Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

I’m happy the tour could help more than just my friendship with Moffy.

Sulli reaches for a Fruity Pebbles donut and bites into the dough. Cereal crumbs fall on her striped shirt. “And this place already feels like home.” She speaks with a mouthful. “I know where everything goes. I’ve slept over so many times, and you’re both here and so is Luna.”

My heart mushrooms, and a smile tugs my cheeks. I squeeze past Maximoff and wrap my arms around my cousin.

We hug and sway playfully side-to-side.

“I love you so much,” I tell her.

“I love you more.”

We pull back and smile. This past year, we’ve grown closer than ever before. Since she’s retired from competitive swimming, she’s been able to join us for more outings and trips.

And now she’s finally decided to leave the nest. She’s flown the parental coup and landed in our cramped but loving home.

Sulli could have so easily chosen my brothers’ flat in Hell’s Kitchen, seeing as how she’s best friends with Beckett. We’ve always had the open invitation extended to her, but I was even surprised when she finally accepted it.

I remember asking, “It’s because Eliot and Tom moved up to New York, isn’t it?” Living with two Cobalt boys is one thing. Living with four is hazardous. And I should know, I grew up with all five of them.

“Nope,” Sulli replied. “Beckett is super fucking busy with the new ballet, and I just really wanted a roommate. Luna sold me. She said we were going to get the fucked-up college experience that we’ll probably never really have.” She nudged my shoulder. “Plus, you and Moffy are pretty fucking rad.”

Our big life changes affect the lives of our bodyguards. Sulli’s move means that Akara Kitsuwon is officially living in security’s townhouse. Right now, most of SFO, plus Jack Highland, are helping him settle in next door. While also dealing with the mystery shoebox.

Later this weekend, the rest of our family is planning to help Sulli move furniture into Luna’s room. They’re transforming the space into a mini dorm. Complete with a bunk bed and beanbags. It almost makes me nostalgic for the whole three months I lived in Princeton dorms.

Almost.

Because those were also the loneliest, most miserable times of my life.

I don’t wish to repeat that.

The door to the adjoining townhouses suddenly opens. All of security returning. I try and look for Thatcher first, but I catch sight of Maximoff’s gaze. His powerful green eyes carry one urgent inquiry. As if silently asking: what was in the box?

12

JANE COBALT

Akara just shared the disturbing details of the shoebox with Sulli, Maximoff, and me in the tightly packed living room. Mainly to let us know this is a security matter.

Don’t worry, they all say.

It’s not about you , they all say.

It only affects us , they all say.

I think Security Force Omega has forgotten how much we deeply care about them and how much it hurts seeing them harassed while they shield us from harassment.

It’s our job , they say.

I know.

I appreciate their sacrifice more than they can possibly understand.

Did I ever imagine one of our bodyguards would be sent roadkill? In a box? With a bow wrapped around the mangled squirrel’s broken neck?

No.

Gross acts are tragically normal for me, but mostly when my family and I are the recipients. I’m not used to my bodyguard being a target.

Thatcher is a soldier. Tremendously tall. He’s physically a powerhouse, a supreme godly and angelic being who is built to protect and defend. I see so clearly that this is where he wants to be. I see how much of himself he’s willing to give to keep my family safe.

I’d just like to be next to him.

To be a wingwoman.

His confidante.

His right-hand.

I want to slip into his back pocket.

Possibly even literally sliding my hand down south and squeezing his…oh-so-inappropriate, Jane.

I try not to pulse. Now is definitely not the time. But the air has lightened as chatter returns, cats scampering around everyone who’s gathered here, which includes Farrow, Donnelly, Oscar, Quinn, Thatcher, and Jack.

I sit on a stair, nibbling on a chocolate turtle, and I find myself picking my bodyguard out of the small crowd.

Thatcher stands incredibly stoic at the front door. He’s shrugged off his flannel, his plain gray crew-neck snug on his firm build. Features hardened, biceps chiseled, and shoulders braced in a vigilant stronghold.

His narrowed gaze slides along the room and lands on me.

I inhale a soft breath.

His chest rises.

I ache to talk to him. To ask how he’s feeling. I ache to be closer, for his large hand to hover beside my arm or waist. I ache for so much between him and me that I shouldn’t welcome or invite.

But we are allowed to converse. We should talk.

Reach out, Jane.

Just as I begin to stand, Thatcher detaches from his spot, and he crosses the room. His attentive gaze never leaves me.

My heart begins to race, and I lower back onto the old creaking stair.

My bodyguard halts at the banister. Towering above me, the staircase too narrow for more than one person to sit.

“Thatcher,” I greet.

“Jane.” He asks, “How are you doing?”

Chocolate melts between my fingers, and I lick my thumb. “I’m doing fine. I’m more concerned…” about you.

My voice fades completely. We both seem to tense in our silence, but the room is quite loud as SFO, Jack, and my cousins talk.

I break our quiet. “How are you feeling?”

Thatcher drops his voice another cavernous octave. “The same.” He holds my gaze much more securely. “I feel a strong responsibility to you.”

Dear God, let me breathe properly. “To protect me,” I state for clarity.

He nods firmly, but another raw emotion almost surfaces through his tightened gaze. He blinks and deadbolts it shut.

To protect me.

I push my wavy hair off my shoulder, hot all of a sudden. I need to backtrack, and I’m curious, of course. “What you found in the box, it doesn’t affect you? It’s not every day that bodyguards are sent roadkill.”

Security hasn’t discovered who dropped the package via a drone, but the anonymous delivery included a mutilated squirrel and a note:

For the tall bodyguard.

Fuck you.

That was all.

Omega thinks it must be a vexed suitor from earlier this morning. Someone Thatcher must’ve accidentally angered.

His expression darkens. “I’ve seen a lot worse than a dead squirrel.” He ends there. Cut and dry.

I hesitate to prod. “Can I ask you something more personal?”

He looks readied. “Go ahead.”

I rest my elbows on my knees, my mint-green tulle skirt splayed over them. “Have you seen worse while you’ve been in security or before this job?”

“Both,” he answers without pause. He checks over his shoulder for a millisecond, and I track his brief glimpse to the fireplace. To Farrow.

Farrow is holding Maximoff’s cheek and whispering in the pit of his ear. Less serious, I think, since Farrow smiles wider and wider with each word he murmurs.

I frown. “It involves Far

row?”

He gives me a serious look.

Nate.

The realization strikes me cold. The night that Nate was apprehended, there were only two bodyguards on the scene: Farrow and Thatcher. And he’s telling me that night was more horrific than a dead mutilated squirrel.

I want to express my guilt for trusting Nate, but it’ll open a dam and I’m not ready to drown in those feelings.

“Turtle?” I offer, holding up the tin of caramel pecan chocolates.

Thatcher has never rejected one before, and he doesn’t now. We eat turtles and face the room together.

I whisper to my bodyguard, “It seems Akara and Sulli are back on good terms.” They had an awkward month or so after Greece, but their buddy-guard friendship is intact.

The Omega lead, a six-foot-two commanding Akara Kitsuwon is dressed in his usual Studio 9 muscle shirt and backwards baseball cap, and he shares the Victorian loveseat with Sulli. Fuzzy pillow on their laps, their hands are clasped together in an intense arm-wrestle match.

I missed their bet, but they look about tied right now.

Thatcher studies them a little longer, and then his attention drifts to the corkboard. Where Oscar and Donnelly are surveying the photographs of suitors while eating Sun Chips and a pudding cup. I think they must have temp bodyguards covering their clients for a short bit so they could help Akara move in.

Jack and I make eye contact from across the room, and he treks over to the staircase to greet me. “Jane,” he says; his charming smile radiates a thousand feet in all directions.

The exec producer is very charismatic, affectionate, and a good friend to me and Maximoff after so many seasons filming We Are Calloway . We shed our armor and share our insecurities in the docuseries, usually with Jack first.

I instantly smile back.

He hugs me. “Looking gorgeous as ever.”

“You as well.”

Oscar looks back at us, his curly hair falling over a rolled blue bandana. “Where’s my positive affirmation, Highland?”

Jack wears a softer grin. “What kind are you looking for?”

“What do you want to give me?” Oscar shakes a water bottle full of protein mix.