Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

I’m undeservingly the focal point in her blue irises.

“Second,” I tell her, “I want to make an oath with you.”

Surprise catches her breath. “What kind of oath?” Her lips start to inch upward.

What I’ve learned about the Cobalt Empire: the family of nine loves pacts, oaths, soul-binding agreements that put loyalty and trust to the test.

“I want to make you an unbreakable promise,” I tell her. “Do you do blood oaths?”

“Oh no, no blood.” She smiles. “These days, we Cobalts shake on spit.”

I would’ve even shaken on blood. Good to go. “I’m going to start unless you don’t want me to.”

She waves me forward, her face more cheerful towards me than I’ve seen in months. “I’m all ears.”

I’ve never declared something like this to a woman, and it’s the closest I’ve come to feeling like I need to drop to a fucking knee.

I grip her glittering eyes. “I’ll never break your trust again,” I promise, “and if I ever hurt Farrow or Maximoff, I’ll quit security.”

Seriousness draws her lips down. “You understand…that if you break this pact and you don’t quit security, it reflects truly badly on your character and you will never be in my good graces again?”

The stakes have to be high for this to be meaningful, and I can’t fathom hurting them or disappointing her. I won’t fucking break this. “I understand.”

She tenses but then nods. “I accept the oath.” Jane cups her hand below her mouth and spits on her palm, no hesitation.

I watch her for a second before I spit on my hand.

She ropes you in, Thatcher , Banks said.

I didn’t believe him.

Whenever you hear about a heckler railing on Jane, you look like you want to pop them between the eyes, Banks told me. And she’s not even your client. What do you think’ll happen if you actually join her detail?

I extend my arm to Jane first.

Eight months later, I know I’m in deep, but I can control myself and my nine-inch cock.

Hell, I’ve held her hand before where security is concerned. To draw her away from paparazzi. To protect her from crowds.

And now to solidify a promise of trust and devotion.

It’s for her safety. Parameters still intact.

“Bound to this oath, we shake,” Jane declares, and she clasps my hand and with one strong shake, we should let go.

She holds a beat longer

I hold an extra beat longer. Longer than I should .

My chest tightens with a hot breath, and we both loosen our grip.

2

JANE COBALT

Two Months Later

“If you’re just tuning in, this is 97.2 The Fix with Cathy and Jackie, bringing you the latest trending hits and news during your morning commute.”

I raise the volume of my car radio. Drowning out the honking paparazzi who are in a money-fueled cock-fight with each other behind my baby blue Volkswagen Beetle. Both sedans want to ride my bumper and snap pictures through my rear window, but only one can occupy the prime spot.

Pink cat pompoms hang from my rearview mirror and sway back and forth.

I take a quick peek at the mirror. “And the winner is a gray Toyota. Well done, sir, you have won a fabulous view of my scratched bumper.”

One paparazzi cock-fight—at the very minimum—is a constant variable in the fickle equation of my life.

My clammy palms dampen the steering wheel. I’m remarkably nervous. Today, my great and terrible life takes a drastic turn, and I’m trying my best not to be late.

I wipe my hand on the thigh of my pastel purple jeans, and then I grab my giant 32-oz thermos in the cup holder. “Stay on Juniper and take Morris to 13th ?” I ask the twenty-eight-year-old stringent, scruffy bodyguard in the passenger seat.

“You’ll find more cover if you take Morris to 12th and McKean.” His deep, husky voice is like wood smoke after a fire is extinguished.

I risk a glance.

Six-feet-seven-inches of raw masculinity engulfs my car. Thatcher Moretti is stoic.

Stern.

The sort of professional broodiness one would expect from a man who dedicates his whole existence to serving and protecting others. Those others just happen to be the people I love most: my only sister, my five brothers, my many cousins—all of my notoriously famous family.

He’s shifted closer to the middle console for more room.

A swelter prickles my skin. There’s only one inch of tense space between his bulging bicep and my arm. He feels closer, even, and he makes my Beetle look absurdly tiny.

When he was assigned to my detail, I wanted to exchange my Volkswagen to accommodate his…size, and he adamantly opposed the idea.

Thatcher surveys the Toyota behind us. Warmth from his strong build radiates against the nape of my neck. Flush ascends my chest, and he’s not even touching me.

Because that’d be oh-so-inappropriate, Jane.

The oath intact, we’re at a much better place than we were before Greece, but all we’ll ever be is bodyguard-and-client.

Yet, it couldn’t hurt to just imagine.

I sip my coffee and take another peek.

Bulked muscles stretch the sleeves of his gray button-down, fabric rolled to his forearms, and a few popped buttons show off his firm chest and natural hair.

Heat gathers between my legs.

I pulse as I picture his big arms and chest swathing me. In another life, I’d wrap myself up in the powerful heavenliness of Thatcher Moretti, like he’s my warrior archangel prepared to blanket me with his twelve-foot wingspan. All before he hoists me up around—

Thatcher turns slightly. And he catches my ogling gaze.

Flush reaches my cheeks. Merde. “Thatcher.” I’ve greeted him five times today already.

He crosses his arms. “Jane.” His deep tone is never scolding towards me.

“You look…impressively big in my car,” I confess, confronting embarrassment like blasting a slingshot at my own forehead.

I possess the unfortunate inability to run away from my own mortification.

Thatcher stays mostly stoic. His gaze is unflinchingly fixed on my eyes.

The way he’s staring—with bold hardness—just lights my curiosity ablaze. I should definitely shut up now, but I’ve never been good at that. “Truly.” I set my thermos in the cup holder and glance from him to the road. “You have nice muscles. Really quite nice.”

I think I can live with that endnote. Treading the line carefully.

It could be much, much worse. I could’ve said, Oh God, Thatcher, I’m dripping wet right now. You’ve soaked me like Niagara Falls. Please, please plunge your sinful tongue inside of me.

Let me come out of this unscathed.

I look over.

Thatcher seizes my gaze. “I worked out yesterday.” His nose flares some, his muscles tightening, and he uncrosses his arms, just to adjust the seat. Sliding further back so he’s not crowding me.

The air strains with a hundred-and-twenty degree scorch.

I clear an aroused knot in my throat. “12th and McKean?”

“12th and McKean,” he confirms, chest taut, and he rolls his sleeves higher.

I reroute my attention to the road and drive the speed limit. My approach to wild cameramen on Philly streets differs greatly from my best friend.

I avoid heavily trafficked roads. One-ways are my greatest allies, and the narrower the street, the better.

Maximoff’s license will be reinstated in October. Just next month, and I’m hoping Farrow can convince him to not exceed ninety or maybe take the passenger seat. I worry about Moffy trying to outrun paparazzi, especially after the crash.

I turn onto 12th . “Merde,” I curse aloud, suddenly noticing the coffee stain on my frilly white sleeve.

On this very important morning, I chose to wear a laced long-sleeve blouse, a faux fur cheetah vest, pastel jeans, ballet flats and an acorn squash-shaped p

urse, and the probability that I already made Celebrity Crush’s Worst Dressed List is inevitably high.

And it’s only 6 a.m.

Sometimes I believe the media relishes in putting me on blast. I could sneeze and tabloids and internet trolls would say I’m doing it wrong.

Normally, I wouldn’t care about the coffee splotch, but I also don’t want my appearance to read as disrespect.

I keep a hand on the wheel and lift my arm to my mouth. I bite the sleeve and try to tear the fabric off with my teeth.

Thatcher glances over with the same bold toughness.

I mumble, “This is more difficult…than it appears.” This is not working. In my head, I succeeded gloriously all over this idea, but reality likes to slap me with failures left and right. I spit the sleeve off my tongue.