“But you have to remember, Cath, his parents are addicts. The fact that Maximoff Hale has stayed sober is a real feat—”
“It is,” I interject in agreement.
“—and Jane hasn’t even come close to him. What is she doing with her time now? She’s living off Mommy and Daddy.”
Thatcher grumbles an Italian word that sounds like a curse, but I can’t be certain.
Cathy snorts. “And she probably actually believes she’s as successful as her mom.”
My shoulders sink.
Of course I haven’t achieved anywhere near what my mom has in her lifetime. My family is full of overachievers and goal-oriented prodigies, and as the eldest of the brood, I am pressured to live up to the Rose Calloway Cobalt ideal every day.
My mom started her fashion company when she was only fifteen. Ladies and gentlemen, let all of that sink in.
Fifteen.
I’m twenty-three and I can hardly decide which brand of toothpaste to use.
It’s becoming shamefully easier to say, I am not worthy to be a Cobalt.
Confidence should be engrained in my DNA, but to reach into the well, I have to constantly remind myself that I am good enough.
I won’t devalue her achievements just to find value in myself.
My mom is brilliant and beautiful.
And so I am. Just in my own way.
“It comes down to this. Jane Cobalt is nothing more than a conceited heiress to a billion-dollar fortune,” Jackie tells the listeners. “She continues to be a disappo—”
Thatcher turns the radio off. “Fucking horseshit—sorry,” he apologies quickly to me, his muscles flexed and jaw tensed.
“Are you apologizing for swearing or for cutting off the radio?” I wonder, eyeing the road.
“The radio, but if swearing offended you—”
“It doesn’t offend me,” I say quickly. I want him to feel comfortable being himself with me.
Thatcher holds my gaze for an extra beat and then checks his watch. “You have three minutes.”
I scoot closer to the wheel. “We’re on the right street,” I say aloud, and I circle the block a few times just to find an open space. “Parking is horrendous.”
“Up ahead,” Thatcher says. “It’s too small of a space. Jump the curb and park half on the sidewalk.”
I don’t ask if I’m allowed. I’ve already spotted four cars parked on the sidewalks here.
Zeroing in on the tight space between a hybrid and a Jeep, I reverse to parallel-park, and then I maneuver my Beetle up the curb in a diagonal. The car bounces, and I squeeze in tight. Front tire perches on the sidewalk, and my back bumper is nowhere near incoming traffic.
Looks good to me.
I park and move more quickly.
Two minutes remaining.
Thatcher and I both open our doors. Just as I gather my purse and my keys, I shuffle out of the Beetle—no , my ballet flat slips off and plummets to the pavement.
I hurry and shut the door, stepping barefoot on loose chunks of gravel. Crouching to retrieve my shoe. “Come here, shoe.” I peer under the Beetle. “Please, please don’t betray me.”
Thatcher has already rounded my car. I sense his towering presence behind me.
Beeeeep!!
My head swerves to the road, and between Thatcher’s legs, I spot a few cars honking at the Toyota which blocks traffic, unable to find a parking spot. A cameraman jumps out of the passenger seat, and the Toyota drives away.
“Jane, look here!” the cameraman shouts.
“I’m a little busy,” I mutter and tune out paparazzi. I just now locate the sequined ballet flat behind the tire.
I snatch the shoe. And then I teeter to a stance and try to brush gravel off my foot. I wobble and instinctively reach for something to balance myself.
I grab on to Thatcher.
His muscular waist, specifically.
I look up at him while I slip on my shoe, and his hand hovers perilously close to my wide hips. He stares down at me, but his hard brown eyes never descend lower than my chin.
Shoe securely on, I set my foot on the ground, and I release my grip off Thatcher. “…thank you.” I pat his firm chest, not just once, but thrice.
Before flush ascends, I spin on my heels. I can’t be late. I walk hurriedly down the sidewalk and try to forget about patting my bodyguard.
“Jane,” Thatcher calls as I take off without him.
I glance back, and Thatcher sprints towards me.
He clicks his mic at his collar and mutters something into the speaker. Instead of stopping at my side like a friend would, he passes me right on by.
Thatcher slows down a few inches out in front and walks ahead. Per the rules of being a bodyguard. He must lead his client (i.e. me) and clear a path. So I’m not too surprised.
I keep up from behind.
His rigorous commanding stride is so familiar by now. I’m terribly used to this view of Thatcher’s peach-perfect ass, and I deeply, deeply wish I could regret how much I’ve stared at his butt.
I check the time on my phone.
Thirty seconds.
One block away, and we’ll reach the destination. We pass more brick row houses.
A young twenty-something guy smokes on the steps of one, a skateboard on his lap. We’re rapidly approaching his location.
I avoid direct eye contact, but I feel his penetrating gaze poke into me and into the trailing cameraman who snaps pictures.
“Hey!” Skateboard Smoker stands. “You’re Jane Cobalt, aren’t you?!”
My pulse spikes, more cautious.
Thatcher nails a warning glare at the pedestrian.
I attempt to mind my own business and keep pace.
Thatcher falls back and walks beside me, all six-feet seven-inches shielding my body completely from the onlooker. I’m a whole foot shorter than my bodyguard, and I find myself leaning closer to him than further away.
My heart rate eases, and I breathe normally.
“HEY!” Skateboard Smoker shouts while we trek past him. “HEY! Why are you walking away!! You fucking bitch! I hope your whole dumb fucking family dies!!”
From zero to one-hundred.
As expected.
I hardly flinch. Too used to these jeers and threats to take any stock in them.
Thatcher cements a narrowed eye on the Skateboard Smoker.
I’d rather not peek back and feed into the guy’s hand, but I’d like to know… “Is he following us?” I whisper to Thatcher.
That will unnerve me, and I start to unzip my purse. Thatcher gifted me a new bottle of pepper spray for my 23rd birthday when he read the expired date on my last one. I also have a switchblade.
“No,” Thatcher answers. “He hasn’t moved from his position.” He rotates a knob on his radio. “I can stay next to you until we reach the store.” He adds, “If you’d feel safer.”
A smile pulls at my cheeks. “I would.” I nod. “Merci.”
Having Thatcher this close brings a powerful comfort. A snaking tension. Even more temptation, and the greatest, most overwhelming curiosity.
My cross-body purse thunks my thigh as we round a corner, and I risk the umpteenth glance in his direction.
He simultaneously keeps track of our surroundings and looks down at me. As we drift nearer, his hand shifts towards the small of my back.
But his palm never makes contact, never touches or crosses that boundary unless safety decrees he must .
I wonder what his protective hands would feel like on my skin. Climbing up the slopes of my body.
Heat sears the nape of my neck again.
Come on, Jane.
No distractions. Not even of the panty-soaking hot bodyguard variety.
I have a bigger purpose today—and really, a purpose from now until forever.
Jackie and Cathy from 97.Kiss-My-Ass can delight in the fact that I am no longer aimless. I am floundering no more.
But I am two minutes late.
3
JANE COBALT
The cozy Philadelphia fabric shop is hidden behind an old bookstore. It seems as though only a couple shoppers are here perusing the disorderly store.
A bell dings when the door shuts softly behind Thatcher, and I peek down the sole three aisles for Vanessa.
Each shelf overflows with fabric rolls stacked upon more fabric rolls with no sense of color or texture coordination. Rolls that can’t fit are propped up against the shelves, crowding the narrow aisles.
At the end of the second aisle, a Molly Ringwald lookalike speaks hastily on the phone and taps the musty carpet with her nude heel. “It shouldn’t be that difficult. Look again .”
I recognize Vanessa instantly. We’ve met before, but not under the circumstance of me working for her.
“It’s not there? Are you certain?” Her grip tightens on her phone.
I worry about interrupting her call. September Fashion Week has descended upon the fashion enthusiasts of the world. Causing stress and mayhem, and it’s also why my mom is in London right now.
Hopefully Vanessa won’t realize I’m late for my first day on the job.
I head down the aisle. One ballet flat in front of the other.
Confidence.
I lift my chin.
Vanessa turns her head. Catching sight of me. “Hold on, Lance.” She struts quickly over to me. “Jane, Jane. I’m glad you’ve arrived.” She air-kisses both of my cheeks in a perfunctory rush. “I have to leave for the offices. Just pick out four fabrics for the new Calloway Couture line. Think everyday girl, functional and classic.”
Confusion parts my lips. “I was under the impression that I’d be running errands for you.” Vanessa is an Assistant Designer, and I’m supposed to be her assistant. “If you need to fax and file or a magnificent café au lait or macchiato, I’m your girl—”
“No, no.” Vanessa cups her hand over her phone’s speakers. “Rose specifically said if you want to work for Calloway Couture, you’re being placed above an entry-level position.”
I try to smile, my cheeks tightening with false confidence.
My mom has thrown me into shark-infested waters on purpose. This is not nepotism. She’s not trying to hand me a better job.
This is a slaughter. She’s hoping I’ll be chewed to pieces and quit when I can’t hack it.
It’s a clever move on her part, and I’d applaud if she were in the store.
My mom has always wanted me to choose a job that I’ll enjoy. I’m aware it’s far from a problem. I suspect not very many parents would push their children in the direction of “passion” over practicality, and even fewer have the billon-dollar cushion to fall back on.
I am grateful for them, for this life, and I’m trying not to take a moment for granted. And so I have to be realistic.
At the last Wednesday family dinner, I vehemently expressed that I have no one-true-passion in life. I’ve searched while I could, and my self-indulgent hunt is now over.
I’m committed to using my time wisely, and helping my family seems like the most sensible avenue. I used to work as a temporary CFO for H.M.C. Philanthropies, but ever since Moffy was ousted from the charity he built, I’ve refused to step through those doors.
Starting at the bottom of the fashion ladder at Calloway Couture—wherever my mom needs me—that was the plan. Instead, she’s pole-vaulted me to a position I am so drastically unqualified for and one that I do not deserve.
I push a frizzed strand of hair out of my eyes. “Are you positive you wouldn’t rather have me run errands? I could spend the day helping you—”
“No, four fabrics, cut enough for a maxi dress.” She speeds through more directions and terminology that’s only vaguely familiar.
Oh God.
In a brief pause, I cut in, “Vanessa—”
“Fashion is in your blood, Jane. As your mom always says, do or die. ” She struts past me like a strong gust of wind and puts the phone back to her ear. “Lance, look again.” The doorbell dings and she’s gone.
In this scenario, my mom would like me to die.
To perish an ugly death on the musty carpet and then revive into the version of myself that is so hopelessly me .
I know who I am, but sometimes, I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
On instinct, I unzip my acorn-squash purse. Itching to call Maximoff and ask him for advice. Two brains are better than one.
But I hesitate…
He’s teaching a swim class at the aquatic center, and then he has a lunch date with Farrow. Moffy was beyond giddy about the date this morning. Even as he said Farrow was “fucking aggravating” him, he couldn’t restrain a smile.
I catch myself smiling up at the fabrics. His happiness makes me extraordinarily happy.
Maximoff and Farrow have been on numerous dates before, but we all endure so many interruptions. If I can help it, I’d rather not interrupt them at all.
My best friend will be a last-resort phone call.
Do or die .
“My mom wants me to quit,” I say aloud, more so to my bodyguard.
His domineering presence is my shadow. Always with me. Usually silent.
Longish hair tucked behind his ears, Thatcher is uncapping a water bottle while he blocks the entrance of the aisle. He hydrates often, and until Thatcher, I never knew the act of drinking water could look that unbelievably sexy.
His unwavering gaze stays fixed on me, and I watch him take a strong swig of water.
Ask him something.
But unearthing a question among the thousands of questions I have for my bodyguard will just heighten this sort of all-consuming pull. Just being alone with Thatcher is a perfect breeding ground for tension. I don’t even need to plant a seed for attraction to sprout.
Ask him, Jane.
No.
I shouldn’t torture myself. Not today.
So I take a breath, about to face the copious fabric rolls. Back to the task at hand. Just as I begin to turn, he speaks.
“If your mom wants you to quit, why hire you in the first place?” He slowly screws the cap onto the water bottle.
He’s asking me a question. Surprise inches up my brows.
Hard lines crease his forehead, and he sets the water on a shelf. “I didn’t mean to overstep—”
“You’re not at all,” I interject. A much larger smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “This is the Cobalt way,” I answer with pride. “It’s what I know. We’re given choices. Every choice has costs and benefits, and it’s up to us to choose accordingly. She’s made the cost of working here much higher so that I’ll quit on my own terms.” I tie my hair back into a low pony. “It’s a mental chess game.”
His gaze drops down me for one of the first times.
Ever.
As though I’ve just bared a new layer of myself.
Hairs prick on my arms, his roaming gaze like static electricity. Nearly compelling me forward in a dream, and I want to ask more, so many questions crowding me at once.
If you could be anywhere, would you still choose to be here?
What were you like as a teenager?
What made you join security?
What’s your dirtiest, wildest fantasy?
When did you lose your virginity? Did you enjoy your first time?
Do you ever think about me? …of course he does.
I shift my purse to my other shoulder.
He’s my bodyguard. He has to think about me and my personal safety.
Perhaps he feels the same bottled-up sexual tension that writhes around, aching to be unleashed, but I wouldn’t dare ask. To use his word, I’m not overstepping.
Thatcher suddenly diverts his gaze, his fingers to his earpiece before speaking hushed into the mic on his collar.
So I steeple my hands to my lips and stare down the disastrously enormous shelf of silks and sheer fabrics. “It’s not checkmate yet,” I say to myself. I’m not a sad little cub about to be eaten.
Thatcher finishes with comms, arms crossing like usual. “You’re sticking this out then?” he asks, his tone not disclosing an opinion of his own.
“I think so.” I eye the fabrics. “I just hope I can figure out what fabric would work so I don’t completely destroy my mom’s new line. She’d do anything for me, and she’ll include whatever ugly dress I construct in her collection.” I take a breath. “This most definitely isn’t my passion, but I don’t know what I want.” And I’m curious, of course, so my eyes drift to my towering bodyguard. “What do you think?”
Thatcher stands with commanding stillness. On-duty. But when I’ve seen him off-duty, he’s just as stern. “I think you’re twenty-three,” he tells me. “You don’t have to know exactly what you want.”
I tip my head, my gaze falling in thought. Did he not know what he wanted at twenty-three? Or does he just think I’m young? But he’s been going strong as a bodyguard for six years. It seems he knew what he wanted when he was my age.
“You think I’m young,” I say aloud.
He hardly blinks. “I think you’re twenty-three.”
My pulse hops a measure. God, I’m too fond of how cut-and-dry he speaks. I say too fond because I shouldn’t be drawn to him when he’s not divulging much at all, you see. Yet, I nearly sway forward. “That, I am.” I nod. “…good ole twenty-three.”
Thatcher pins his gaze right onto my eyes.
I smooth my lips together, face heating as I recall the first time I met Thatcher Moretti. It was long ago, back on his official first day as a bodyguard. His client was Xander Hale, and I’d serendipitously been at the Hale house during their first interaction.
Thatcher was only twenty-two.
Good ole twenty-two.
And after he greeted me, these were the first words I ever uttered to him:
“I’m seventeen—I mean, I’m Jane.”
Six years later and he’s still one of the few people who tongue-tie me.
But before that encounter, I have no idea what he was doing. Where he was living. What his life looked like, and this isn’t the first time I’ve contemplated this cumbersome space of unknown time.
I can’t bolt my tongue down fast enough. “What did you do before you became a bodyguard? Were you in college?”
Tangled Like Us Page 4