Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

At the minimum.

Thatcher suddenly takes my hand in his, and with no hesitation or confusion, he’s leading me towards the messy register. Piles of plastic binders, papers, and receipt books are strewn across an antique desk. Ms. Ramella, the wispy gray-haired storeowner, stares thunderstruck at the gathering media outside.

Thatcher shifts his grip so we’re naturally clasping hands, and I feel hard calluses on his large palm. Too many conflicting emotions tumble through me.

My bodyguard has never held my hand for this long, side-by-side, and I look up at him questioningly. Curiously.

But he’s already drawing my body forward.

Oh.

He just wants me to walk in front of him. So he can block the paparazzi’s view of me with his build.

Right.

Once I’m out in front, he lets go of our hands. My pulse is in my throat, but I keep course, my bare feet squishing on the humid carpet. In my quick sprint, my jeans slid down a little, and I pull the waistband back up over my love handles.

Much more comfortable.

Thatcher Moretti is an iron shield behind me, and I sense his palm hovering beside my hip.

I breathe harder and check my phone. Moffy is calling again, but like the others, it drops within seconds.

I peek back at Thatcher while I approach the register. “Should we find a rear exit?”

He nods once, but then his eyes form lethal pinpoints. He speaks into comms. “Say again?” He listens.

“Youse twos.” Ms. Ramella is waving us over to the antique desk, her Philly lilt thick on top of a few Italian words.

I’m only fluent in English and French, but I’ve heard Thatcher speak some Italian, mostly words mixed with English, and I’m not so sure his dialect is formal or a language one would learn in Italy or through textbooks.

I reach the register with Thatcher. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Ramella,” I apologize for the noise outside. “The cameras and all the men will be gone as soon as I am.”

She’s stabbing a glare above me.

At Thatcher.

I crane my neck over my shoulder, and his serious eyes meet mine for half a second, almost softening in an apology.

He knows her.

Thatcher lifts the mic to his lips, tendons strained in his rigid shoulders. “Solid copy.”

I turn more into his chest and adjust my slipping purse strap, cross-body again. “You know what’s happened?” I whisper.

“Bits and pieces.” He hasn’t acknowledged the storeowner yet. His hand brushes against my hip, and his muscles contract. Accidental. That was an accidental touch. “It has nothing to do with your family.”

Yet, his squared shoulders never loosen, and his lethal glare grows darker.

“It’s about me,” I realize.

He barely nods, not too elated, but I’m relaxing for the first time.

“I can handle a me crisis,” I say confidently. “This is good news.”

His grip strengthens on my gaze, looking dreadfully more protective of me than before. “We need to find a magazine.”

I must be in the tabloids.

What gossip column has spread rumors about me this time? Nothing can be worse than the HaleCocest rumor that is now buried and gone, but it rocked and rattled my friendship with Moffy more than anything ever had before.

Nearly a year later since that awful day, we’re at a much better place.

“So it’s just tabloid gossip?” I ask Thatcher.

“No. I don’t think it is.”

I frown.

What could it be then?

If he knew the details, I think he’d share them, but he said he’s only receiving fragments over comms. He must be piecing the information together.

Maybe this mysterious news has reached the internet. We both check our phones for cell service.

None for me.

Thatcher shakes his head and slips his phone in his pocket.

“Ms. Ramella.” I spin toward the cluttered desk. “You wouldn’t happen to have an entertainment magazine with you? Like Star, Us Weekly, Celebrity Crush ?”

“I don’t read any of that.” She’s still drilling a ginormous crater into Thatcher’s forehead.

Thatcher finally settles his gaze on Ms. Ramella. “Michelina—”

“You come into my store and you don’t even say a hello?” She throws up her frail, age-spotted hands at Thatcher. “And then you bring all this…” She spouts off another Italian word, her pointer finger jabbing toward the glass entrance where cameramen scream my name. “What’s wrong with youse? Ha? ”

Thatcher hardly bats an eye. He stays behind me, but with his height, he’s able to stretch over to the elderly storeowner. “I’ll make sure they clear out when we leave. It’s nice to see you.” He cups her face tenderly and kisses her cheek in greeting. “You look good.”

I glance keenly from her to him, him to her. I’m seeing much more of Thatcher today than I would’ve ever expected.

She huffs but simmers down a great deal, and then she taps his jaw twice in affection. “Don’t be a…” The Italian word may as well be redacted for me.

I can’t be sure what she called him.

Ms. Ramella tries to lower her voice, but she’s still very audible. “You take care of that famous girl, you hear? What’s her name?”

“Jane,” Thatcher says, nearly cradling the one syllable like he’s protecting all four letters from harm.

My lips ache to rise. Why do I love that so much?

Ms. Ramella seems to know more about Thatcher working in security than she knows about my famous family. Which is terribly sweet.

“Are you related?” I ask while she’s eyeing me.

“No.” She points to him. “I play pinochle and Canasta with his grandma on Thursdays, and my grandson is the boys’ age.”

The boys. She must be referring to Banks, too.

Thatcher talks more urgently to Ms. Ramella, and after a short exchange, she hands him this morning’s paper.

He eagle-eyes the rowdy paparazzi and then looks down at me. “Let’s go in the back. It’ll be more private.”

“Why the newspaper?” I ask before we move a foot.

“The team is now telling me it’s in The Philadelphia Chronicle .”

I used to read that newspaper when I was a little girl. My mom would pass me the business and finance section whenever I asked for them.

But I’m at a loss now. Why would I be mentioned in a reputable newspaper that rarely prints salacious gossip about my family?

“You don’t know what it is?” I ask my bodyguard.

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

5

THATCHER MORETTI

Fucking comms.

Bad signal—it’s frustrating, but after I get word that this situation revolves around Jane, most of my irritation goes up in flames. Leaving my purpose clear.

Focused.

Protecting her is all that fucking matters.

At the back of Michelina’s store, I lead Jane to a small, enclosed area where fabric swatches are staple-gunned in chaotic array to the wall. Supplies like scissors and rulers are packed in cardboard boxes on utility shelves—shelves that Banks and I helped put together for Michelina years ago.

It’s not every week or even every year that my childhood collides with work. On the ride here, I’d been hoping that Michelina would be absent. Home picking parsley from her pots or stuck watching morning game shows.

Not because I wouldn’t want Jane to meet my grandma’s friend (I shouldn’t want that)—but because when I’m on-duty, I need to be on-duty.

Family and family friends—they’d rather I switch that off and act like I’m on a fucking weekend stroll sipping boxed Chardonnay.

But being vigilant is usually my default setting, no matter what, and Jane’s life is too important to me to be anything less than what I know and who I am.

Muffled voices crack in my eardrum. Comms chatter is close to fu

lly down, but I received enough intel to figure out the rest on our own.

After she skims our new surroundings, Jane perches her hands on her hips. Blue eyes fixed on me with a poised determination. Like she’s ready to help a fighter pilot navigate air space in combat.

I love that—don’t fucking go there, Thatcher. I have a job to do. My cock needs to stand the fuck down.