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I swallowed and toyed with the edge of my phone. “About getting a cardiac monitor?”
“I meant about loving you… and you knew exactly what I meant.” He frowned and leaned forward. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just tired, I think, and… ugh.” I blew out a breath and told the truth. “I love him, McGee.”
He snorted. “Not new news, kid. You’re pretty shit at hiding it.”
“That’s exactly the problem!” I lifted my hands and let them fall into my lap. “I worry that I won’t be able to hide it. What if we’re walking down the street or at the office and I give him a dopey, heart-eyed smile? I mean, I’ve never done that in my life… but I’ve also never been in love before, so how the hell do I know how I’ll act now that I am? Also, I told my parents I’m pansexual yesterday?—”
“Hey! Congratulations.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I waved this away. “I’ve never bothered hiding that either, but now that I’ve made it mom-and-dad-official, I just know my mother has called a dozen friends and told them in strictest confidence, which means soon everyone will know. And Thatcher’s talking about us moving in together? People will talk, McGee… and Jesus, now I sound like my mother,” I groaned, digging my head back into the pillow.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up. You think Thatcher’s gonna hide you?”
“Not hide me. But…” I shrugged. “Well, yeah. I can’t see him advertising our relationship, can you? He doesn’t share his personal life because he doesn’t want to become a news story or have the tabloids crawling all over him the way they were during his last divorce. Telling people that he’s not only bi, but he’s also dating the much younger son of a friend, who happens to be his employee? That’s like sending the tabloids an engraved invitation.”
Instead of responding, McGee seemed to stop and think through what I was saying. “Maybe you should talk to him about this,” he said carefully.
I blew out a breath. “Yeah.” I nodded. “You’re right. That’s probably a good idea.”
And I would. I would. Once Thatcher didn’t have so much work-related shit on his plate. Once I’d heard the whole Brantleigh story and knew Thatcher was really okay with it. Once I knew he wasn’t worried about my health. Then, I told myself, I’d bring up my concerns in a way that made it clear I wasn’t trying to put pressure on Thatcher to do something I knew he’d hate, like take our relationship public.
Which was why I was caught completely off guard four days later when Chris Acton showed up at our hotel in downtown Madison, Wisconsin…
With a film crew.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thatcher
It wasn’t the first time McGee had saved me from a colossal mistake—not even the first time this week—but it was definitely the most critical one.
He doesn’t think you want to claim him publicly.
The words McGee had spoken before heading out to find a hotel room that first night had echoed in my mind for two days while Reagan dozed in his hospital bed, joked with McGee, and listened encouragingly while I told him about Brant. They were there when Reagan cajoled me into sitting far closer to him than the nurse strictly encouraged while he ate chicken soup and told me about the morning he’d come out to his parents. And they were there when he looked at me with heat in his aquamarine eyes that made me think eight days was almost definitely too many.
If the words hadn’t been there, I might not have noticed the way Reagan sidestepped when I talked about spending time with his parents in Honeybridge this summer or how he only nodded vaguely when I mentioned getting us tickets to a musical he wanted to see. He wasn’t wearing a polite mask with me anymore, thank fuck, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he loved me and wanted that future we’d talked about as desperately as I did, but my man was holding back in an attempt to protect me.
Which meant I needed to show him unequivocally that I didn’t plan to hold back when it came to showing the world how much Reagan meant to me, and he didn’t need to hold back either.
When Reagan was finally discharged—after charming the entire nursing staff, of course—McGee drove us to a luxury hotel suite a few blocks away where Reagan could spend a few more days recovering before boarding the jet home. That night, I unapologetically curled my body around Reagan’s in the large hotel bed and finally got a decent night’s sleep. The following morning, I started making plans.
Two mornings post-discharge, Reagan and I were relaxing on the couch in the sunlit living room of our suite, me with my feet on the coffee table and Reagan with feet propped on the armrest and his head on my shoulder.
I was having a text chat with Thalia about Brant. Apparently, he’d settled into her guest house, started seeing a therapist, would be working for Paul again in a few weeks, and had taken the news that Reagan and I were together better than I expected—meaning he’d rolled his eyes and muttered, “Who didn’t see that coming after the way they looked at each other last summer?” which was probably a fair comment.
Meanwhile, Reagan was DMing Terrance Fisher, who was in talks with HR and my new VP to return to his old marketing job at PennCo, now that Layla had finally agreed to sign a separation agreement in exchange for a more-than-fair severance package. If everything worked out as planned, PennCo’s hierarchy would be restructured, and several new mid-level positions added, which would lead to greater accountability and hopefully prevent another situation like the one Layla had engineered.
Now all that was left on my to-do list was the public claiming of the man I loved. And now that he was feeling better, I was prepared to do just that.
“Come on, Thatcher. Six days of abstaining is a long fucking time,” Reagan grumbled. He looked up at me with those eyes that still reminded me of warm Caribbean waters and made me want to dive right in. “Especially when I’m perfectly and totally well. Want me to prove it? Come with me to the bedroom, and I’ll do jumping jacks.” He lowered his voice to a purr. “Naked jumping jacks.”
“Pretty sure I said seven days last time we talked about this,” I reminded him, although we both knew there was no way we could wait that long. I leaned down and nipped at his plush bottom lip and kissed him deeply but briefly. “But nice try.”
“The doctor didn’t mention waiting at all, though,” Reagan pointed out. “The doctor said listen to your body before doing strenuous physical activity, so that’s exactly what I’m doing.” He pushed himself up to whisper in my ear, “And my body says it really, really needs your co?—”
Reagan broke off with a frown when McGee entered the suite, followed by a couple of other people.
