Tangled Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  A recent tabloid headline:

  VAIN HEIRESS SCURRIES TO SALVAGE REPUTATION AFTER ADVERTISEMENT BACKFIRES

  “How’d your grandmother respond?” Farrow asks.

  “She emailed, bad press is good press . And that was it.”

  Farrow shoots a caustic look at the wall and mutters, “Fucking hell.”

  Maximoff glowers at the ceiling. Pissed. “I’m guessing she only thinks bad press is good press when it’s convenient for her.” He’s not as close to our grandmother, which is another reason why she most likely wants me to marry first.

  They already know this.

  I shuffle through a few more photos. “I think she’s convinced herself of a lot of terrible things.”

  Farrow waits to take a bite of apple. I notice him staring at the titanium wedding band on his finger. He looks up at Maximoff. “There is something we could do, wolf scout.”

  “No,” I cut in. “You’re not eloping because of her.” Emotion burns my eyes.

  His lip quirks. “I didn’t say anything about eloping, Cobalt, but nice try.” He locks gazes with Maximoff. “We could tell your grandmother we’re not planning on getting married for a few years, maybe four or five. That way she’ll stop feeling pressure to wed Jane off this fast, and she won’t pull another stunt like this.”

  They wanted a long engagement, but they didn’t want that long.

  Maximoff nods powerfully. He’d do anything for me.

  They both would.

  But I don’t want them to outright lie about their wedding for my sake. I don’t want to tarnish what’s supposed to be beautiful. “No,” I say again, capturing their gazes. “No . It’s not worth it.”

  Farrow eyes the corkboard. “So you’d rather date one of these dipshits—”

  “Date is a strong word,” I interject. “I’m going to have one luncheon with one of these suitors she’d despise. Most likely Mr. Football Man.” I pat the photo on the board of the auburn-haired athlete.

  Farrow bites into the juicy apple. “Call Moretti.”

  “Already?” I’m surprised he’s even asking to be in the same room with Thatcher a second longer than he needs to be.

  Farrow just nods. He has the ability to radio my bodyguard on my behalf and call him here, but that would mean talking to Thatcher longer than he wants to talk to him.

  Maximoff crosses his arms. “Your bodyguard should be here if we’re serious about this.”

  We are.

  I instantly procure my phone.

  10

  THATCHER MORETTI

  I’m not gonna fucking like whatever this is. I can already tell, and I’m just staring at a bunch of photos tacked up to the brick wall.

  More specifically: photos of guys, mostly around Jane’s age.

  Targets?

  No doubt , my mind blares.

  My mouth sets in a harder line. Knowing that’s not right. I need to dislodge whatever protective, defensive feelings I have for Jane for a fucking second, and I’m left with a reasonable response: too soon to tell.

  I step back and glance over at the kitchen. Where Jane and Maximoff talk on speakerphone to Sullivan Meadows. Jane’s cousin called them about the same time I entered their townhouse.

  Interruptions from family are routine. Especially with Jane and Maximoff, who try to be easily accessible to anyone who needs them.

  I spot Jane in short glimpses through the archway. She breezes around the kitchen. Heating up a mug of coffee while chatting.

  “There’s more than enough room in the garage, Sulli,” Jane reassures, “I promise your Jeep will fit.”

  Maximoff speaks. “We shifted around the bikes, and I can park my Audi on the street if it’s still too cramped.”

  That’ll be a major security issue. But Maximoff’s car isn’t as recognizable to the public as Sulli’s old Jeep. If they’re willing to risk vandalism or theft for one vehicle, the Audi is the least likely to be targeted.

  It’s the right pick.

  “You both are the fucking best,” Sulli says on the phone.

  I catch another glimpse of Jane. If she looks at you a lot, it means she likes you. Childhood advice, man. It pops into my head like a bullet piercing a tin can.

  And now I’m staring at my client and thinking, look back at me.

  Jane rests a hip against the counter in a momentary pause. She smiles brightly at something that I can’t see. Maybe the phone in Maximoff’s hand.

  I shouldn’t want to be that phone. I shouldn’t want to be the receiver of Jane’s vibrant energy or any fucking thing that belongs to her mind or body, but I keep thinking, look at me.

  She turns her head.

  And looks right at me.

  I’m not shifting away. Our gazes latch for a solid beat, but I stand about four meters from her position. Roughly fifteen feet apart.

  Her blue eyes slowly dance over the stoic lines of my face, then my clothes: gray crew-neck and red flannel.

  As though remembering earlier. The kitchen.

  My towel.

  Her flushed neck and shortened breath.

  Don’t go there, Thatcher.

  “Hey, do any of you need anything at the grocery?” Sulli asks them, her voice audible through the phone speakers.

  “I’m alright,” Maximoff says. “Jane?”

  She misses the question. I’m distracting my client. Fucking unprofessional. I try to wrench my gaze off her.

  “Jane?” Maximoff asks again.

  “Hmm?” Blush stains her freckled cheeks, and she dashes further into the kitchen. Disappearing from my view. I hear her say, “Both houses need milk.”

  I sense another pair of eyes on me.

  Not Jane

  Not Maximoff.

  But Farrow—he’s been sitting and lacing up his black boots at the iron café table. He’s less than two meters away from me, and his threatening glare feels even fucking closer.

  I take another step back.

  Intimidation is vital to be a bodyguard on the team. I’d be more concerned if he couldn’t do it that fucking well.

  I shouldn’t have punched him.

  My jaw tightens.

  Regret surges, biting. It’s hard every time I see Farrow. Because it’s nearly impossible not to think about my mistake.

  I could’ve handled so many things better than I fucking did.

  I should’ve apologized earlier. But for weeks, I couldn’t get the words out, not without feeling like I should’ve been fired.

  Seeing him just reminds me how badly I blew it. How much hurt I caused, what I deserve in return, and all the debts I feel like I can never repay.

  Farrow knots one of his laces. Our clients are still talking, but their chatter muffles now that they’re deeper in the kitchen.

  The sound of brewing coffee cuts the air in half.

  Say something to him.

  I’m not quiet because I can’t think of what to talk about. We have a lot in common. We like a lot of the same shit. Same interest in martial arts, Philly sports teams. Same taste in music. How he jokes around—constant ribs and digs at his friends, I used to be around that a lot in the military.

  I hate it over comms.

  But in person, it brings back good memories.

  We have more in common. Worse things, and sometimes I wonder if he’s realized that I’ve known he’s been experiencing some form of PTSD.

  In Greece, I had to hand a bottle of water to Banks to give to Farrow. I didn’t think Farrow would’ve accepted it from me, but I could tell he was mentally thrown back. He doesn’t speak to the team about it that much.

  I’m not one to talk. I can barely say the word out loud. Shouldn’t be that way, but it is.

  In the end, I’m quiet because I can’t unlock my jaw. It’s like I’m made of cinderblock, and almost no one possesses the right tools to chisel me open.

  Not even me, at times.

  And all that has ever divided Farrow and me is me. He’s done nothing.

&n
bsp; Comms crackle in my eardrum. Good thing. I zero in on work and listen to the Omega lead speak.

  “Akara to Thatcher, Farrow, and Quinn—we’re at the grocery. Is there anything specific you want?”

  I touch my flannel collar and press my mic. “Check to see if they have a stop leak additive. Jane’s Beetle is leaking oil again.” Ophelia rubs up against my ankles and purrs. I reach down and scratch behind her ear, she tries to bump her head into my hand, enjoying it. I do a quick sweep of the room and locate the cats.

  All but one is in sight. Licorice can be shy, and he’s the most skittish. It’s made me more concerned about him. But there are plenty of places he could be hiding.

  “Copy,” Akara responds.

  Static buzzes, waiting for Quinn’s response.

  I look right at Farrow while he stands up—done tying his boots—and I’m positive he’s silenced his radio.

  Wouldn’t be the first time.

  I drop my arm to my side. “SFO is at the grocery. You need something?”

  “No,” he says with the casual shake of his head. “I’m good.” He quickens his pace towards the fireplace.

  I spot movement a fraction of a second after Farrow does. Because the fireplace had been at my back.

  He snatches Walrus, a calico cat, off the mantel. Plus, he catches a picture frame that teeters off the ledge.

  He’s vigilant, always a skilled set of hands, and constantly on guard, even if he’s cracking jokes, smiling, or lounging on furniture like the world isn’t on fire when it’s actually up in fucking flames.

  Walrus tries to paw his nose, and Farrow jerks back with a smile. “Not today, you little bastard.” He lets Walrus go, and the cat scampers into the kitchen.

  I adjust my earpiece, and we’re suddenly facing one another. I nod to the empty milk jug on the mantel. What Walrus was interested in.

  Farrow grabs the milk jug and then flicks a switch on his radio. “You haven’t railed on me for comms in a while.” He raises his brows. “Bored?”

  He has no clue.

  He wouldn’t.

  Since I used to be the Epsilon lead, I know how the security team functions to the exact center. All the ins-and-outs. Every decision, every reasoning. I’m not in the dark.

  The whole team is aware that Farrow selectively uses comms, so his lack of response is expected and not an issue among the leads.

  Akara is only waiting for Quinn to reply.

  Have I hated his lack of comms use in the past? Yeah. Things would’ve been easier if he just followed the fucking rules, but I accepted a long time ago that he was gonna do shit his own way.

  Farrow gets away with it because he’s never made a real mistake.

  Because he picks up slack. Without needing to be asked.

  Because he’s so calm and reliable under fire, and that …just can’t be taught. When lives are at stake, not just these families but the safety of the team, we want the best bodyguards here.

  And by we , I mean Akara Kitsuwon, me, and anyone else who’s been in charge.

  I can’t say every new hire on the team sees the depth of Farrow’s value. Not when they’re slapped on the wrist or fired for the same moves he pulls.

  I can’t say that my men on Epsilon have felt anything more than bitter fucking hostility. To the point where I had one man taking personal shots at Donnelly just to piss off Farrow.

  Being a lead means making hard calls.

  Years back during breakfast, Akara, Banks, and I had a talk about how to prevent in-fighting. Mainly, my guys antagonizing Farrow. Their jealousy was escalating. Something bad was going to happen.

  I could see it.

  I could hear it.

  SFE and Farrow don’t get along to this day.

  Over frying bacon, Akara told me, “You’ll need to dig into Farrow harder, so none of the guys think he’s getting special treatment.”

  Akara knew that I’d already been trying to grill him.

  I nodded. “You stay easy on Farrow. I’ve been a pain in his ass this long. You don’t need to lose his respect.”

  Akara would’ve been willing to be the bad guy, but he’s better at balancing the friend and boss role than I am.

  I still remember what my brother said that morning. With a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, Banks told us, “You two doing the good-cop, bad-cop routine, and it’s starting to make me look like the fucking cowboy.”

  Epsilon cooled off once I chewed out Farrow for every minor infraction. Things that I wouldn’t even rag them about. I was on his case all the fucking time, and I even had to dock his pay during the FanCon whenever he broke the rules.

  Akara and I were dealing with soured feelings in SFE because we voted to keep Farrow on the team.

  After he had sex with a client.

  Multiple times.

  It’s ironic that I spent so long trying to control the situation, and I ended up being the one to lose my temper and punch him.

  There’s no excuse for it.

  I take full responsibility for my mistakes.

  After that, I promised myself that I’d back off Farrow for good.

  Now he’s facing me in a cluttered living room that smells like fresh flowers and spring—like Jane —and he’s wondering why I’m not hounding him for comms.

  My gaze is as soft as it can be. “I don’t care how you do your job,” I say truthfully. “Just that you do it.”

  He tips his head, running his tongue over his molars, and he skims me up and down, gauging my sincerity. “Honestly, at this point I couldn’t care less why you’ve been a raging asshole towards me as long as you’re not one anymore.”

  I nod once. I wish I could put the past behind me as well as Farrow can. Maybe then my life wouldn’t consist of me pulling the pins off so many fucking grenades.

  Farrow drops his voice to a low, rough whisper. “Just don’t coddle me. Don’t kiss my ass as penance. Don’t fuck with my fiancé or Jane, and we won’t have a problem.”

  Easy. I nod again, and comms sound off in my ear.

  “Quinn, do you need something from the grocery?” Akara repeats.

  Oscar chimes in, “Speak up, little bro.”

  The line hangs, waiting for a response. Farrow chucks the milk jug to Maximoff, who appears in the archway.

  He catches it easily.

  “Trash,” Farrow tells him.

  Maximoff is giving us a weird look. It’s rare that we stand this fucking close while we’re off-duty.

  Akara speaks in my ear. “Thatcher, is Quinn still asleep?”

  I crossed paths with Quinn Oliveira in the kitchen. We were both eating breakfast, and I’m not someone who will cover his ass for the Omega lead. Akara needs to know.

  I click my mic. “No.”

  Akara enters the line with two curt words. “Not good.”

  It means Quinn is silencing his radio. Ever since the twenty-one-year-old joined security, Akara has been concerned that Quinn is copying Farrow’s maverick style of guarding.

  I am too.

  He’s a lot younger than Farrow, and realistically, he’s more hotheaded.

  I move back to the corkboard. Crossing my arms. Instinct says this is a Wall of Suitors. But that’d mean Jane is interested in her grandmother’s ploy.

  And I’m positive she’s not.

  “What is this?” I glance back at Farrow.

  He rests an elbow casually on the mantel. “The worst idea of the month.”

  “Counter argument,” Jane says.

  Our heads turn as she appears and blows on a steaming mug.

  She continues without missing a beat. “This month’s worst idea goes to my grandmother who pimped me out in an ad.”

  My brows draw together, concerned about Jane. But also, I’m narrowing a glare into the fucking corkboard.

  Farrow refutes, “Except sex was never mentioned in the ad.”

  “Romantic pimping,” Jane clarifies, placing her hot mug on a cat-shaped coaster, and I watch her sidle
right…next to me.

  I uncross my arms.

  I don’t know why. Can’t touch her.

  My nose flares, and I end up kneading my deltoid.

  She places her hands on her hips and stares up at the photos. Like she’s mapped out her whole future and she’s reviewing the layout.

  And then she sucks in a measured breath.

  She’s stressed.

  “What’s going on, Jane?” I ask for the details.

  She’s quick to explain everything. I listen, breathing out coarser breaths further and further through. When she’s done talking, she tears a photo of an athlete off the wall. I recognize him as a fullback for the Eagles.

  I was right.

  I don’t fucking like this.

  Maximoff stands nearby, cracking his knuckles. He seems on edge about the whole scenario, but the guy is always on edge.

  Farrow leaves his spot on the loveseat to be beside his fiancé.

  Jane passes me the photo and cranes her neck to meet my gaze. “He seems like the best so far.”

  I haven’t even looked at the photo.

  My steel gaze is on her. Don’t do this, Jane.

  She searches my eyes and puts a few fingers to her cheek. “So…” She clears her throat and shakes her head, more to herself. “What do you think?”

  This feels like that one time where I told Jane I’d help her find another guy to provide her “oral assistance”—when I was right there and she would’ve been willing. That was like running a 99-yard touchdown for the wrong team. Knowing I had to score for someone else.

  Wanting to turn around every inch gained on the field.

  Pretty much hell.

  I swallow a jagged rock and drop my eyes to the photo. “I’ll need to vet him,” I remind her.

  She nods. “I know.” Her voice is tighter than usual.

  I’ve never had to vet a guy that she could potentially date or fuck or both. For the majority of my time on her detail, she’s been shut off to every intimate thing with men.

  Fuck Nate, that fucking bastard.

  Imagining Jane falling in love with other men punctures something hot in me and I need to think of brighter things before I pop a blood vessel.

  Puppies.

  Rainbows.