Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

“But you have to remember, Cath, his parents are addicts. The fact that Maximoff Hale has stayed sober is a real feat—”

“It is,” I interject in agreement.

“—and Jane hasn’t even come close to him. What is she doing with her time now? She’s living off Mommy and Daddy.”

Thatcher grumbles an Italian word that sounds like a curse, but I can’t be certain.

Cathy snorts. “And she probably actually believes she’s as successful as her mom.”

My shoulders sink.

Of course I haven’t achieved anywhere near what my mom has in her lifetime. My family is full of overachievers and goal-oriented prodigies, and as the eldest of the brood, I am pressured to live up to the Rose Calloway Cobalt ideal every day.

My mom started her fashion company when she was only fifteen. Ladies and gentlemen, let all of that sink in.

Fifteen.

I’m twenty-three and I can hardly decide which brand of toothpaste to use.

It’s becoming shamefully easier to say, I am not worthy to be a Cobalt.

Confidence should be engrained in my DNA, but to reach into the well, I have to constantly remind myself that I am good enough.

I won’t devalue her achievements just to find value in myself.

My mom is brilliant and beautiful.

And so I am. Just in my own way.

“It comes down to this. Jane Cobalt is nothing more than a conceited heiress to a billion-dollar fortune,” Jackie tells the listeners. “She continues to be a disappo—”

Thatcher turns the radio off. “Fucking horseshit—sorry,” he apologies quickly to me, his muscles flexed and jaw tensed.

“Are you apologizing for swearing or for cutting off the radio?” I wonder, eyeing the road.

“The radio, but if swearing offended you—”

“It doesn’t offend me,” I say quickly. I want him to feel comfortable being himself with me.

Thatcher holds my gaze for an extra beat and then checks his watch. “You have three minutes.”

I scoot closer to the wheel. “We’re on the right street,” I say aloud, and I circle the block a few times just to find an open space. “Parking is horrendous.”

“Up ahead,” Thatcher says. “It’s too small of a space. Jump the curb and park half on the sidewalk.”

I don’t ask if I’m allowed. I’ve already spotted four cars parked on the sidewalks here.

Zeroing in on the tight space between a hybrid and a Jeep, I reverse to parallel-park, and then I maneuver my Beetle up the curb in a diagonal. The car bounces, and I squeeze in tight. Front tire perches on the sidewalk, and my back bumper is nowhere near incoming traffic.

Looks good to me.

I park and move more quickly.

Two minutes remaining.

Thatcher and I both open our doors. Just as I gather my purse and my keys, I shuffle out of the Beetle—no , my ballet flat slips off and plummets to the pavement.

I hurry and shut the door, stepping barefoot on loose chunks of gravel. Crouching to retrieve my shoe. “Come here, shoe.” I peer under the Beetle. “Please, please don’t betray me.”

Thatcher has already rounded my car. I sense his towering presence behind me.

Beeeeep!!

My head swerves to the road, and between Thatcher’s legs, I spot a few cars honking at the Toyota which blocks traffic, unable to find a parking spot. A cameraman jumps out of the passenger seat, and the Toyota drives away.

“Jane, look here!” the cameraman shouts.

“I’m a little busy,” I mutter and tune out paparazzi. I just now locate the sequined ballet flat behind the tire.

I snatch the shoe. And then I teeter to a stance and try to brush gravel off my foot. I wobble and instinctively reach for something to balance myself.

I grab on to Thatcher.

His muscular waist, specifically.

I look up at him while I slip on my shoe, and his hand hovers perilously close to my wide hips. He stares down at me, but his hard brown eyes never descend lower than my chin.

Shoe securely on, I set my foot on the ground, and I release my grip off Thatcher. “…thank you.” I pat his firm chest, not just once, but thrice.

Before flush ascends, I spin on my heels. I can’t be late. I walk hurriedly down the sidewalk and try to forget about patting my bodyguard.

“Jane,” Thatcher calls as I take off without him.

I glance back, and Thatcher sprints towards me.

He clicks his mic at his collar and mutters something into the speaker. Instead of stopping at my side like a friend would, he passes me right on by.

Thatcher slows down a few inches out in front and walks ahead. Per the rules of being a bodyguard. He must lead his client (i.e. me) and clear a path. So I’m not too surprised.

I keep up from behind.

His rigorous commanding stride is so familiar by now. I’m terribly used to this view of Thatcher’s peach-perfect ass, and I deeply, deeply wish I could regret how much I’ve stared at his butt.

I check the time on my phone.

Thirty seconds.

One block away, and we’ll reach the destination. We pass more brick row houses.

A young twenty-something guy smokes on the steps of one, a skateboard on his lap. We’re rapidly approaching his location.

I avoid direct eye contact, but I feel his penetrating gaze poke into me and into the trailing cameraman who snaps pictures.

“Hey!” Skateboard Smoker stands. “You’re Jane Cobalt, aren’t you?!”

My pulse spikes, more cautious.

Thatcher nails a warning glare at the pedestrian.

I attempt to mind my own business and keep pace.

Thatcher falls back and walks beside me, all six-feet seven-inches shielding my body completely from the onlooker. I’m a whole foot shorter than my bodyguard, and I find myself leaning closer to him than further away.

My heart rate eases, and I breathe normally.

“HEY!” Skateboard Smoker shouts while we trek past him. “HEY! Why are you walking away!! You fucking bitch! I hope your whole dumb fucking family dies!!”

From zero to one-hundred.

As expected.

I hardly flinch. Too used to these jeers and threats to take any stock in them.

Thatcher cements a narrowed eye on the Skateboard Smoker.

I’d rather not peek back and feed into the guy’s hand, but I’d like to know… “Is he following us?” I whisper to Thatcher.

That will unnerve me, and I start to unzip my purse. Thatcher gifted me a new bottle of pepper spray for my 23rd birthday when he read the expired date on my last one. I also have a switchblade.

“No,” Thatcher answers. “He hasn’t moved from his position.” He rotates a knob on his radio. “I can stay next to you until we reach the store.” He adds, “If you’d feel safer.”

A smile pulls at my cheeks. “I would.” I nod. “Merci.”

Having Thatcher this close brings a powerful comfort. A snaking tension. Even more temptation, and the greatest, most overwhelming curiosity.

My cross-body purse thunks my thigh as we round a corner, and I risk the umpteenth glance in his direction.

He simultaneously keeps track of our surroundings and looks down at me. As we drift nearer, his hand shifts towards the small of my back.

But his palm never makes contact, never touches or crosses that boundary unless safety decrees he must .

I wonder what his protective hands would feel like on my skin. Climbing up the slopes of my body.

Heat sears the nape of my neck again.

Come on, Jane.

No distractions. Not even of the panty-soaking hot bodyguard variety.

I have a bigger purpose today—and really, a purpose from now until forever.

Jackie and Cathy from 97.Kiss-My-Ass can delight in the fact that I am no longer aimless. I am floundering no more.

But I am two minutes late.

3

JANE COBALT

The cozy Philadelphia fabric shop is hidden behind an old bookstore. It seems as though only a couple shoppers are here perusing the disorderly store.

A bell dings when the door shuts softly behind Thatcher, and I peek down the sole three aisles for Vanessa.

Each shelf overflows with fabric rolls stacked upon more fabric rolls with no sense of color or texture coordination. Rolls that can’t fit are propped up against the shelves, crowding the narrow aisles.