Like Quinnivan is Quinn plus Sullivan.
But it’s been contained to one fandom realm of the internet. As Farrow would say, harmless. I can see how security would be concerned if that one realm mushroomed into popular public opinion.
Maximoff thinks hard. “Then Jane and I will talk directly to the Tri-Force. We’re the clients. They’ll have to listen to us.”
“Man, that’s not how that works,” Farrow says, his hand on the back of Maximoff’s neck in comfort. “We can’t have our clients running to our bosses because we want something.”
Thatcher nods once. “We can’t undermine the leads.”
They’d both lose a great deal of respect among security. “You don’t need to put pressure on the security team for this,” I state. “I’m not searching for longer or more.”
Thatcher tenses, looking me over in concern. He rakes his palm across his hardened jaw and then tries to hold my hand again. But I slip out of his fingers and browse through the costumes.
“We have a greater purpose. We’re here for the girls,” I remind all of them.
They know I’m referring to the Girl Squad: my sister Audrey, plus Winona Meadows, Kinney Hale, and Vada Abbey.
They each requested that their older sisters pick out their Halloween costumes this year, and since Vada is an only child, she asked Maximoff, her cousin, to do the honors.
The four girls said, “Surprise us.”
Luna and Sullivan already ordered costumes online for their little sisters—Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz for Kinney and Harley Quinn for Winona. Even if I fail miserably at this and choose something my thirteen-year-old sister despises, I know Audrey will pretend to love it.
Big sister duties are truly my favorite.
And yet, I can’t stop thinking about how abruptly this may all end between Thatcher and me. I have so many questions left to ask.
So much that I prolonged, and I wonder if our fake breakup will force us to return to a time where it’s uncomfortable, where we’re not speaking at all.
Timelines are necessary, I remind myself. You like structure, Jane.
I do, and I sift through more steampunk corsets and a few frocks.
I can feel all three sets of their eyes on my back.
And they’re tall.
Towering behind me.
“Really, I’m fine,” I say loudly.
Men. I love them dearly, but their concern comes so powerfully in my family and security. It could bowl you over, and while Luna, Sulli, and I are harassed more heavily and frequently, we were all raised by three extraordinary sisters who could summon hell and part seas together.
“Would vouching for you help?” Maximoff asks Thatcher behind me. “I won’t persuade the Tri-Force, but I can just tell them you’d never cross a line with Jane—”
“No,” I interject, spinning on my heels with wide eyes, a leather corset in my hands. Unbeknownst to Moffy, Thatcher has already erased that line and drawn a new circle around himself and me.
Thatcher’s arms are ironbound over his chest. Difficult to read, but I think he’s just on guard.
Maximoff looks between us.
I speak quickly. “I highly doubt an extra recommendation in Thatcher’s resume will persuade the Tri-Force of anything.” I hook the corset on the rack. “Let’s just leave things as they should be and not cause more trouble for our bodyguards.”
Maximoff reluctantly nods. “Alright.” He cracks another knuckle. “You want to split up? Farrow and I will meet you back at the checkout?”
I clasp my hands. “Oui. Diviser et conquérir.” Yes. Divide and conquer.
23
JANE COBALT
We hug before I go.
Farrow and Maximoff stay in the steampunk section for Vada’s costume, and Thatcher and I walk into the darker depths of the shop, away from paparazzi and onlookers at the entrance.
His hand brushes along my back, and he scouts every inch of ground. He’s on-duty. Regardless of fake-dating, he places my safety above all else, and so each glance we take still feels stolen.
Each touch still feels forbidden, and I’ve come to realize that this allure will never die with Thatcher Moretti. As long as he’s my bodyguard, as long as he values protecting me and taking care of me first and foremost, our embraces in public will be drawn out slowly like flowing magma.
Until an eruption happens. Somewhere, sometime. At night.
Thatcher surveys the back area. “I meant to tell you in the car, about what the team decided.” He stares down at me, then fixes on a fog machine that gurgles out smoke, whisking along his boots, my ballet flats. He adds a deep, “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be.” We trek further, and he pushes aside a fake spider web that almost catches in his hair. I take a breath. “I distracted you back in the car.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “We both know I distracted you.” He glances back at me, his eyes falling down my body. “Honey.” He cr
adles those five letters.
I inhale, about to say more, but I’m trapped just watching him. Staying pinned to his hard features. Engraining all the stern creases around his eyes. As though he may vanish soon. It’s terribly illogical.
He’s still here.
And he’ll still be my bodyguard no matter—Thatcher suddenly catches me around the waist, stopping me from bumping into a life-sized mummy.
He pulls me back against his muscular chest, my breath ejecting.
Heartbeat racing.
And while I’m in his protective, warm clutch, while we’re alone, I feel safe to ask him anything. “I have so many questions,” I say softly, thinking aloud. “I want to know all about you, but I can’t ask fast enough—and when I think about you, I wonder what your hands have held. What your eyes have seen.” My pulse has skyrocketed, but I keep speaking. “What your ears have heard and where your feet have landed.”
He’s quiet, and I ache to see him. So gradually, I unfreeze and turn to look up at Thatcher. I skim his stoic features, more entranced. But I also mentally replay what I just said and my eyes grow bigger. “If that sounds disturbing, I’m so sor—”
“No,” he cuts me off, one of the few times he ever has. “You’re an American princess. You being comfortable enough to say what’s on your mind in front of me—and to me—is something I don’t take for granted.”
My lungs flood, knowing he’s felt this way means more than I realize or thought it would.
His hands fall to his radio, and he hawk-eyes the rear exit that says emergency only . We’re very close to the back of the store. Where neon wigs and animal masks are shelved on endless rows of mannequin heads, and I’m multitasking, perusing the nearest rack of gothic costumes, heavy lace and black veils.
Fog continuously rolls over the ground, hiding our feet.
He seems to be aware of every little thing.
Especially me.
Thatcher sweeps me head to toe. “And I want you to know all about me. So shoot.”
I will most surely fire away. “How old were you when you lost your virginity?” I’m too intrigued, especially after how exceptional he is under the sheets…and on top of the sheets, on the floor and against the shower wall.
Tangled Like Us Page 22
