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Flipping that switch isn’t just turning on and off the lights. It’s going from pitch-black darkness to a neon-fluorescent disco.
I’ve been mentally preparing to face two pissed-off parents just looking out for their kid. Hell, if I had a daughter, I’d probably lay into the fuckbag who secretly hid their relationship from me. Sneaking around—not a great look to impress the parents.
I just want to make it right.
Unfuck this fucked situation and start on solid ground.
But I’m standing in front of Connor Cobalt—a man who literally was on the cover of Forbes this month—and I realize that anything I say could bury me deeper.
The fridge hums, ice machine gurgling in tense silence. The cramped kitchen feels more compact with another man over six-feet here. But I have three-inches on Connor.
And still, I don’t think a single person could walk in this room and tell.
Jane’s dad stands like he owns the world. Expensive slacks and navy-blue button-down, a Cartier watch on his wrist that probably costs more than my uncle’s row house. He has billion-dollar energy that screams I’m better than you.
Arrogant.
Poised. All the way down to the look in his eyes and posture. How he leans back against the cabinets, hands casually careened on the counter.
In the past, in a professional setting—conversing over security matters—Connor has been approachable and easy-going. But I understand he’s no less deadly than the woman he married. The only difference is that Rose shows you her dagger, and he keeps his behind his back.
Silence mounts.
I’m in foreign territory, but it wouldn’t be the first time. I check on Jane. On instinct. I glance through the kitchen archway and see her on the pink loveseat, talking quietly to her mom. Jane catches my eyes and gives me an encouraging nod.
“Do you want to offer me a drink?” Connor asks, pulling my attention. “Water, lemonade, bourbon? You live here now, so I’m to assume you can act as a host.”
Fuck all things to hell. I nod towards the fridge. “Would you like a drink?” I ask. “I can get whatever you want.”
“Not right now. But I appreciate the offer, even delayed and obviously coerced.”
He’s not going to make this easy.
That’s fine. I can shovel myself out of the grave I’m in, and I add, because I think it’s an important detail, “I’ve only been living here for less than an hour, sir.”
Connor doesn’t even pause. “You’ve been sleeping with her for much longer than an hour.”
Holy fuck.
My features harden to stone.
I knew he’d run me over the fucking coals, but I didn’t think he’d do the job so bluntly and without hesitation. “Yeah,” I say, not denying that fact. “It’s been consensual.”
“I know,” Connor says. “You’d already be in jail if it weren’t.” He says the words casually, like this is everyday conversation. Somehow, his calm tone sounds more threatening than if he were screaming in my face.
“And I would want the same thing,” I say and then shake my head. “That’s not true, actually.”
Connor tilts his head, but his stare is blank. “You wouldn’t want someone who forced themselves on Jane to be put in jail?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” My voice is deep and assured. “I’d want them dead.” I’d also like to be the one to carry out the murder, but I don’t add that fact. I’m not sure Connor would appreciate how easily I could kill someone, even if it’d be for Jane.
Connor sizes me up for a second. “Coffee?” He’s the one who moves to the pot and starts pouring liquid in a pastel pink mug.
He hands me a cup.
“I can get yours,” I tell him, but he’s already filling up another one.
My grandma is at home clucking her tongue in disapproval. I should be feeding a guest, not making them do all the fucking work.
I’m an assertive man, but something about Connor is slowing my reflexes.
He raises his cup to his mouth. “Jane is many things, but I would never call her irrational nor spontaneous. So when she told us that her boyfriend of—” he gives me a look “—how long have you two been together?”
My hand tightens on my mug. “I can’t calculate an exact number.”
He arches a single brow. “You can’t?”
I hold his gaze.
In my head, Jane and I didn’t wake up one morning and decide that our fake relationship was real. It was gradual, and the feelings inside the fake-dating op were never fabricated. But Jane was slow to let me in, and she’d say that we were “pals who fuck” for most of that time.
The technical answer is two days ago.
The answer I feel is more ambiguous, and both are wrong ones to tell her dad.
Make a decision, Thatcher. Steam billows from my cup and heats my face.
“It’s felt like a long time,” I say.
“Feelings tend to blur rationality.” He rests an elbow back. “Since Jane seems to care a great deal for you, let’s say that you two officially became a couple when you started sleeping together. That would be when?” He takes a sip from his coffee.
“Over a month ago.”
“Four months?”
“No.”
“Three?”
I shake my head. “Less than that. Just…over a month”
He inspects his coffee, then me. “Let’s also consider that you were her bodyguard and around my daughter for longer periods throughout a day. That increases the value of time you’ve spent together. So we’ll round up ‘over one month’ to three months.” He sets his mug on the counter behind him. “So when Jane told us her boyfriend of three months was moving in with her, I thought it was fast. What do you think?”
It’s not slow.
Don’t fucking say that, Thatcher.
“It’s the speed that works for us, sir.”
“But you didn’t think to wait to move in until you met her parents or told her siblings you were dating their sister.”
No.
Because I’m apparently really damn good at moving out of order. I grind down on my teeth. “Respectfully, sir, I’m not going to apologize for following my heart. And Jane was just following hers.”
His unreadable expression puts me on edge. He stands straighter and grabs his coffee. “You remind me of someone.”
Before I can ask who, Rose slips into the kitchen. Black dress. Black nail polish. Diamond earrings and the co
ldest, piercing glare in her yellow-green eyes. Rose Calloway’s reputation of being an Ice Queen runs throughout the world, but among the security team, bodyguards know the warmest thing about Rose is the love she has for her family.
That extends, most especially, to her oldest daughter.
Jane squeezes into the archway with wide-eyes. No room in the kitchen.
I’d like to believe I’m handling myself fine.
Rose gives me a long once-over. “You’re still alive, so I take it Richard didn’t do a good job annihilating you. Did he tell you that you’re moving too fast?”
Jane’s mouth drops. “Mom.”
I nod. “Yes—” I stop myself from saying “ma’am” because Rose has always requested security not to call her that. “Connor did tell me we’re moving fast.”
Rose eyes me. “Did he tell you that your cock will be on the end of a skewer, if you so much as hurt a hair on her head?”
Jane mutters, “Oh my God.” She mouths to me, I’m so sorry.
I shake my head, telling her it’s okay. I’d be more upset if her parents didn’t love her. To Rose, I say, “We didn’t get to that yet.” That, as in cock-skewering.
“And we never will,” Connor says. “Hyperboles are your affliction, darling.”
Rose purses her lips. “Affliction? I think you mean gift. Talent.”
He grins. “I meant what I said, but if you need more synonyms for talent, I can also provide those.”
She lets out a frustrated growl and her yellow-green eyes land back on me. “Look at these, please.” She passes me the photo album.
“Don’t do it,” Jane tells me. “It’s a terrible, awful trick.”
Rose rolls her eyes. “Gremlin, I’m not tricking your boyfriend.” She waves me on, and Connor extends his coffee to his wife.
Jane puts her hands to her eyes, scissoring her fingers to see me.
Can’t be that bad if she’s not stealing the thing out of my grip.
The title on the photo album reads: The Evolution of Jane Eleanor Cobalt’s Style. I flip open the hefty album and realize it’s a scrapbook. Neatly organized with patterned paper and cursive handwriting.
