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“And keep me there permanently?” I teased, amused. “So you said. It’s a solid plan. I could get on board with being held prisoner in your penthouse with the beautiful view.”
Thatcher’s face held naked vulnerability. “If I thought I could get away with it. I don’t want to pressure you, Reagan. I know there are probably a lot of things we’d need to settle before moving forward together. Whether you’d want to live with me eventually, where we’d live, what you want to do with your career—I mean, I’d really like to offer you a social media strategist position at PennCo since I think you’d be perfect for the job?—”
“You do?”
“Obviously.” He frowned. “Have I not made it clear that I think you’re brilliant? And that’s true whether you and I are together or not, Reagan. You would kick ass at that job.” He shrugged. “Frankly, there are a lot of things you’d do well at, but if that’s what you want to do?—”
Had anyone ever said the words “there are a lot of things you’d do well at” to me? Hard no. Stupid flu-tears prickled at my eyes ominously again. “That’s definitely what I want to do,” I croaked out.
Thatcher nodded. “I can’t deny that some people would get the wrong idea if they knew you were promoted and that you and I were together?—”
I nodded. “I know exactly what they’d say. I’ve been accused of benefitting from nepotism my whole life. It’s not fun, but it was way harder knowing that even my parents didn’t think me capable of the job I wanted.” Still, I could definitely understand why Thatcher wouldn’t want to open himself up to that kind of criticism. That might be the one advantage to keeping our relationship private. “I’d rather not be seen as the boss’s arm candy,” I assured him.
His eyes darkened ominously. “If anyone ever said that to you, I would sign the company over to you so that I could be the boss’s arm candy.”
I barked out a laugh that set off another bout of coughing. “Honestly, you say shit like that, and then you worry that I feel pressured? I don’t feel pressured. I’m in, Thatcher. I’m all in. I’m so in, I’m drowning here.”
And that was neither a lie nor an exaggeration. Was it a sucker move to give the man a blanket yes when I knew he’d never claim me publicly and our relationship would live in the dark? Probably. That kind of thing had never bothered me one way or the other before, but I already sensed it would be different with Thatcher.
Still, just like that first night at the gala, I could not imagine saying no to this man. I loved him way too much to walk away.
“We’ll figure out the details as we go,” I told him.
There was a knock on the door. “I got your soup,” McGee announced from the other side of the privacy curtain. “I’m coming back there. Fair warning. Walking forward now.” He drew the curtain aside and immediately shielded his eyes with one tattooed hand. “Is it safe to look?”
Thatcher and I exchanged a glance. “What exactly are you afraid you might see,” Thatcher demanded dryly, “when Reagan’s in a hospital bed recovering from the flu?”
“Life-affirming sex, obviously.” McGee peeked over his hand cautiously. Once he was sure we were both fully dressed, he set a small takeout bag on my bed tray and plunked himself down in a chair at the end of my bed. “It’s a real thing, boss. And remember, I’ve been with the two of you on a bus for the past couple weeks. Not like you need an excuse, really.”
“Jesus.” Thatcher dropped his chin to his chest and shook his head while I collapsed into another round of laugh-coughing.
“Don’t say sex, McGee,” I told him when I’d recovered. “Thatcher says we’re not doing that for, like, eight days.”
Thatcher raised a dark eyebrow. “Eight?”
“Or was it seven?” I asked innocently. “The medication makes it so hard to remember. Also, McGee, I have to compliment you on the eye thing. Not a lot of guys could pull off the reddish-purplish-yellow look, but it really adds some visual interest to your face. Nobody would even think of looking at your frown lines.”
Bizarrely, this remark made McGee grin hugely. “Aaaand, he’s back. So…” He looked back and forth between us, his eyes like ping-pong balls. “Everything good? Did we sort everything out?”
Thatcher kept his eyes on me. “The important parts. Right, Reagan?”
My heart monitor betrayed me again, beeping so loud that my soft “yeah” was almost redundant.
Thatcher’s phone chimed, and he dug it out. “Helen from Legal asked me to call her about Layla.” He looked at McGee. “She left, I assume?”
McGee nodded. “Threw a hissy fit and tried to come in here, but I stopped her. When the nurse threatened to call security, she took off.”
“Good.” Thatcher pushed to his feet and bent down to press his masked lips to my forehead. “Eat your soup,” he instructed. “I’ll be back after I talk to Helen and let January know you’re okay. She’s been texting me all afternoon.”
“Oh, shit.” I glanced around the room for my phone. “I should probably call JT and let him know I’m okay, too?—”
“Already done, and he said he’d tell your parents,” Thatcher interrupted, but he extracted my phone from a bag in the corner and laid it on the bed beside me anyway. “I’m sure they’d all like to hear from you, when you’re feeling up to it. FYI, I didn’t tell them you’re in the hospital—they actually don’t even know I’m here. JT thought it would be better to tell them how sick you were after you’re feeling better.”
“Oh.” I nodded. “Right. Sure. Yeah. Makes sense.” Telling my mother he was here was not a way to keep our relationship under the radar. “I, uh, won’t post anything on Instagram either, just in case they happen to see it.”
“Smart.” He brushed his thumb over my cheek. “I love you,” he said firmly, then grinned when my heart rate audibly sped up. “Definitely investing in one of those,” he murmured. “I’ll be back.”
McGee chuckled softly once he was gone. “Pretty sure he means it, kid.”
