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I understand.
“Right,” I breathe, and I tie my hair back in a pony, warmer all of a sudden. “Professionalism is important to you?”
He runs a hand over his mouth, nodding.
I tense, unable to read him. The air thickens with a new sort of heat. “I respect that. Very much.”
“I appreciate it.” His husky voice might as well rake hot coals over my body.
I’ve been trying not to notice how physically handsome Thatcher is, but he exudes powerful masculinity just sitting. As though he could lift me up in his arms and carry me to heaven. Somewhere safe and beautiful.
I clear my throat. “If you’re tired, we can make this quick.”
“I’m awake,” Thatcher says. “And it doesn’t have to be quick. I want to make sure we’re squared away before we leave the lake house.” He starts to reach a hand towards me, and my shoulders arch. I eye him in curiosity.
What’s he about to do?
Thatcher suddenly goes still, his hand a couple inches from me. “Can I?” He nods to the purple paper.
“Oh…yes. Yes, of course.” I lift my hands off my lap, and he takes the stationery paper. He wants the notes, Jane. Not to touch you in carnal ways.
Which would be too orgasmically good to be anything other than a fantasy. And we’ve just solidified what we are to one another.
Professional.
Respectful.
Bodyguard and client.
I lace my fingers together. “My handwriting can be illegible, so I’d be happy to type out the list for you.”
He concentrates on the notes. “I can read your handwriting.”
I can’t help but smile. “You must be able to read all chicken scratch.”
“No,” he says, multitasking well by talking to me and doing his job. “It took practice to read yours.”
Fact: Thatcher Moretti taught himself to decipher my handwriting. He didn’t have to do that. My old retired bodyguard never did.
My pulse skips. “You know,” I say, thinking aloud, “I’ve known of you since I was seventeen.”
He looks up at me.
“Which you already know,” I add quickly, flush creeping up my neck. “Because that’s when we met. I was seventeen…” Oh my God, why am I repeating this fact? “And you were twenty-two. Now you’re twenty-seven.” I waft my pajama top away from my sweating breasts. “You look older, very much a strong…twenty-seven.”
Shut up, Jane.
He sees that I’ve stopped talking. “Jane—”
“How does this work exactly?” And there goes my big mouth cutting off my new bodyguard after I just word vomited all over him. “I’ve never had two 24/7 bodyguards before, though I know this is just temporary. You’re temporary, I mean.” I shake out my jumbled thoughts. “I mean, you and I—we’re temporary.”
I’m rarely this flustered, and I’m breathing heavily.
Too heavily.
Thatcher stays quiet for another second, which helps ease me a little. I take a few more breaths.
He keeps his eyes on mine. “I’m working alongside Quinn, so if you need anything, you can come to either him or me.”
Thankfully he skipped over my extraneous ramblings. “Merci.” I pause. “Do you know French?”
He returns to the notes. “I’m trying to learn, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to pick up more than simple phrases.”
“It’s okay if you aren’t fluent. I don’t mind translating whatever you need.”
He nods, scanning the notes again. “Do you have a preference on who drives?”
I scoot forward a little. “That depends. Would you consider yourself a good driver?”
I swear he almost smiles. “Yeah.”
My lips rise. His one word answer carries so much confidence. “Then I’d prefer we switch off on driving.”
Thatcher nods. “Copy that.” We discuss several more of the preferences I listed out. Mostly how I react towards fans, crowds, and security at home—which is really the bus.
“I might grab onto your back in large crowds,” I warn him.
“That’s what I’m there for.” Thatcher looks over at me. “If there are hostile threats, I’ll need to touch you. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes.” I’m more than okay with that. I swallow a knot in my throat, trying not to pulse between my legs. I cross my ankles instead. “So…I think that’s it?”
He pockets the paper.
I rise.
He stands so much taller.
I look up, and I just realize something…I realize it out loud. “This is actually the very first time we’ve been alone together.” The air pulls deathly taut.
Thatcher hardly blinks.
My breath shallows. “I’m…” I shake my head, scrambling for more words.
“Are you alright being alone with me?” Lines crease his forehead.
I whisper, “I am.” I know it’ll happen ten times as much now that he’s on my detail. “You…make me feel very comfortable.” I open my mouth to say more, but a yawn fights its way forward, and I cough into my palm.
He nods, arms crossed, then he uncrosses them to click his mic. “Keep your eyes on the weather.” One pause. “Roger.” He stares down at me. “You should get some sleep. I think we’re good for when we push out.”
I take a few steps back towards the staircase. He watches me go, and once I reach the banister, I mime a tip of a top hat. “À la prochaine,” I tell him. “It means until next time.”
His face is all hard, professional lines. Caged of emotion, but he doesn’t look away either. He nods and says, “Goodnight, Jane.”
Until next time. With our boundaries cemented and solidified and permanently set.
1
JANE COBALT
PRESENT DAY
“You’re giving me too much, honey,” Thatcher tells me, completely serious like I’ve bought him a Rolls-Royce and diamond-encrusted watch.
I have the means to gift both to my new boyfriend, who is also my ex-bodyguard, but I actually haven’t purchased anything extravagant for Thatcher yet. That’s not what’s happening here.
I stand absolutely confused in my bedroom, and his quiet, bold dominance bears down on me. Reminding me that he’s a former Marine, he’s twenty-eight to my twenty-three, and he carries the severity and focus of an experienced leader. Despite not being on my detail anymore, Thatcher Moretti still looks at me like his sole mission is to shield me and ground me and build a fortress of peace around me.
It’s one of the greatest feelings I’ve ever felt. His love is raw, bottomless safety that deserves as much as I can give in return.
But he’s already rejecting the little, infinitesimal, bitty nothing I’ve offered.
I frown at the closet, then at him. “You think this is too much?”
“Yeah, it is.” His strong arms are crossed, not in defense. It’s just his usual sturdy posture.
My flannel pajamas heat up my body, along with the growing pile of pastel blouses, cheetah vests, and tulle skirts I’m hugging.
Hangers still attached to the clothes.
“I’ve only cleared out 30% of the closet,” I tell him, “and you’re allowed 50% now that we’re living together.”
Thatcher rubs a hand across his mouth, and we seem to glance at his duffel bag at the same time. His packed belongings are propped against my nightstand. Ophelia, my white cat, sniffs the bag while my two hyperactive calicos scamper around our heels.
It’s sinking in, for us both. How my room is now our room.
We’ve only been an official couple for two days. Just two, and he’s already moving in with me. But if I calculate our time spent fake-dating in public, we’ve been together for much longer.
Yesterday was Thatcher’s last night in security’s townhouse, and only a half hour ago, he came into my room and threw his duffel bag down.
Our gazes return to each other, and he says, “I don’t even need 20% of the closet.”
