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“Sounds good.” Thatcher glances at my lips, a volcanic swelter bubbling around us, and we have a difficult time separating.
“See you in a bit,” I whisper.
He breathes harder, and I wish he could kiss me but Tony is obviously hawk-eyeing us from down below.
Thatcher glares in that direction and then moves. “I’ll be right back.” He leaves just as Jack arrives, his smile radiant.
Jack is by far the happiest person I’ve ever met in the best and worst times. “Any footage will be gorgeous here, especially when the light hits the horizon.” He points to where the sun will set.
I open my binder and click my fuzzy pen. “I’ll mark that down.” I write under the pros section of Possible Wedding Location #6. “Anything that could cause an issue?”
He motions to the rocky incline we climbed. “Crew is going to struggle up that hill, and so will guests.”
I jot down more notes. Besides Maximoff and Farrow, Jack is the most important person on the location-scouting trip. Whatever outdoor venue they choose has to work for production—in the event that my best friend and his soon-to-be husband want to film their wedding.
They haven’t fully committed, but Jack thought it’d be a good idea to tag along in case they do want the world to see their ceremony.
“Logistically, I can find a way around the hill,” I tell Jack. “I can have temporary stairs placed that won’t hurt the terrain.” I’ve already made a few calls when we first arrived.
“Perfect.” He grips his camera and clicks through photos. “Look.” He shows me a picture of Maximoff and Farrow as they stroll across the plateau hand-in-hand, and Maximoff is sweeping the lush landscape in silent awe. All the while, Farrow is staring deeply at him with a cheek-to-cheek smile.
Happiness pours through me. “Moffy is glowing.” I turn my head. Off in the distance, I see them both chatting and in a position reminiscent of a slow-dance. Hands on shoulders and the back of the neck. Taking a romantic moment for themselves, as they should.
Jack smiles brightly. “This place seems like their favorite so far.”
“A top contender,” I agree, making a few more notes. I wish the others could have seen this spot.
Most of the group accompanied us to Possible Wedding Locations #1 and #2: a bridge over a brook, and then a garden—but hunger struck and they all caravanned back to the house about an hour ago.
I peek up from my binder to check on Thatcher.
He has a boot on a boulder and speaks sternly into the phone. Eyes narrowed, body flexed. His voice is inaudible from here. But a sheep literally creeps away from him.
Thatcher is scaring the animals.
I want to be at his side, but while I have Jack’s attention, I decide to pry just a little.
Out of cousin duties.
Specifically my loyalties to Sullivan Meadows.
“Jack.” I slip my pen in a binder pocket. “You’re friends with Akara.” It’s not so much a question, but a building block to my next point.
“Yeah.” He lets go of his camera and it hangs at his side. “We’re good friends.”
I’d say so, considering I heard they’ve double-dated girls that Jack knew from college.
“Then you must have some idea why Akara is acting standoffish around Sulli. Usually he’s friendly and more of a buddy-guard towards her.”
Jack laughs with the shake of his head. “That, I wouldn’t know.”
I zip my puffy jacket back up as wind accelerates. “You don’t talk about Sulli?”
“Not if it’s about protecting her.”
I tip my head. “How come?”
“Security and production don’t always see eye-to-eye when it comes to you and your family. Honestly, my friendship with Akara has stayed intact because we don’t constantly bring up his client and my time filming you all.”
Merde.
I already asked Thatcher for answers, and he said Akara wouldn’t tell him anything since they’re on the outs. Farrow also has no clue what’s changed. He explained, “See, Akara will rarely vent or complain to us. He’s our lead.”
I’ll have to report back the no new news to Sulli.
Gusts of wind blow harshly through. Jack shivers, zipping a lightweight jacket up to his neck, his skin a tanned blend of red-gold and light brown hues. He’s biracial: his dad is white and his mom is Filipina.
Since he’s born-and-raised in sunny Southern California, he claims he didn’t come prepared for the brutal cold.
Another large gust.
“Fuck,” Jack curses under his breath. Strands of his dark brown hair are airborne—cut short but long enough to take flight and block his eyes.
Mine flaps wildly at my face, and we laugh.
“If only I had one of Oscar’s bandanas,” Jack smiles, trying to push his hair back to no avail.
I set my binder down and retie my hair. “I actually think Oscar may’ve left one in the car.”
“Really?” He tucks his camera more protectively, about to leave.
“I’m almost certain I saw one in the front seat.”
He heads to the descent and smiles back. He makes the hang loose hand gesture. “Shaka brah.”
I wave goodbye, collect my things, and rejoin my boyfriend.
Sheep have given Thatcher and his lasered gaze a wide, wide berth. One is practically cowering behind a rock.
He shoves his phone in his pocket. “We have a problem.”
Before I can ask, my phone rings. He holds my binder for me, and with a gloved hand, I procure my cell from my sequined purse and read the screen.
My brows bunch. “It’s my dad.”
“That’s the problem.” Thatcher gestures to the phone with my binder. “He tried to call Banks three times.”
“And Banks has your phone,” I realize. Meaning, my dad has been trying to reach my boyfriend. “Okay, I can fix this.” I stare wide-eyed at my ringing phone. “I just have to speak to my dad, who is scarily good at catching onto deceit. Though, we’ve tricked him once.” I talk quickly. Nervously. “He didn’t know that you actually had feelings for me. But I suppose that means you were better at pulling the wool over his eyes. Not necessarily me.”
“Jane—”
“Yes?”
“It’s going to ring out.” He nods to my phone.
Oh. “Right.”
“You don’t have to lie to your parents,” Thatcher says strongly. “I know you don’t want to, and I don’t want you to go there.”
“Okay.” I take a single breath in preparation. “I’ll find a non-deceptive avenue if I can.” I answer on the last ring. “Dad?”
He greets, “Mon coeur.” My heart. Hearing his voice causes a small wave of homesickness. There’s no one like my dad, and I love him very much so.
“How’s everything back home?” I hope I sound 0% fretful. Thatcher edges nearer, nodding in encourage
ment. His towering build is like a stone wall, shielding the raucous wind from me.
“We’re all doing well here.” His voice is smooth and untroubled. “I’m just wondering why your boyfriend is screening my calls.”
Thatcher fixates on the phone like I’m clutching a weapon, and if he blinks, it’ll detonate in my palm.
I lift the speakers closer to my lips. “Do you have the right number?”
I picture my dad arching a single brow. “Phone numbers aren’t that difficult to memorize, especially ones that matter.”
I touch my smile with my fingertips. Thatcher matters to him. I take a breath and turn the tables. “Why are you trying to reach him?”
“I wanted to invite him to lunch tomorrow.”
My eyes bug. Oh my God. This is very, very bad. He can’t have a face-to-face with Banks.
Thatcher’s biceps look like they’re going to explode in his cross-armed state. He nods to me and mouths, deflect.
Right.
Deflection. “Are you rescinding the invitation?”
“No. But the more he avoids my calls, the more he reminds me of the only person who consistently hangs up on me—and I never imagined my firstborn daughter would date a man like Ryke Meadows.” He sounds a little bothered by this fact, though I know he cares deeply for Uncle Ryke.
“Date is a weak word,” I correct. “What we are to each other is very serious, him and I.” I’m less nervous to admit this to my dad, strangely. I’m more nervous when I meet Thatcher’s strong eyes.
My stomach backflips.
“Have you two talked about marriage?”
“No,” I squeak out. “No, no.” My face is red-hot. “Dad, that’s far too soon.” I step around Thatcher to welcome the aggressive breeze, hitting me in a cold wave.
Thatcher uncrosses his arms, his gaze tracking my movement. The lack of holster on his waistband reminds me that security has no firearms on this trip, due to gun laws. All are armed with legal tactical knives.
Facts.
Facts are easy. Simple. Emotionless at times. And distracting.
“And you’ll be happy to know,” I tell him, “that the probability of someone marrying their first boyfriend or girlfriend is statistically low.” My pulse skips. “Maximoff is an outlier.” Stop talking. “So there’s that piece of helpful data.”
