We were seeing if Donnelly would complain. If he would ask or fight to be with Farrow. Spend two seconds back-talking, and that’s two seconds you’re not paying attention to what’s important.
Their lives.
Our duty.
We could tell Donnelly hated it, but he did what he was told and never pushed back on the leads.
Farrow passed easily.
I rake my fingers through my hair, curling strands behind my ears. “Look, I can see how Farrow would think I was singling him out. A 19k in the dark, in the mountains, alone with no real path to follow—that was unlike anything we’ve ordered a bodyguard to do on their first day. But we had to make it hard on Donnelly to sit back.”
Maximoff nods. “I get that. But why not just tell Farrow all of this later on?”
“Farrow and I don’t talk, and like you said, he didn’t care enough about it to ask.” This might be the most I’ve ever said to Maximoff in one sitting.
Words start to pass out of my head. I don’t know what else to say.
That’s all I’ve got.
Everything else feels extraneous.
Maximoff takes a deeper breath, his shoulders loosening a fraction. “Why did you tase Farrow?”
This, I expected. “Farrow thinks it wasn’t an accident,” I state, already knowing. Farrow has told me as much. He couldn’t believe that I’d fuck-up that badly and tase him.
But I did, and I’ve taken full ownership of that mistake.
I was assigned Jane’s mom that day. Just for extra security. It was after a photo shoot for Forbes, and Farrow was leading Lily back to the car while Rose was being heckled.
The target wasn’t backing down, and there were enough people pushing from behind that it created a major problem.
Protocol: don’t draw a weapon in crowds.
I thought I had a clear shot. I broke the rule because it wasn’t a gun. It was a taser. The range was shorter and not deadly.
I still remember my line of sight. Zeroed in on the target. As soon as I took the shot, Farrow came out of nowhere and cold-cocked him. The taser hit my guy instead.
It was one of the worst days of my career.
“I fucked it,” I tell Maximoff. “I thought I had the shot.”
“So it wasn’t on purpose?” There’s a lot of earnestness in his voice. Like he wants to believe this version of history.
“I’d never purposefully tase one of my men like that,” I say sternly. The thought actually sickens me.
Silence blankets the room for a longer second.
Maximoff tries to read my features.
I’m not sure I’m anything but hard, strict lines. I push myself to add, “I’ve never hated Farrow, and I can’t fault him if he’s hated me.”
He lets out a final breath. “Thanks,” he says sincerely. “I needed to hear that.” He also reminds me, “I’ll tell Farrow what you told me, but it’s not going to mean as much to him.”
I nod.
Farrow believes in actions more than words, and he’s already given me a pretty clean slate when he didn’t have to. I’ve made Farrow repeatedly prove himself to the team. Now I have something to prove to him.
“About Jane.” Maximoff changes the subject. “I just want you to know that I’m appreciative of what you’re risking for her. It’s not a small thing, losing your privacy.”
She’s worth it.
“She’s my client,” I tell him.
Just my client. Gotta remember that.
17
JANE COBALT
Our first order of business: announce our fledgling but oh-so-romantic relationship to the public.
The security team listed out the specifics to accentuate our role as boyfriend and girlfriend, and for this first task, we have to be calculated.
The Cinderella ad is still a hot topic on the web, and if I post a photo of us kissing online, it’ll seem utterly suspicious. The media has to actually believe I’m dating my bodyguard and not trying to cover-up the ad.
For this to happen, we’re tearing a page out of the good ole celebrity handbook. Get a gossipy-someone to tip off the paparazzi about my whereabouts—and that gossipy-someone is obviously being tipped off by my “team.”
In LA, actresses, actors, celebrities and influencers do this all the time to stay relevant. I don’t much care about relevancy.
But I do care about the public believing I’m dating Thatcher. Which means the run-around is terribly essential.
“Who’s calling the paparazzi?” I ask Thatcher as I put my Volkswagen in park. We occupy a mid-row space outside a local grocery store. Pumpkins are already being sold in giant crates near the sliding glass entrances.
It’s not too busy or crowded on this sunny afternoon. But it took two hours driving around the city just to lose the cars that followed us from the townhouse.
And not all were paparazzi. I noticed new vehicles. Strange men behind the wheels.
Suitors , most likely.
Thatcher scoots the passenger seat back from the dash, giving his long legs more room. “Banks called a friend and casually mentioned you’d be at the Acme on Passyunk.” He pronounces Acme like Ack-a-me.
It makes me smile. I lift my blue retro sunglasses to my head. “How do we know he’ll tip off the paparazzi?”
Thatcher unbuckles his seatbelt. “Because he’s broke and his nickname was Snitch in high school.”
“Does he realize he’s called Snitch ?”
“Yeah,” Thatcher says, his brown eyes holding mine for a beat longer. “He didn’t give a shit about it. Said it reminded him of Harry Potter or something like that.” He shifts. Turning more towards me, and his strong arm slides across the back of the headrest.
His boldness and masculinity consumes my teeny car. And me.
I inhale without exhaling that often. It feels like hot air is blowing from my vents. I sweat underneath my checkered blouse and lilac, tulle skirt.
“How do we know when paparazzi have arrived?” I whisper.
He speaks just as quietly. “They pulled in a minute after us.”
He’d know. Always alert. It’s dreadfully attractive.
I try to subdue an overpowering smile, and I lift my chin. Rotating to face my bodyguard more, my elbow brushes the steering wheel.
Silence breeds more heat, and from a breath apart, we look one another over. We’re allowed, you see.
I trace the chiseled edges of his scruffy jaw, the carve of his biceps that stretches against his black button-down, the way his muscles flex the more he sweeps me.
Thatcher studies my shallow breathing. “Ready?”
I eye his lips. “Yes please…” Oh God, Jane. “Just yes. Yes, I’m ready for you…” I have torched myself with flaming balls of desire and mortification.
There is no escape.
His large hand falls to the nape of my neck, and I place my palm on his firm chest.
Carefully, slowly…Thatcher leans forward until our lips meet. Chastely . It’s what the security team decreed. He kisses me tenderly, a soft kiss that electrifies my senses.
Pulsates my veins, and I ache to touch my bundle of nerves.
I run my fingers up to his unshaven jaw and then thread my fingers through his tousled brown hair.
No tongue.
His muscles tighten.
The kiss lasts a few seconds—not nearly long enough—before we slowly draw our lips away, only putting a sliver of space between our mouths.
Our breath still melds as we look into one another.
I ache for even more. In places that shouldn’t be aching. I think Thatcher can read my need too well.
“One more,” Thatcher says huskily. Our hands are still on each other, and his other palm has found a home on my hip. Mine are woven in his hair.
“One more,” I agree.
“Just in case they didn’t catch the photo.” His gaze already engulfs me.
“Yes.”
Yes.
He closes the dist
ance. Our lips crash together, our hands grasping—we pull into each other with piping hot desire. His tongue glides sensually along mine with such explosive skill. Both of our asses have risen off the seat for closer contact. Bodies meeting in the middle. His towering build nearly sheathing me.
His smell, his touch, drives me to carnal places that I haven’t reached in forever with another man. But this is different than all those other times. It feels different.
Maybe because it’s all pretend.
Maybe because I know I’m safe.
And I can’t be certain when my hand went from his head to his peach-perfect ass or when he cupped my butt—but it happens. He sucks my bottom lip, and I pulse like a second heartbeat has dropped between my legs.
I moan against his mouth, and the soft noise catches both of our attention. He separates from me. I separate from him.
We drop our hands and lean back to our respective seats. Breathing heavily.
He fixes his earpiece cord that I must’ve accidentally pulled on. His jaw set more strictly, he scans the parking lot.
My fingers linger on my stinging lips. “That was very good? We did well?” I question. “Security said chaste and that was the virgin strawberry daiquiri of kisses, no? I could’ve easily straddled you—not that I would’ve, because boundaries. ” I flush but never divert from his tightened eyes.
“It was good,” he confirms. “But it wasn’t a virgin daiquiri.”
I, so eagerly, want inside his head. “It was a dirty martini?”
I swear his lip tics upward in a momentary smile. “More like a Guinness.”
It’s his favorite beer. Which I shouldn’t know, but I’m very aware he mostly orders Guinness when he’s off-duty. A stout, full-bodied beer.
A stout, full-bodied kiss.
I can’t help but smile, and then I lower my sunglasses over my eyes and slip my arms in a light sweater. We have to do a bit of shopping to make the grocery outing seem real.
He reaches into the back seat and grabs my zebra-patterned heels off the floor, and then he hands them to me.
“Merci.” I slip them on my feet. “How upset will security be if the photos show roaming hands…and tongue?”
His firm expression is unreadable. “This should be believable to the public, and that’s what’ll matter most to the team.”
I take note that he never said the team wouldn’t be upset. He must not want me to fret about security’s reactions. I trust Thatcher, and if he has that area handled, then I won’t pry. Not until he needs an assist from me.
Delegation at its finest.
Thatcher touches his ear, security in communication, and then he looks to me. “Paparazzi have the photo.”
Here we go.
18
THATCHER MORETTI
“Why is his hand halfway up her skirt?” Price, the Alpha lead barks at Akara over speakerphone, volume soft.
I narrow my eyes at the phone in Akara’s clutch.
Sir, my hand is not halfway up my client’s fucking skirt.
It was planted on her ass.
The Tri-Force are on a three-way call, and after an hour of being chewed out, Akara is letting Banks and me listen in on the tail-end of their conversation. All while we make a pitcher of caipirinha in security’s small kitchen.
Banks has to sit on the counter for all three of us to fit in here, limes and a bottle of cachaça next to him.
We’ve been friends with Akara since we joined security, clicking almost instantly, but I really grew closer to him when he became the Omega lead. I was the Epsilon lead at the time. We’d spend long hours in the same meetings. Volleying information back and forth, keeping intel safeguarded between us, and shooting the shit on dull days. And nine times out of ten, with major Tri-Force decisions, Akara and I voted the same way.
Excited commotion comes from the living room. Jane and her cousins are hanging out with us. Celebrating. Despite the disapproval from two leads, the photos have already circulated through major media outlets with rabid obsession.
Spreading like an unstoppable wildfire.
It’s been two hours since Jane and I kissed in the Acme parking lot, and these are some of the most popular headlines:
Jane Cobalt Is Having a Secret Love Affair With Her Bodyguard!
Breaking News: Jane Cobalt Caught Kissing Her Bodyguard
Jane Cobalt Has Found Her Prince Charming After All
Akara leans on the counter, keeping his voice hushed so our clients don’t hear. “You can clearly see Thatcher’s hand in the photos, Price. It’s not halfway up her skirt.”
“Regardless, his hands aren’t where they should be,” Price retorts.
My nose flares, and I cross my arms over my chest.
I understand why they’re up my ass, and if I were a lead, I might be doing the same thing. Karma—it’s rolling in like a fucking tank, for all those times at the FanCon that I used to yell at Farrow. Telling him to separate from Maximoff.
I deserve the third-degree more than Akara. But that’s not how security hierarchy works. And at the end of the day, the kiss was a success.
That’s what matters.
“It’s good that the photos show them clearly together,” Akara reminds the Alpha lead. “We didn’t need articles wondering if they even kissed.” He lifts the speaker closer to his mouth. “You two don’t need to be concerned about Thatcher. He’s my guy. I’m keeping an eye on him.”
I stand more on guard, and I nod to him in appreciation.
He nods back.
Akara is covering my ass. It feels fucking strange putting him in this position. Not long ago, we were two leads covering our men and helping each other.
“You do that,” Jon Sinclair pipes up, the new Epsilon lead and current bodyguard to Audrey Cobalt. “And tell Thatcher to put his dick back in his pants and start using the right goddamn head.”
Akara quickly decreases the volume on his phone.
Banks tries not to laugh—until Sinclair carries on, and then my brother glares at the phone.
“He’s not a lead anymore. He needs to show respect to the men that’ve been here before him.”
I rake a hand across my jaw.
That comment fucking bugs me. Because I feel like I have been respecting the leads.
I understand hierarchy. The Tri-Force is at the top of it in security, and each lead represents a different part of the team.
The Alpha lead, Price Kepler, represents the old guard. The first wave of guys that showed up when Jane and Maximoff were just babies. There’s not many of the old guard left.
The Epsilon lead, Jon Sinclair, represents the military hires. The second wave of guys that all served in the Navy.
The Omega lead, Akara Kitsuwon, represents the mixed martial arts hires. The third wave. These are the ones who were mostly referred out of the gym.
Even though I came in with the third wave and most of the men thought my background was just boxing, I’m technically a military hire. I was referred by a Navy vet—not anyone at the gym. How I react. How I train. How I operate on a day-to-day basis lines up more with the guys like Sinclair.
He’s Navy through and fucking through. Mid-forties and Korean-American, he’s been in security for around a decade, spending most of his career protecting the Cobalts. He’s crude in private, like right now, but he’ll snap to a respectful disposition in an instant. He reminds me a lot of my dad—which is partly why nothing he says to me usually cuts deep.
We’ve gotten along fine until recently. Banks thinks he’s going on a power trip. Akara thinks it just has to do with Sinclair disliking SFO.
When you’ve been a bodyguard this long, there’s history, bad and good. He’s had an axe to grind with Oscar Oliveira for years, and he’s hated how Omega gained some fame through the Hot Santa Video.
Now he’s in charge.
“Thatcher isn’t stepping on your feet,” Akara retorts, his tone more authoritative. “He’s doing his job.”
“Good,” Sinclair says. “That’s what I want to hear.” Yeah, he sounds like my dad. Sternness wrapped in this quiet paternal concern.
Price chimes in, “This honeymoon phase will be over down the line, and when this all ends, we’ll be going back to a more appropriate routine. Remind him of that. His face isn’t going to be up against his client’s face forever.”
My muscles flex.
Loud and clear, sir.
I’m not thinking about a public breakup yet. Not when we’ve just started dating. It’s too soon to go there.
Akara stares at me as he answers Price. “Thatcher knows this isn’t forever.”
My expression hardens.
Banks unscrews the bottle of cachaça. Looking me over like he’s seeing how I feel. I’m fine. I know this is just an op.
I breathe out a hotter breath, and my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I take out my cell.
My brows pull together.
I called my mom a lot earlier. Right when I got back from the Acme, I told her about the photos that were about to leak. Told her to lock the fucking door and contact me if media contacted her.
Now she’s calling me.
I lift my phone to Akara. Silently saying, I have to take this.
He instantly puts his call with the leads off speaker. “Thatcher understands,” he tells them, phone to his ear.
I drift further towards the stove. Not worrying Banks yet. Rotating my back to my brother and Akara, I answer the call.
“Everything alright down there?” I ask first, my Philly accent making down there sound like down’air.
“Which headline is true? Should I be invitin’ her down soon?” my mom asks, humor in her voice. “She’s got Nicola’s approval already, but you know Nic would bake the devil a pie. It’s why I love her.” Nicola is her wife, my stepmom. “And your grandma is already crocheting Jane a scarf for Christmas.”
We’re months out from December. “Ma,” I say tightly, but I hear my grandma shout to be heard from the background.
“They’re saying youse two are an item!”
Severity tightens my eyes. “Who’s saying that?” I worry someone is at their house.
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