He kisses my temple, and we work together to sort through our clothes. He unpacks and slips his button-downs on hangers that I remove from vests and blouses.
“I called the Tri-Force earlier this morning,” I admit.
His gaze tightens. “About Tony?”
“Oui.” Twenty-eight-year-old Tony Ramella is unfortunately my new 24/7 bodyguard.
And it’s not everyday I speak with the Tri-Force: Price Kepler of Alpha, Akara Kitsuwon of Omega, and Jon Sinclair of Epsilon. The three leads are essentially Thatcher’s superiors. My four-way phone call with them didn’t last long, but it felt necessary.
I pass him a hanger. “I thought if I requested Tony to be transferred elsewhere, they’d be more open to the idea.”
Thatcher shakes his head, already knowing they wouldn’t be. He used to be a lead, so he would have a very good read on the Tri-Force. But I had to see if I could do something more to change this situation.
I turn more to his chest and look up. “It’s not right that they listened to Beckett’s request for Donnelly to be transferred. But yet, when I ask for one, they say, give Tony a chance.”
My brother has been secretly using cocaine, and once he heard about Donnelly’s family history with drugs, Beckett decided to have him moved. Quitting his drug use to keep Donnelly around wasn’t an option, apparently.
Thatcher rakes a hand through his disheveled brown hair. “Donnelly has been with Beckett for a long time. Tony hasn’t been with you for even a day yet. In their heads, that’s the difference.”
I consider this. Softly, I say, “I still wish Price would take my unease into account.”
He nods a few times. “I do too.” He stares off for a split-second, then focuses back on me. “You know since Tony is my stepmom’s brother, Price thinks my issue with him is just some family horseshit that’s affecting a client.”
And I’m not supposed to be aware of feuds in security.
I’m supposed to just be an heiress to a billion-dollar empire, and he’s supposed to only be a bodyguard, one hired to protect my family.
But now that he’s more to me, the curtains inside the security team have been pulled back, and I can see the in-fighting and the unprofessional conflicts that the Tri-Force would rather stay hidden.
We stare deeper at each other, more knowingly. We both know that part of my unease does stem from his feelings.
You see, bad blood seeps between Thatcher and Tony, originating from adolescence, and I can picture this darkness crawling and festering while Tony is on my detail. Not to mention, his pompous personality is particularly grating to be around.
Thatcher adds, “It shouldn’t matter why you feel uncomfortable, just that you feel uncomfortable at all. That’s enough. In any other circumstance, it would be enough for a transfer, and it’s my fault it’s not.”
“You’re not to blame,” I defend.
“I fucked them, Jane,” Thatcher says strongly. “Price is punishing me—”
“Precisely,” I interject. “Price is the one who’s not taking my feelings into account.”
Heavy silence drops.
His features are grave. “Price took that action because of what I did. I’m not telling you who to blame, but I have to accept my part in this.”
I study him and his solid, unwavering self-assurance. Thatcher is used to trekking forward with weight. He’s always quick to carry ownership for the team’s decisions and mistakes like it’s just what should happen. Like “strapping on blame” is included in a morning routine, right after making the bed and brushing your teeth.
I realize it’s engrained in his DNA the same way that rallying at someone’s side with blades and armor is written in mine.
“Okay,” I nod. “I asked the Tri-Force how long of a chance I’m supposed to give Tony.”
Thatcher keeps his protective gaze on me while he hangs up his last black button-down.
“They said he could be on a two-month probationary period with me, and afterwards we’d reassess to see if it’d work long-term.”
Thatcher narrows his eyes and walks to the closet, hanging up his clothes. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped. If Tony does something out of bounds, the Tri-Force would cut the two-months shorter.” His jaw clenches at that thought, and he returns to the bed, his stride incredibly strict.
The idea that something “out of bounds” could happen is disconcerting. I try not to cringe. Thatcher went to high school with Tony, so he knows him better than I do.
“Has Tony ever made an unwanted pass at a girl before?” I ask.
“No,” he says sternly. “…not as far as I know.” His red-hot gaze pins on the wall. “I would’ve already broken his hands if he did.”
I store our folded clothes in a plastic bin, which Walrus promptly hops into. I smile, a small one, and I lightly bop his wet nose with my fingertip. “So what we do know about Tony: he’s obtuse, he can’t tell you and Banks apart, and he’s capable of having sex with another man’s girlfriend.”
Evidence: he slept with Thatcher’s high school girlfriend.
I continue, “That alone makes him an awful person and a prick.” I pause. “Anything else pertinent?”
He shakes his head, neck stiff. “Banks would tell you Tony mostly just spews shit without thinking.” He grabs my notebook off the bed, and we both check the clock on the nightstand.
I’m supposed to be at security’s townhouse by 8:00 a.m., just to briefly go over my notes with Tony since he’s new to my detail. I still have time, but if I’m late, I worry he’ll show up in my living room unannounced.
Thatcher meets my gaze. “Can I check your preference notes?”
I nod. “But I don’t have a lot written yet. I wasn’t sure how specific I should be.”
“I can help you.” He flips open the spiral notebook, his severe focus like a loaded gun. Deadly when needed.
Thatcher is my most powerful catnip. I’m transfixed to him, all the while dazedly placing my bin, with Walrus, under the bed.
He stops on the right page. “You’ll need to type this out and either email him or print it. He can’t read your handwriting.”
My stomach twists. “…I forgot he couldn’t.” I’ve been so spoiled having Thatcher, who made a huge effort when he started on my detail. Learning to read my illegible handwriting and all. “I might as well type it now.”
I take a seat on the edge of my bed and open my phone’s notes app. Thatcher remains standing, reading my list, and his brows pull together. “Jane.” He says my name with intensity.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your number three.” His shoulder muscles pull taut. “You wrote: do not touch me under any circumstance.”
I sit pin straight. “It’s called a preference list. I prefer that Tony doesn’t touch me.” I cringe picturing his hands even hovering near my body.
“He’s your bodyguard, honey.”
“I don’t know him.”
Thatcher seizes my gaze, much harder to read. “You didn’t know me, and you still trusted me to touch you.”
My eyes burn, hearing Thatcher relate himself to Tony.
Thatcher might be all stoic, hard lines, but I know he wouldn’t push me into another man’s arms. I can’t let fear or insecurity distort his intentions. I can’t. He’s just trying to rebuild trust between me and my new bodyguard—someone he can’t stand. It slices a knife through my lungs.
Very quietly, I ask, “Is this as hard for you as it is me?”
His nose flares. “I’d rather be chugging battery acid.”
“Pass the jug,” I quip.
His lip almost rises, but seriousness darkens his features. “Under certain circumstances, your bodyguard will need to put their hands on you.”
I wince.
He squats so he’s eye-level with me. “He won’t hurt you. All seven of us on Omega are triple-checking Tony when it comes to you and your family.”
“I’m not afraid of Tony. The th
ings he says just make my skin crawl, which is my number six.” I point to the notebook.
Thatcher glances at the page. “Six, do not converse with me.”
“I’m covering my bases,” I tell him.
“You need to uncover number three.”
“Is it so terribly necessary that Tony touches me?”
“He can’t protect you if you don’t let him.” Thatcher cups my cheek, and I can practically hear my heavy heartbeat. He tells me, “There’ll be times where you have to rely on Tony. I can’t be with you when I’m on-duty protecting Xander, and you’re not always going to be around Banks, Maximoff, and Farrow.” He trusts them to look out for me when he can’t. “Your safety is what matters. Above everything.”
I loosen my grip on my phone. “What if I request minimal touch? Only when absolutely necessary?”
Thatcher nods once. “That works.” He stands up, his hand never leaving my cheek, and he places a knee on the mattress.
My phone lights up next to his knee and buzzes on the duvet. A text message blinks on the screen, but it isn’t from Tony.
Your mom and I are on our way. We need to talk. – Dad
2
THATCHER MORETTI
This is a weird position to be in. Days ago, Connor Cobalt and Rose Calloway knew me as a professional, stringent bodyguard. Nothing more.
Today, I’m the man that’s been dating their daughter.
Flipping that switch isn’t just turning on and off the lights. It’s going from pitch-black darkness to a neon-fluorescent disco.
I’ve been mentally preparing to face two pissed-off parents just looking out for their kid. Hell, if I had a daughter, I’d probably lay into the fuckbag who secretly hid their relationship from me. Sneaking around—not a great look to impress the parents.
I just want to make it right.
Unfuck this fucked situation and start on solid ground.
But I’m standing in front of Connor Cobalt—a man who literally was on the cover of Forbes this month—and I realize that anything I say could bury me deeper.
The fridge hums, ice machine gurgling in tense silence. The cramped kitchen feels more compact with another man over six-feet here. But I have three-inches on Connor.
And still, I don’t think a single person could walk in this room and tell.
Jane’s dad stands like he owns the world. Expensive slacks and navy-blue button-down, a Cartier watch on his wrist that probably costs more than my uncle’s row house. He has billion-dollar energy that screams I’m better than you.
Arrogant.
Poised. All the way down to the look in his eyes and posture. How he leans back against the cabinets, hands casually careened on the counter.
In the past, in a professional setting—conversing over security matters—Connor has been approachable and easy-going. But I understand he’s no less deadly than the woman he married. The only difference is that Rose shows you her dagger, and he keeps his behind his back.
Silence mounts.
I’m in foreign territory, but it wouldn’t be the first time. I check on Jane. On instinct. I glance through the kitchen archway and see her on the pink loveseat, talking quietly to her mom. Jane catches my eyes and gives me an encouraging nod.
“Do you want to offer me a drink?” Connor asks, pulling my attention. “Water, lemonade, bourbon? You live here now, so I’m to assume you can act as a host.”
Fuck all things to hell. I nod towards the fridge. “Would you like a drink?” I ask. “I can get whatever you want.”
“Not right now. But I appreciate the offer, even delayed and obviously coerced.”
He’s not going to make this easy.
That’s fine. I can shovel myself out of the grave I’m in, and I add, because I think it’s an important detail, “I’ve only been living here for less than an hour, sir.”
Connor doesn’t even pause. “You’ve been sleeping with her for much longer than an hour.”
Holy fuck.
My features harden to stone.
I knew he’d run me over the fucking coals, but I didn’t think he’d do the job so bluntly and without hesitation. “Yeah,” I say, not denying that fact. “It’s been consensual.”
“I know,” Connor says. “You’d already be in jail if it weren’t.” He says the words casually, like this is everyday conversation. Somehow, his calm tone sounds more threatening than if he were screaming in my face.
“And I would want the same thing,” I say and then shake my head. “That’s not true, actually.”
Connor tilts his head, but his stare is blank. “You wouldn’t want someone who forced themselves on Jane to be put in jail?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” My voice is deep and assured. “I’d want them dead.” I’d also like to be the one to carry out the murder, but I don’t add that fact. I’m not sure Connor would appreciate how easily I could kill someone, even if it’d be for Jane.
Connor sizes me up for a second. “Coffee?” He’s the one who moves to the pot and starts pouring liquid in a pastel pink mug.
He hands me a cup.
“I can get yours,” I tell him, but he’s already filling up another one.
My grandma is at home clucking her tongue in disapproval. I should be feeding a guest, not making them do all the fucking work.
I’m an assertive man, but something about Connor is slowing my reflexes.
He raises his cup to his mouth. “Jane is many things, but I would never call her irrational nor spontaneous. So when she told us that her boyfriend of—” he gives me a look “—how long have you two been together?”
My hand tightens on my mug. “I can’t calculate an exact number.”
He arches a single brow. “You can’t?”
I hold his gaze.
In my head, Jane and I didn’t wake up one morning and decide that our fake relationship was real. It was gradual, and the feelings inside the fake-dating op were never fabricated. But Jane was slow to let me in, and she’d say that we were “pals who fuck” for most of that time.
The technical answer is two days ago.
The answer I feel is more ambiguous, and both are wrong ones to tell her dad.
Make a decision, Thatcher. Steam billows from my cup and heats my face.
“It’s felt like a long time,” I say.
“Feelings tend to blur rationality.” He rests an elbow back. “Since Jane seems to care a great deal for you, let’s say that you two officially became a couple when you started sleeping together. That would be when?” He takes a sip from his coffee.
“Over a month ago.”
“Four months?”
“No.”
“Three?”
I shake my head. “Less than that. Just…over a month”
He inspects his coffee, then me. “Let’s also consider that you were her bodyguard and around my daughter for longer periods throughout a day. That increases the value of time you’ve spent together. So we’ll round up ‘over one month’ to three months.” He sets his mug on the counter behind him. “So when Jane told us her boyfriend of three months was moving in with her, I thought it was fast. What do you think?”
It’s not slow.
Don’t fucking say that, Thatcher.
“It’s the speed that works for us, sir.”
“But you didn’t think to wait to move in until you met her parents or told her siblings you were dating their sister.”
No.
Because I’m apparently really damn good at moving out of order. I grind down on my teeth. “Respectfully, sir, I’m not going to apologize for following my heart. And Jane was just following hers.”
His unreadable expression puts me on edge. He stands straighter and grabs his coffee. “You remind me of someone.”
Before I can ask who, Rose slips into the kitchen. Black dress. Black nail polish. Diamond earrings and the coldest, piercing glare in her yellow-green eyes. Rose Calloway’s reputation of being an Ice Queen runs throughout the worl
d, but among the security team, bodyguards know the warmest thing about Rose is the love she has for her family.
That extends, most especially, to her oldest daughter.
Jane squeezes into the archway with wide-eyes. No room in the kitchen.
I’d like to believe I’m handling myself fine.
Rose gives me a long once-over. “You’re still alive, so I take it Richard didn’t do a good job annihilating you. Did he tell you that you’re moving too fast?”
Jane’s mouth drops. “Mom.”
I nod. “Yes—” I stop myself from saying “ma’am” because Rose has always requested security not to call her that. “Connor did tell me we’re moving fast.”
Rose eyes me. “Did he tell you that your cock will be on the end of a skewer, if you so much as hurt a hair on her head?”
Jane mutters, “Oh my God.” She mouths to me, I’m so sorry.
I shake my head, telling her it’s okay. I’d be more upset if her parents didn’t love her. To Rose, I say, “We didn’t get to that yet.” That, as in cock-skewering.
“And we never will,” Connor says. “Hyperboles are your affliction, darling.”
Rose purses her lips. “Affliction? I think you mean gift. Talent.”
He grins. “I meant what I said, but if you need more synonyms for talent, I can also provide those.”
She lets out a frustrated growl and her yellow-green eyes land back on me. “Look at these, please.” She passes me the photo album.
“Don’t do it,” Jane tells me. “It’s a terrible, awful trick.”
Rose rolls her eyes. “Gremlin, I’m not tricking your boyfriend.” She waves me on, and Connor extends his coffee to his wife.
Jane puts her hands to her eyes, scissoring her fingers to see me.
Can’t be that bad if she’s not stealing the thing out of my grip.
The title on the photo album reads: The Evolution of Jane Eleanor Cobalt’s Style. I flip open the hefty album and realize it’s a scrapbook. Neatly organized with patterned paper and cursive handwriting.
Each photo is of Jane.
Most when she’s just a toddler. I almost smile. Her style is still as Pepto-Bismol pink, mint-green and mind-boggling eccentric in the past as it is today. Bold. Colorful. But I can’t miss the blatant photos of tear-streaked Jane. Sobbing in the bathroom. Actually…
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