Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7)

by Krista Ritchie

  Unlike me.

  I don’t have anyone else.

  I can tell Jack sees the unspoken words in my face. So I drop my gaze and busy myself with wiping down the kitchen counter.

  “I’d be a single father,” I continue on, “and I wouldn’t want that. Farrow genuinely wants Ripley in his life. He loves that kid.” I begin to grin. “I asked to babysit a few times, but Farrow and Maximoff are fucking attached. It takes a jack-hammer to pull them apart from him.”

  It’s what that kid deserves. Unconditional, never-going-to-leave-you love. But my best friend is unfortunately staring at a legal battle in his future. Ripley is the biological son of Paul Donnelly’s thirty-year-old uncle. Who’s in prison. And this motherfucker won’t sign his parental rights away, probably hoping to extort Maximoff Hale.

  It’s a fucked-up situation, and I hate that Farrow has to deal with it and that a child is going to be in a very public custody battle. Maximoff is famous. Farrow is now famous.

  There’s no way this won’t be all over the news.

  “I gather you like kids,” Jack says easily.

  I nod. “I helped raise my baby sister and brother. I’m used to changing dirty diapers and being spit up on.”

  “Me too.” He explains further, “My parents worked long hours, so I looked after my brother a lot before I left for college.”

  I want to know more. Like what his parents do for a living. How did his brother take it when Jack left? But my phone buzzes.

  Has your location changed? – Thatcher

  Before I can answer, another text pings.

  I don’t want to ask over comms and worry Farrow and Maximoff on their honeymoon. – Thatcher

  “Everything okay?” Jack eyes me as I read the messages.

  “I can’t tell,” I say honestly. “I know Farrow better than I even know my own brother.” It just came out, and fuck, I can’t believe I’m admitting that to anyone, let alone Jack. I swear the guy is made of truth serum. But I just keep talking. “It’d have to take a crater-sized issue for Farrow to interrupt his honeymoon with Maximoff, and if something is going down at the lake house…I wish I were there.”

  Everyone in SFO is too far away to protect them.

  I text Thatcher back: Still in New York

  Copy that – Thatcher

  My radio crackles in my fist. “Farrow to Thatcher, are you sure security isn’t coming here?”

  I make an educated guess out loud. “He must see a security vehicle pulling into the lake house.” Why else would he single out security?

  Thatcher replies on comms, “Unless someone is lying, no one should be at the lake house but your family.”

  Jack stands off the barstool. “Who do you think it is?”

  I watch him approach the sink near me. “Maybe Quinn.”

  Jack frowns, and he’s about to wash out the cereal bowl, but I reach for it.

  “You’re my guest—”

  “You already fed me,” Jack interjects. “Really, I should’ve brought over breakfast for the meeting.” He runs the water. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Mention of why he’s here—for the show about my client—puts everything in tense perspective. The air strains. I scratch the back of my head, feeling the knot to my bandana.

  “You think your brother would lie about his location?” Jack asks me.

  I lean my waist against the counter. “Probably. He’s been imitating Farrow’s rebel ass way too much.”

  At first, I thought it was funny that my brother looked up to Farrow. Mostly because I knew Farrow wanted to be no one’s mentor. But here he was, stuck mentoring my baby brother.

  Now I’m concerned Quinn is taking it too far, but I don’t tell Jack that. My brother issues are thick roots that I can’t see as they’ve grown under an old oak tree.

  I feel like I have to chop the thing down and dig to understand what’s there. And I haven’t tried because even trying elicits rage from Quinn.

  And I hate meeting his anger.

  I shake my head, thinking out loud. “But Quinn has no reason to be at the lake house.” I take the clean bowl from Jack and dry it with a dish towel. Ignoring how my hand just brushed against his fingers. “It could be anyone on Epsilon or Alpha…” I trail off because one name latches in my head.

  Jack is two seconds from asking.

  So I just tell him, “Donnelly.” I explain how he’d often crash with Farrow at Yale. He’d even tag along dates. Why not join his honeymoon? Farrow won’t care.

  I continue with a laugh, “The guy attaches himself to Farrow like he’s another appendage. He’s practically Redford’s sixth toe at this point.”

  Without a doubt, I love Donnelly as much as I love Farrow.

  Jack smiles, but while he leans against the sink, I see his eyes drag across the ground.

  Why?

  I don’t understand that. Facing him, I say casually, “You ever have that one friend that’s just such a pain in the ass but you love them for it? They could take a shit on your front lawn and you’d laugh about it and tell the story decades later?”

  His broad shoulders contract and almost bow forward as he shrugs.

  “Come on, Mr. Popular,” I say with an edging grin that falters. “Your phone is probably bloated with numbers.”

  His lips lift. “I’m definitely not starved for those, dude.” He takes a step from the sink, closer to me. And like he’s polishing a trophy, he adds, “I was Prom King in high school.”

  Don’t give him a once-over.

  I nod a few times. “Checks out.” My voice is more stilted. I grab my water bottle. “I was Mr. December in a fan’s Hot Bodyguard Calendar.” I swig my water.

  Jack eyes me, the two-second up-down. “That’s well-deserved.”

  The kitchen is fifty-degrees hotter. “I’d say so,” I tell him.

  Look at me, willingly floating towards the sun like Icarus. If I get too close, I deserve melted-wings and a hundred-foot plummet.

  I take another hearty swig, then grab my phone.

  Mentally, I go back to security, and something isn’t adding up. Donnelly has a client in Philly, and I doubt he’d ditch his duty to Xander Hale just to hang with Farrow.

  Donnelly is a lot of things, but he cares about the families like we all do.

  So I shoot a text to my other best friend: You lying to Thatcher?

  His response is almost instant.

  Call you later. – Donnelly

  That’s a yes.

  I let out a breath of relief. “Looks like no one is impersonating security. It’s just Donnelly.”

  No idea why he’s there, but he’ll tell me when he can. More so, I’m stunned at how easily I just informed Jack of security’s business.

  Again, what in the ever-loving hell.

  “What’s wrong?” Jack asks.

  “Nothing,” I say rigidly and return to the contract, pretending to read the thing. I feel his confused eyes on my back.

  I just hate how comfortable I am with this guy. I’m already so fucking attracted to Jack, and I don’t want to like him even more.

  But I’m so used to dating people and meeting solid roadblocks, and I’m starting to realize those don’t exist with him.

  No guy or woman I take out to a simple dinner can have the details of my job or know what I know about the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts. It goes against the word security.

  I’ve been yelled at for not “opening up” and “sharing” enough with short-term relationships that I thought would last longer.

  Can I blame them? “I can’t talk about it” gets stale fast, and last thing I want is to be stale bread to the person I’m dating.

  Not when I’m a motherfucking feast.

  In my peripheral, I see Jack move around to his messenger bag on the floor. My phone buzzes again, and I tear my gaze off the exec-producer.

  Charlie is texting. Letting me know he’ll be leaving in five minutes. It’s rare for a heads up or an ETA, which means Charlie mus
t want this show to work.

  “You sure you want to do this?” I ask Jack. “Last chance to back out.”

  He stands fully, and his bottomless honey-brown eyes sink into me. “Do you want me to?” Christ. Everything out of his mouth sounds like a come-on.

  “Do you always answer a question with a question, Highland?”

  His lip quirks into a smile. “You just did the same thing.”

  “Imagine that,” I say casually.

  “You don’t want me to do the show.” It’s no longer a question.

  “I never said that,” I reply. “It’s just that I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  He can’t know. Security history runs too deep.

  I’ve been working in the field since I was twenty-four. First on Ben Cobalt’s detail, and I proved myself enough in just a year to land the coveted position as Winona Meadows’ bodyguard. Honestly, that caused me more problems than it should’ve. Jon Sinclair, the current Epsilon lead, was pissed that I was so new and landed with the Meadows family. The asshole still resents me to this day because of it. Then at twenty-six, I was transferred back to the Cobalt Empire to be Eliot’s bodyguard. After a successful year with that troublemaker, they decided to toss me into the lion’s den with Charlie.

  Security literally threw me a funeral.

  I’m not Charlie’s first bodyguard.

  Not even his second or third.

  He’s left behind a graveyard of qualified men. Some didn’t even last a single day on his detail.

  Jack may not be filling my role, but he’s going to be beside me, and he’s in an even worse position. I don’t need to get anything from Charlie. I’m protecting him. That’s it. Jack has to actively pull out information, interviews, quotes. It’s going to be like trying to break into a steel-fortified castle.

  Good fucking luck.

  7

  JACK HIGHLAND

  My first foray into following Charlie Cobalt is taking place in The Vaulted Vestibule, a dimly lit NYC concert venue. I’m holding my Canon, the strap around my neck, but I’ve expressed to Oscar more than once that I’m not filming.

  It’s the truth.

  His warnings about Charlie have seeped in, and I figure I need to pack on prep work.

  Week 1 & 2: test shots and assessing the…situation. That way I can determine logistics without having a crew (okay, a reduced crew) around.

  Mid-afternoon, the venue only houses stage crew, musicians, and their friends or family. While Charlie stands on stage next to Tom Cobalt, his nineteen-year-old brother, I snap a couple photos.

  Their discussion is heated. Tom is the lead singer of an emo-punk band called The Carraways, and he looks the part with ripped jeans, skull-and-crossbones black shirt, and a 90s haircut. And right now, he gesticulates with fervor at his brother, his brows cinched in anger.

  While Charlie looks…well, Charlie looks bored.

  I try not to judge what I don’t know. But his apathy is only pissing Tom off more.

  Oscar leans back comfortably in a theatre chair. First row. Right next to me.

  We both have front row seats to a Cobalt family blow-up. Even if we’re too far away to hear what’s said on-stage.

  I should be stoked to even have this opportunity, but it’s hard to pay attention to Charlie when Oscar is right here.

  We haven’t spoken.

  Not since we arrived at The Vaulted Vestibule. I think we’re both giving each other space to do our jobs, but now it feels different.

  Like we’re consciously deciding not to talk.

  I’m neck-deep in awkward silence. And I can’t take it anymore.

  I shift my shoulders a little and pretend to change the settings on my camera. “Does being a bodyguard mean you have to be silent all the time. Or is that just a choice?”

  I glance at him from the corner of my eye, and he’s looking over. Heat ascends my neck. Fuck, dude, you should’ve shut up. It’s easier than treading over my feelings for him…

  Whatever those are, I’m not even sure.

  “Again, Highland, I’m not your subject,” Oscar says casually.

  Got it.

  Ouch.

  My face drops a fraction. He’s been forthcoming with me and then sometimes, not at all. Like he’s raising and lowering his guards, and every time they raise, I feel like a fresh pile of cow shit.

  Like I’m not worthy inside his head. Like I’m not giving enough of me to earn him, and then I just want to talk more.

  To do something to earn Oscar Oliveira. Because I’m an overachiever? Because I like him? Because being on the outs with him fucking sucks, and even though I’m afraid of what I feel, I can’t bail. I have to ride the terrifying swell to shore and hope I don’t drown.

  I pat my camera. “Like I said, I just want to get to know you better. We have to spend more time around each other, so it makes sense. Right?”

  Oscar makes a gruff noise that sounds like it died in the middle of his throat.

  My dick twitches against my jeans. Fuck, fuck. I heat up, and my Adam’s apple bobs as I swallow hard. If he were a woman, I’d understand the hard-on.

  I’d ramp-up my flirting, and I’d have her number in a second flat. But I’m sitting here just fucking confused why my cock responded to him.

  Did I find that noise attractive because I know it’s sexy by definition or because I’m attracted to the sound or to Oscar?

  That mish-mashed thought has my brain bending like a fifteen-year-old gymnast.

  Ride the swell.

  I’m about to speak again, but Oscar actually entertains my earlier question. “I’m choosing to be quiet, so I can hear that argument.” He nods his chin in the direction of the stage.

  Sure enough, Charlie and Tom’s conversation has ratcheted up in intensity. Tom places his hands on his head in exasperation.

  My brows knit together. “You can hear them?”

  “I can read lips…” Oscar pauses and then adds, “If I’m not distracted.”

  Okay, point taken.

  I lean back.

  Oscar glances to me. “That wasn’t meant for you to shut up. I was just stating a fact.”

  My lips quirk. “So you do like my questions?”

  He shakes his head slowly, and a smile creeps over his mouth. “I didn’t say that, Long Beach.” Long Beach. His tone is sweeter with me when he uses that nickname.

  It does something to my heartbeat.

  “What’s going on with them then?” I wonder.

  “Tom’s new drummer apparently ditched at the last minute. He’s fighting with Charlie over how to replace him before tonight’s gig.” Oscar looks me up and down. “So this is your friendly warning not to trash talk me across the room.”

  “I did schedule a trash-talking for later this evening,” I say lightly. “I’ll let you know what time not to be there.”

  “Oh I’ll be there,” he says into a grin. “I don’t think I’ve heard you say a mean thing about one person. Ever. I’m not missing the moment a sunshine turns into a raincloud, even at my expense.”

  My cheeks hurt from grinning like him. “Did you just call me a sunshine?”

  “Fuck you, dude!” Tom screams, cutting into our banter. Our heads whip towards the Cobalt brothers. “You’re supposed to be here supporting me!”

  “I am here to support you,” Charlie says, voice leveled but irritation sticks to each syllable. Oscar rises to his feet and approaches now, a hand flying to his earpiece.

  I follow beside him.

  “But if that means biting my tongue when your ideas are bullshit,” Charlie adds exhaustedly, “then that’s where my support ends.”

  When Tom sees us approaching, his eyes latch to mine. “Thank you. Jack, can you please tell my brother it’s fine if I get someone from Craigslist to fill the drums for one night.”

  “Don’t answer that,” Oscar tells me under his breath.

  I wasn’t going to. “What are the other alternatives?�
�� I ask.

  Charlie sighs heavily. “Yes, let’s hear the other fantastic ideas, you’ve come up with.”

  Tom holds up his hands like he’s ready to throw in the towel. “With that level of sarcasm, you don’t deserve to hear a single one of my fantastic ideas. Plug your ears, brother.”

  Charlie doesn’t make a move.

  Tom glares.

  Charlie’s brows rise. “Oh, you’re being serious? You do know I’m not a toddler.”

  Tom lets out a frustrated noise before looking to me. “Option 2 is Eliot’s idea.”

  Eliot Cobalt is Tom’s older brother by only eleven months, and they’re as thick as thieves.

  My team on the docuseries is mostly in charge of filming the older kids of the families, which includes Jane, Maximoff, Charlie, and most recently Sullivan. We’d film Beckett too, but he’s private and always declines to be on the show.

  So my experience with Tom and Eliot is more limited, but it doesn’t mean I haven’t filmed them or been around for rifts and family gatherings. Anytime they’re together, it’s a recipe for drama.

  Charlie doesn’t stifle his laugh at Eliot’s name. “Your option will be better than his.”

  Tom narrows his eyes. “I take offense to that on his behalf.”

  “Let’s hear the idea,” I mediate.

  “Instagram,” Tom says. “I tell everyone I need a drummer for the night. Give them my location. First guy who shows up and is decent enough, gets the gig. Send the rest home.”

  “No,” Oscar rejects, along with Tom’s bodyguard Ian Wreath, who hovers close by.

  Tom makes a noise. “It was just an idea.”

  “A stupid one,” Charlie adds. “Unless you want to get your show cancelled tonight because you fucked up crowd control outside.”

  “I’m calling Moffy,” Tom refutes. “He’ll actually listen.”

  “Go ahead, call him,” Charlie says dryly. “Better yet, call our sister. I’m sure Jane would love to hear your ideas.”

  Tom groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “Why don’t you play a track?” I chime back in. Akara can also play the drums, but I don’t offer him as a suggestion because I know he’s way too busy to fill in for The Carraways.