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…
I keep flipping.
A lot of them are of her crying.
I narrow a look on Jane in the kitchen. Her hands have dropped to her side, and she smiles. “I was a fussy toddler.”
Rose sips her coffee. “You had the loudest cry. It was earsplitting. Look at those photos and remember that all babies cry. They will wake you up at odd hours of the night. They are not cute little squishy things. They are menaces.” Her fiery glare drills into me. “So when you’re thinking about having unprotected sex with my daughter, remember these photos.”
“Oh…God, Mom.” Jane’s eyes are full orbs. “He’s not going to think about me as a four-year-old right before we’re about to have sex!” Not that I need to mention the fucking obvious, but I agree with Jane.
“We don’t need to bring God into this conversation,” Connor says calmly.
Rose skips over Connor’s statement. “If Thatcher wants to keep his life, he will be thinking about that scrapbook.” She points to the album, still in my hands. “Page seventeen.”
I flip to the page. Another crying photo of Jane. This time she’s in her childhood home and at the foot of her bed. Face beet-red and mouth in an opened scream. She was a cute kid—even crying. My lips begin to really lift.
“Why are you smiling?” Rose snaps at me.
My mouth flattens. “Because I think my girlfriend’s baby pictures are cute.”
Jane brightens like radiant sunlight.
Rose nods strongly. “She was a very cute baby.” She squints at me like I’m up to some alleyway, goblin-sniffling plot, and I’m not.
Hopefully one day she’ll see me as a straight shooter.
“Dramatics and props aside,” Connor says, focused on me. “You need to keep our daughter safe. Your job is to protect her from the person she’s sleeping with, and since that man is now you, you have a bigger responsibility to Jane.” He’s talking like I’m still on her detail.
“I’m not her bodyguard anymore, sir.”
“Last time I checked, you also weren’t her bodyguard when she was choked in her own bedroom. But now you are her boyfriend.”
The kitchen sobers at his words.
My jaw tics, muscles flexed, and a blood-red fire burns in my veins. I hate thinking about what happened to Jane. I was just an Epsilon lead at the time of the Chokehold Incident, and I had enough power to erect more protections but not enough to actually talk to Jane, to ensure that she was okay.
“I would never hurt her,” I say strongly.
“You’re six-seven.”
“I know.”
“She’s five-seven. And if you choose to prioritize yourself over her during intercourse, she could get hurt in an instant, and I wouldn’t call that an accident.”
Him referring to sex as intercourse doesn’t make this interaction any better. Jane is wincing, but she doesn’t seem surprised. Her family is open about sex.
Common knowledge.
“I know,” I tell him, not shying. “But I’ve been six-seven all of my adult life, and there’s not a single time I don’t think about the power I have in bed. Her safety is always on my mind. In every aspect of our relationship. Especially when we’re sleeping together.”
“This is true,” Jane says like this is a business meeting. “I can confirm, but I’d like to keep the details of it private. Thank you.”
Connor and Rose smile, clearly in admiration of their daughter.
This conversation is easier with Jane here. Maybe because she glances at me and gives me a small, reassuring smile. One that pushes me to say more.
“If something happened to Jane and it were my fault,” I tell them, “I don’t know if I could live with myself.”
And that’s just the honest truth.
Silence blisters.
Rose flips her shiny brown hair off her shoulder. “I’m going to try to believe you, even though you’ve given me no reason to. Which is really your own fault for breaking our trust before you’ve even built it.”
I nod. “I appreciate you hearing me out, Rose.”
She spins on her heels to Jane. “The holidays are going to come and go before you know it, and if you still want a job I might have another assistant position at Calloway Couture—”
“No, no, no.” Jane raises her hands. “I am retired from fashion design. I’m still certain it’s just not in my blood.”
Good call, honey.
“That is both tragic and wonderful all at the same time.” Rose rests a hand on her hip. “What are you going to do then?”
Jane takes a deep, measured breath. “I don’t have a passion. I’ve run out of time to find one, so by the New Year I was thinking…” She turns to her dad. “Is there still an opening in the financial department at Cobalt Inc.?”
Connor cocks his head. “You still think you’re running out of time?”
“Yes, I’m still jobless and twenty-three.”
Connor softens his gaze on his daughter. “I’ll look into it, but I can’t make you any promises, mon coeur.”
She smiles. “I wouldn’t want you to.”
Rose plucks a buzzing phone out of her Chanel purse. “Your Aunt Lily is calling. I have to take this.” She struts off, heels clacking on the floorboards. “No, I’m not doing another bake sale for that school. They’ve insulted my baked goods enough.” She pauses. “Yes, they were from Whole Foods. That’s not the point.”
Connor says a short goodbye to me, and then speaks in French to Jane. Something that downturns her lips before he follows his wife out.
Jane stares dejectedly at the sink.
Maybe I shouldn’t ask—but I do anyway. “What’d your dad say?”
She takes a shallow breath. “He said you’re not invited to Wednesday Night Dinner. Not yet.”
3
JANE COBALT
“Something happened?” Maximoff scrunches his face at me while he enters the townhouse from the garage, a towel around his waist, pool water still dripping from his dark brown hair.
Farrow kicks the door behind them, carrying two bags of Chinese takeout.
I’ve been ever-so-innocently brushing Toodles near the rocking chair. But I must be staring off into space more than usual. Recounting what occurred this morning.
“Is it Tony?” Moffy asks, already glaring at the adjoining townhouse door. Where security lives.
I did give Tony my preference list, but luckily, I skirted out of the interaction before I had to stare at his smug face for long. And Thatcher was with me.
Farrow raises his brows at Moffy. “I thought you didn’t ‘hate’ Tony.” He uses air-quotes.
Moffy gestures to the door. “If he hurts Jane, I’m going to more than hate him.”
I already know that Farrow isn’t a Tony fan.
You see, all of SFO hates Tony after he let Xander Hale participate in a pseudo boxing match at the Halloween party. They believe he should’ve intervened and pulled my fifteen-year-old cousin to safety.
Of course I wish he had, but Moffy and I—we can’t blame bodyguards for our mistakes. There is immense guilt in doing so. The security team is our safety net, but they can’t be our scapegoat or moral conscience.
Xander asked to fight, so we can’t pin fault on Tony for being “hands off” at my cousin’s request. It’s why our parents still believe he’s an asset to the team. He’s just not the right fit for Xander.
Farrow and Thatcher know the complexities behind our feelings—why Moffy can’t hate Tony for those recent events. And why I can’t either.
“It wasn’t Tony,” I tell Moffy. “My mom and dad were here this morning.” I stroke my cat’s tuxedo fur. “It was as frightening as expected.”
Moffy gives me an empathetic wince. “That bad?”
Farrow has a boot on the chair. “Moretti is still alive.” He eyes Thatcher who leaves the kitchen, carrying kibble in little cat bowls. Walrus and Carpenter make a mad dash to him, jumping at his calves.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Thatcher says seriously.
Curiosity pools, and I bow forward like he is gravity, a magnetic pull—all things that wrench me to him. “You really weren’t scared when my dad started talking about how you’re six-seven and could hurt me while we’re having sex?”
Farrow almost chokes on a bite of Lo Mein.
Maximoff laughs like he just beat his fiancé at Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots.
The best (and quite frankly, sexiest) part: Thatcher is unperturbed and unflustered by the tiny grenade I flung. “No,” he tells me. “I wasn’t scared.”
I help him fill water bowls for the cats. “You think it went well then?” I wonder.
He glances at me, before wiping up a small spill. “Better than I thought it would.”
But he’s still not invited to Wednesday Night Dinner, and I can only hope my family welcomes him into the fold. I don’t want my boyfriend to feel ostracized.
“Jane,” Farrow says after a swig of water. “Maximoff has something to ask you.”
“You do?” I cap a water jug near the unlit fireplace.
Moffy gives him a tough look. “I thought you said after dinner?”
“Now’s good too.” Farrow is completely at ease.
And Maximoff is a rigid statue.
Farrow lifts his brows. “See, that’s called changing your mind.”
He shakes his head. “No idea what you’re talking about. Changing your mind? Is that like a thing people do?”
Farrow smiles from cheek-to-cheek. “Okay, smartass.”
Maximoff tightens the towel around his waist and runs a hand through his thick hair. I’m more concerned that this is bad news, and I hug the water jug.
“Do I need to sit?” I wonder.
He swallows. “No—sure. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Farrow looks him over. “Take a breath, wolf scout.”
Maximoff glares instead.
Farrow almost laughs. “That’s not how you breathe, but nice try.”
“I’ll sit.” I lower on the rocking chair, swaying a little when my butt hits the seat.
Thatcher almost steals my full attention. He’s brushing Ophelia, and my white cat is absolute mush on the floor.
Yes, Ophelia, he has that affect on me too. I know the feeling deeply well.
“Janie,” Moffy calls.
I realize that Thatcher did indeed steal all of my attention. I flush and focus on my best friend. “Yes, old chap.”
“I trust you with my whole life,” Maximoff tells me.
The fact warms me completely, but I’m also on the edge of a cliff. “I trust you with mine too.”
He licks his lips. “As you know, I’m getting married, and the amount of people I trust to have their hands in the wedding is pretty much…not a lot. And when I think about who I want to remember being involved in this whole process, I always think of you first.”
I start to smile.
“So…what I’m trying to ask… is if you could…would you want to…?” He stumbles on his words, and it isn’t often that he does.
My smile fades.
Farrow glances between me and Maximoff worriedly. Mostly because we can all sense Moffy’s nerves.
“You can ask me,” I say softly, having a small guess about where this is leading.
His shoulders are braced as though I’m about to reject him. “Would you plan our wedding for us? I know it’s a big undertaking and a ton of work—”
“Yes,” I cut him off, my smile already reappearing.
“Yes?” he asks in disbelief.
“Yes, of course. I will plan your wedding. I’d love to.” My heart swells just at the fact that they would want me to be such a big part of this. “Though, I don’t understand why you’d be so nervous to ask me.”
“I know we’ve talked before about you being involved in the wedding, but planning the entire thing is a big deal. And I don’t want this to interfere with your life.” He gestures to me. “You put everything on hold for me, and this is just another thing. I shouldn’t even be asking you—”
“Please stop.” I rise to my feet, setting the water jug aside. “You’re not interfering. There’s nothing to interfere with. I am a jobless, aimless person right now, so it’s the perfect time to ask me.”
He grimaces. “No, you should be focusing on you and finding your passion.” He looks to Farrow. “I shouldn’t have asked her.”
“We wanted her help. You already asked,” Farrow says coolly. “And she said yes.”
They wanted my help. Farrow wanted me too. I smile even brighter, and with an agreeing nod, I also remind Maximoff, “I said yes.”
He lets out a distressed breath and looks to Thatcher. “Please tell me you at least see where I’m coming from.” It feels like Moffy is actively trying to include Thatcher more, and my heart flutters.
Thatcher stares up from Ophelia, brush in hand, and he tells Maximoff, “She’s excited and she’ll be good at it.”
He thinks I’ll be good at it. I breathe in. “Three against one,” I say to Maximoff. “You’ve been outvoted.”
He sinks onto the loveseat in his wet towel. “Je te dois beaucoup, ma moitié.” I owe you so much, my other half.
We exchange a smile together, excitement brewing.
“You’ll need to talk to Farrow about details,” Maximoff says.
I frown. “Why not you both?”
“He’s been dreaming up his wedding since he was a kid. I never thought I’d get married.”
Farrow passes him a to-go container. “Just because I’ve dreamed up shit doesn’t mean I don’t need your opinions. We’re not doing everything I want…” He grins. “Even though that would be nice.”
Maximoff lets out a dry laugh and they start teasing each other.
We talk for a while about wedding destinations, and I propose a scouting location trip. To pick the perfect spot.
“How about a vacation in December?” I ask them. “We’ll be back before Christmas.”
Farrow smiles at Maximoff. “You know where you want to go?”
He says he’ll have to think about it, and after a few more minutes, I stand and cross towards the kitchen. Thatcher sidles next to me.
He dips his head down to whisper, “You’re going to have to leave the house, if you’re planning this wedding.”
My stomach plummets.
A part of me wanted to hole up inside for Tony’s two-month probationary period. If I don’t go out in public, then he doesn’t need to be around me. It was a win-win.
But Thatcher’s right. I’m not going to be able to become a two-month hermit, and while he’s on Xander’s detail, I’ll have a pompous asshole on mine.
We share a long look.
It’s going to be a horrible two months—and the worst part—maybe I am hoping I get hurt. Because if Tony is actually bad at his job, those two months could be cut short in an instant.
4
THATCHER MORETTI
ONE WEEK LATER
I haven’t seen Jane since early this morning. Hell, we’ve barely talked all day. I missed four of her texts while I was on-duty. She’s missed three of my calls.
Don’t think about it.
Fuck that—she is all I’m thinking about.
Jane Cobalt is still in every compartment of my brain, and I’m not looking to cut her out. I’m not looking to shut down or shove off without her, but ever since I moved in a week ago, we’ve been zigzagging in the fucking opposite direction and not meeting at the same point.
Missed calls.
Brief texts.
Gaping silence.
I’m not her bodyguard anymore. Distance between us is territory I expected to cross, but I’m afraid this
isn’t due to our fucked circumstances.
I stand next to a wooden stool at an old South Philly sports bar, too tensed to sit, and while I change the frequency on my radio, my breath tightens in my chest. Like an iron fist squeezing my ribcage.
Banks smacks my flexed abs before sliding on a barstool. “She’d call you if something bad went down. Just take the silence as a gift.”
I narrow my gaze on my radio. “It’s not a gift. Silence from Jane is a fucking omen.” I tune into Epsilon’s frequency, and I look over at my twenty-eight-year-old brother.
Banks Moretti.
My identical twin, my soul and conscience, someone I couldn’t live without. The sun could be crashing down on the world, and Banks would be right by my side burning alive to push it back into the sky.
He leans forward on his stool to tie his boot. Dog tags clink together around his neck, which he’s worn since the media and security team discovered we were in the Marine Corps. “You think something’s wrong?”
“I have a bad feeling.” I shake my head, neck stiff, and I keep my voice low. “Since we got together, I feel like she’s holding me at a distance.” I re-clip the mic on the collar of my black shirt and fix my earpiece.
He sticks a toothpick in his mouth, frowning. “You two haven’t had sex since you moved in?”
I meet his eyes. “We’ve had sex every night.”
“Then what are you worried about? Because it seems like she’s holding you pretty fucking close.” The corner of his lip rises but then falls at the sight of my dark frown.
The physical part of our relationship was always going to be easy. But to push through the bad in her life, she closes off emotionally to a lot of people. So do I, and I’ve struggled to be emotionally available to girlfriends in the past.
But while we were fake-dating and sneaking around, we found an indescribable solace together. Point-blank, I wanted to tear myself open for Jane. No matter how brutal and gut-wrenching.
I wanted and want to keep her safe from every cruel thing.
I’m the only person she’s confided in that intensely about Nate, her fucking ex-friends-with-benefits. She’s the only person I’ve confided in that deeply about Skylar, my older brother who passed away.
Sinful Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 5) Page 4