Meeting her gaze is where I want to be, but also where I shouldn’t be. Not while I’m off-duty.
She places the sunglasses back on her head and grabs the half-gallon. But she hesitates to leave. Questions sparkle her eyes.
I check the oven clock.
I haven’t forgotten my brother. Couldn’t forget Banks if my life depended on erasing him from existence. I’ve been here for a few minutes tops, but it feels longer. Each second stretched taut.
I rub my hands dry on my bath towel, and her attention follows the movement and drifts on its own course to my crotch.
I’m trying not to imagine a lot , and as soon as she notices that I just noticed she stared at my cock—she sends me an apologetic look.
“You’re fine,” I confirm. She shouldn’t feel bad for that. I’ve pictured her in more carnal positions, and I must wear some of my guilt.
“You’re fine too,” Jane says quickly.
“Good,” I nod.
“Bien,” she agrees.
We’re not exhaling like we should. But I loosen my joints and open a top cabinet, seizing a shot glass. “You want to ask me something?”
“You’re missing your necklace,” she says in a single breath.
I didn’t expect that.
My brows furrow, and I look back at Jane. I’m not sure what emotion crosses my features. But she stumbles over her next words.
“Not that I stare at your chest…all the time. Because I don’t…” She pauses. “Though, it’s inevitable to look at your chest. Because, you see, your chest is connected to your neck which is connected to your face…” She touches her forehead like she’s burning up. “And it’s in my line of sight.”
I’m so close to a smile, it fucking alarms me.
Usually only Banks makes me smile.
I put the shot glass on the counter. “I gave the necklace to Banks to wear for today.” I find a matchbook in the junk drawer.
She’s not going to ask why. Or pry further. Because she’s respectful of how far she digs, but I want to say more. I need to fucking say more.
Jane deserves the full hundred yards from me.
Not just a fucking millimeter.
“You know the horns on the necklace?” I ask.
Surprise jumps her brows. Not by what I’m asking. Just that I’m reciprocating. She can’t hide this cheerful smile, and seeing her this happy makes me feel good.
Really good.
“Oui,” she answers. “The horns are quite pretty.”
I nod once. “It’s called a cornic’—at least, that’s what I know it by.” Cornic’ rhymes with unique. I take out a small bowl. “I was never taught the proper Italian word for it.”
“It has a special meaning?” she wonders.
“Yeah.” I check the matchbook to make sure there are at least three. Four left. “The horn is said to ward off the evil eye. It’s Italian superstition tied into tradition.”
She brims with intrigue. “Why would Banks need to ward off the evil eye?”
I head to the pantry. “It’s said if you have a headache or migraine, then someone has put the evil eye on you.” I pick olive oil off the shelf and return to the kitchen counter.
She loosely crosses her arms. “So you wear the cornic’ to ward off the evil eye and then your headache just…vanishes?”
“My grandma will tell you it helps.” I uncap the olive oil. “Others will say it’s just superstition.”
“What do you say?” she wonders, watching me measure oil into the shot glass.
I stare off for a short second. I see my chain ensnared with another chain. And I blink that flash out. Like a breeze passing by. “I like to believe in family first,” I tell Jane. “And there’s something about a generational tradition that seems fucking powerful to me.”
She nods. “Je suis d’accord.” I agree.
I tried to learn some French when I transferred to Jane’s detail. All of the Cobalts are fluent, and protecting her is easier if I can understand her.
Ten months later, only simple phrases make much sense to me. I’m not that great at picking up other languages.
Jane continues on. “But in my family, there’s also a thrill in irritating my dad with superstitions. As you’re probably aware, along with the rest of the world, he’s solely logic-based, but my mom is very much fate -driven. I suppose I’m somewhere in the middle.”
She has a lot of love for Rose and Connor. In the public eye, her parents might as well be gods. Impossible to live up to, and I’ve seen that immense pressure weigh on her shoulders.
Jane peers closely at the oil and matchbook. “Is all of this to ward off the evil eye as well?”
I nod. “I do the maliocch’…which actually means evil eye, but it’ll take the evil eye away. Which should help with my brother’s headache.”
Probably more than the cornic’.
She leans in closer, her shoulder a breath away from my chest. “What do you do with the oil?”
Air strains again.
I run my hand over my jaw and glance down at Jane, who lifts her chin to meet my hardening gaze.
“I can’t tell you, Jane.”
She nods, understanding. “Because you’re my bodyguard, and I’m your client, and that’d be too much information…” Her voice fades in a shallow breath as she sees me shake my head. We’re too close. My hand skims her waist, and her arm brushes my chest before she rests her knuckles to her lips.
Blood scorches my veins, and my cock throbs.
I force myself to take a step back before our legs touch. “Because it’s a secret. I can’t even tell Banks how to do it.” I hold the knot of my towel. Secured.
Boundary intact.
She tucks a flyaway hair behind her ear like we just fucked on the counter. “So…how come you know how to do the maliocch’ but your brother doesn’t?”
It takes me a minute to explain how in my family, you can only learn the maliocch’ at midnight on Christmas Eve. Superstition and tradition. My grandma taught me. Banks used to fall asleep by that time as a kid. As an adult, he just forgets. Drinks too much spiked eggnog or is working on the holiday.
We talk for half a minute, and then we exit the kitchen into the living room, my supplies in hand. The half-gallon of milk in hers.
Jane drifts towards the adjoining door, next to the brick fireplace. Which leads to her townhouse. I walk back towards the narrow staircase. But we haven’t broken our gazes. Not yet.
“I suppose I’ll see you sometime later,” she says in a soft breath.
She’s only going one door away, but when Jane is at home in her townhouse—when that door shuts—we stay separated and I give her space.
Because at the end of the day, I’m not supposed to mean anything to Jane Cobalt. I shouldn’t be a thought she goes to sleep to.
I’m just someone who protects her from volatile people and dangerous situations.
I expel a coarser breath through my nose. I can’t move yet. “I’ll be there when you call.”
“Sounds perfect.” She smooths her lips together.
We linger.
She motions to me. “I should let you return to your brother.”
I nod.
We stay still.
“Jane.” I hear deep, solid longing in my voice.
“Yes?” Her chest elevates in a bigger breath.
Goddammit. I grind my teeth. Hoping to saw-down this attraction. She’s my client. It takes me a long second, but I get out, “Call me if you need me.”
“I will.” She nods, her collarbones tight.
One of us needs to move.
She’s just twenty-three.
“I’ll see you later,” I say another goodbye.
“À la prochaine.” Until next time.
And finally, I lift my cemented feet and move to the staircase.
9
JANE COBALT
Oh my …oh …my …oh my God.
We just shared an intimate moment in his kitche
n, didn’t we? Heat still ascends my breastbone to my neck to my cheeks, and my breath comes out like I’ve jogged five-miles around the block. In practicality, that’s five-miles more than I would ever jog.
Or perhaps I’m just drawing conclusions and filling in blanks that I shouldn’t.
I gently shut the adjoining door behind me, half-gallon of milk tucked to my chest.
If I remove some bias, then I’m left with facts, and those facts are that I don’t need more from anyone. Not love, not sex, not anything in between, and Thatcher and I simply had a normal , polite conversation.
About his personal life, which he very rarely shares.
While he was in a towel—but towels are just ordinary fabrics a person uses after bathing. Towels don’t have to be sensual. Not even when they’re fastened to six-feet seven-inches of heaven and man.
He talked about his family traditions, then he washed my sunglasses without second thought, and did we both struggle to depart?
I touch my lips, my smile absolutely uncontrollable.
“Janie?”
“Hmm.” I wake out of a Thatcher Moretti stupor much too slowly. Just barely noticing Maximoff, who stands rigid beside the pink Victorian loveseat.
“Are you panting?”
“She’s definitely breathing hard,” Farrow states.
“What?” My mind snaps into clearer focus, and my face burns as I notice my audience of two men. Right where I left them.
I’d been in deep conversation with Maximoff and Farrow before I went to retrieve milk next door, and I knew they’d be here when I returned.
I just didn’t expect to be this distracted by my bodyguard.
“No, no panting.” I intake a normal breath and step away from the door. “This is my regular breathing pattern.”
The living room décor is frilly and pastel due to my taste. But Moffy didn’t mind that I decorated our townhouse. I brought in a rocking chair, a pink Victorian loveseat, mint-green rug, framed pictures on the fireplace mantel, and a small iron café table.
Our home smells of coffee, tea, and candles, so very unlike the cedar and musk of security’s townhouse.
“You look flushed .” Maximoff gestures to me with his Batman mug, full of steaming hot tea. He also grips a pack of pushpins.
“I am,” I say in a shallow breath, “so very flushed.”
I have no desire to skirt around the truth with my best friend and his fiancé when I want them involved in my life as much as I love being a part of theirs.
Really, I can’t remember a time where I haven’t been a part of Maximoff’s life. As the firstborns of the Hales and Cobalts, we’ve faced the brunt of the media spotlight and harassment together since birth.
I remember a school field trip to the zoo. Paparazzi were waiting outside the gated entrance, swarming the ticket booths. Two middle-aged cameramen kept shouting at us, “Jane! Maximoff! Have you started dating anyone yet?! Is there someone you like in school?!”
We were only twelve.
It was our normal. One we had to accept fully or else we’d go mad with irritations.
So once we entered the zoo, Maximoff looked over at me with confidence and a smile.
I smiled brightly back, and for the very first time, I told him, “It’s just you and me, old chap.”
He squeezed my shoulders in a side hug.
We were one another’s comfort and refuge. As teenagers, we’d deal with worse, but we had each other.
And we felt responsible for our siblings and cousins.
Maximoff very much enjoys responsibility. And I do, but to an extent. I don’t prefer leading anyone anywhere. It’s a terrible pressure to make decisions for large groups.
But I love holding the torch with him. Helping those behind us avoid falling into the dark underbelly of fame.
Because we knew whatever we experienced, our younger brothers, sisters, and cousins could soon experience after us. We tried to protect them from the cruelest parts of our reality. Blocking the numbers of porn producers off their phones, bartering with paparazzi so they’d leave them alone after school.
And then we’d take deep breaths. We’d hug and share secrets—late night in the Meadows treehouse, parked outside the school’s football field, after his swim meets and my mathlete competitions.
It’s just you and me, old chap.
And then it wasn’t.
Not anymore, not entirely.
Farrow Redford Keene came into vivid focus. With a picturesque know-it-all smile, unflappable confidence, and cascade of pirate tattoos. He’d comb a hand through his dyed platinum hair, roll his eyes, wear a teasing grin, and send my best friend into a fit of agitation.
Agitation that roused attraction.
He truly had this magnetic exchange with Maximoff that no one else did, and I saw it more up-close when he became Moffy’s bodyguard, and then closer, when they first dated and trusted me, out of everyone, to keep it secret.
I could’ve been bitter that I’d have to share Moffy, I suppose. Or I could’ve been awfully afraid that Farrow would take my place in my best friend’s life.
But I was cautiously optimistic instead.
Maximoff—my compassionate, stubborn, strong-willed best friend with a great aversion to big life changes—was willing to complicate his world by letting Farrow in.
I couldn’t resent the person who made Maximoff laugh and groan and smile in ways I’d never seen, but I was afraid of not meshing well with Farrow.
What if we never become friends? What if we actually dislike each other over time?
At first, building a friendship together seemed so dreadfully complex, but like all things with Farrow, he made it simple. During the Camp-Away last December, he chose to sit next to me in the mess hall. I was eating alone, and he could’ve easily sat next to Maximoff.
He made me feel like a first thought.
He’s never once made me feel like an unwanted third-wheel. He’s never pushed me out. He’s also gone out of his way to ensure I have plenty of time with Moffy.
Even the night of the car crash.
He’s given my best friend more, and somehow, he’s given me more, too. I feel as though I’ve gained another confidante, another ally, another defender and secret-keeper from the perils of our chaotic world.
I think Farrow is a beautiful person inside and out, and I will never desire to go backwards. To a time where he’s not with us. To just me and Maximoff.
Our worlds are more full of life with him here.
And now that I’ve fully admitted to both of them that I’m indeed very, very flushed, I plan to clarify further. But I’m easily distracted.
This time, by my cats. Five out of six are pawing at my calves.
“I know you’ve been waiting, my loves. Look what I have for you.” I rattle the half-gallon of milk. “Come follow.” I guide them to bowls lined in front of the brick fireplace.
Toodles, a tuxedo short-hair, is far too lazy to bother and lounges apathetically on the stair.
“Janie,” Maximoff says firmly. In a way that reminds me to focus.
I divide milk evenly between the bowls. Admittedly, I’ll put myself last because I find other people far more interesting. Cats as well.
But I love how much Maximoff helps me try to concentrate on me for more than a fleeting moment.
“It’s not a lengthy story.” I cap the empty gallon while Ophelia, Carpenter, Walrus, Lady Macbeth, and Licorice eagerly lap up milk. A smile touches my lips.
I stand straighter and turn to face both men.
Maximoff has thick brown hair, forest-green eyes, and sharp features full of protectiveness and concern. We’re no longer teenagers. He’s twenty-three, but he often stands like he’s carrying the world on his broad shoulders.
I’d be able to see the fresh puffy scar on his collarbone from his surgery—but he’s dressed in a Third Eye Blind tee, one of his fiancé’s shirts.
Both men already showered this morning. We all got an ea
rly start to the day after the commotion outside. Guys screaming my name at the top of their lungs. Every day it grows louder.
It’s not endearing. Some of them are older than my dad.
Thank you, Grandmother.
I’m in a warped version of Say Anything , but without the boombox and without John Cusack as my love interest. And I may be famous, but I don’t typically deal with fanatic admirers.
I have hecklers.
Men who are quick to criticize my physical appearance. I’m not pretty enough. Not busty enough. Not full-assed enough. And I have too wide of hips. Too big of a stomach.
But after much consideration, I’ve learned to love my body. Because it’s mine and there is only one of me.
I don’t have all the right curves in the right places. I am chubby. But I love my belly rolls, and I adore my love handles and my flat pancake-like ass that’s dimpled with cellulite.
The more I love myself, the more I feel a warm, invisible hug wrap around my body.
Better.
I watch Farrow dip a spoon in oatmeal, but he’s taken a pause. His focused brown eyes are on me.
He’s dressed in his usual black V-neck tucked in black slacks with a black belt and security radio attached, and he’s been sitting casually on the Victorian loveseat. One tattooed foot on the cushion, elbow to his bent knee, and he’s holding an oatmeal bowl.
Farrow tilts his head. “You saw Moretti.”
He’s also observant and perceptive, exactly what I’d hope for in the bodyguard to my best friend.
“Wait, what?” Maximoff whips toward his one true love so quickly that he nearly sloshes hot tea on himself. “Fuck .”
“Careful.” Farrow smiles into a bite of oatmeal.
Maximoff almost reddens, not in embarrassment.
We are all so very flushed these days.
I place the empty milk jug on the mantel and take a seat on the rocking chair. Shifting a fuzzy purple pillow out of the way.
Moffy tries to grimace and hide his attraction. “I’m always more careful than you, man.”
Farrow lifts his brows at him. “Never said you weren’t, wolf scout.” He unravels my best friend in such small moments.
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