Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

We were seeing if Donnelly would complain. If he would ask or fight to be with Farrow. Spend two seconds back-talking, and that’s two seconds you’re not paying attention to what’s important.

Their lives.

Our duty.

We could tell Donnelly hated it, but he did what he was told and never pushed back on the leads.

Farrow passed easily.

I rake my fingers through my hair, curling strands behind my ears. “Look, I can see how Farrow would think I was singling him out. A 19k in the dark, in the mountains, alone with no real path to follow—that was unlike anything we’ve ordered a bodyguard to do on their first day. But we had to make it hard on Donnelly to sit back.”

Maximoff nods. “I get that. But why not just tell Farrow all of this later on?”

“Farrow and I don’t talk, and like you said, he didn’t care enough about it to ask.” This might be the most I’ve ever said to Maximoff in one sitting.

Words start to pass out of my head. I don’t know what else to say.

That’s all I’ve got.

Everything else feels extraneous.

Maximoff takes a deeper breath, his shoulders loosening a fraction. “Why did you tase Farrow?”

This, I expected. “Farrow thinks it wasn’t an accident,” I state, already knowing. Farrow has told me as much. He couldn’t believe that I’d fuck-up that badly and tase him.

But I did, and I’ve taken full ownership of that mistake.

I was assigned Jane’s mom that day. Just for extra security. It was after a photo shoot for Forbes, and Farrow was leading Lily back to the car while Rose was being heckled.

The target wasn’t backing down, and there were enough people pushing from behind that it created a major problem.

Protocol: don’t draw a weapon in crowds.

I thought I had a clear shot. I broke the rule because it wasn’t a gun. It was a taser. The range was shorter and not deadly.

I still remember my line of sight. Zeroed in on the target. As soon as I took the shot, Farrow came out of nowhere and cold-cocked him. The taser hit my guy instead.

It was one of the worst days of my career.

“I fucked it,” I tell Maximoff. “I thought I had the shot.”

“So it wasn’t on purpose?” There’s a lot of earnestness in his voice. Like he wants to believe this version of history.

“I’d never purposefully tase one of my men like that,” I say sternly. The thought actually sickens me.

Silence blankets the room for a longer second.

Maximoff tries to read my features.

I’m not sure I’m anything but hard, strict lines. I push myself to add, “I’ve never hated Farrow, and I can’t fault him if he’s hated me.”

He lets out a final breath. “Thanks,” he says sincerely. “I needed to hear that.” He also reminds me, “I’ll tell Farrow what you told me, but it’s not going to mean as much to him.”

I nod.

Farrow believes in actions more than words, and he’s already given me a pretty clean slate when he didn’t have to. I’ve made Farrow repeatedly prove himself to the team. Now I have something to prove to him.

“About Jane.” Maximoff changes the subject. “I just want you to know that I’m appreciative of what you’re risking for her. It’s not a small thing, losing your privacy.”

She’s worth it.

“She’s my client,” I tell him.

Just my client. Gotta remember that.

17

JANE COBALT

Our first order of business: announce our fledgling but oh-so-romantic relationship to the public.

The security team listed out the specifics to accentuate our role as boyfriend and girlfriend, and for this first task, we have to be calculated.

The Cinderella ad is still a hot topic on the web, and if I post a photo of us kissing online, it’ll seem utterly suspicious. The media has to actually believe I’m dating my bodyguard and not trying to cover-up the ad.

For this to happen, we’re tearing a page out of the good ole celebrity handbook. Get a gossipy-someone to tip off the paparazzi about my whereabouts—and that gossipy-someone is obviously being tipped off by my “team.”

In LA, actresses, actors, celebrities and influencers do this all the time to stay relevant. I don’t much care about relevancy.

But I do care about the public believing I’m dating Thatcher. Which means the run-around is terribly essential.

“Who’s calling the paparazzi?” I ask Thatcher as I put my Volkswagen in park. We occupy a mid-row space outside a local grocery store. Pumpkins are already being sold in giant crates near the sliding glass entrances.

It’s not too busy or crowded on this sunny afternoon. But it took two hours driving around the city just to lose the cars that followed us from the townhouse.

And not all were paparazzi. I noticed new vehicles. Strange men behind the wheels.

Suitors , most likely.

Thatcher scoots the passenger seat back from the dash, giving his long legs more room. “Banks called a friend and casually mentioned you’d be at the Acme on Passyunk.” He pronounces Acme like Ack-a-me.

It makes me smile. I lift my blue retro sunglasses to my head. “How do we know he’ll tip off the paparazzi?”

Thatcher unbuckles his seatbelt. “Because he’s broke and his nickname was Snitch in high school.”

“Does he realize he’s called Snitch ?”

“Yeah,” Thatcher says, his brown eyes holding mine for a beat longer. “He didn’t give a shit about it. Said it reminded him of Harry Potter or something like that.” He shifts. Turning more towards me, and his strong arm slides across the back of the headrest.

His boldness and masculinity consumes my teeny car. And me.

I inhale without exhaling that often. It feels like hot air is blowing from my vents. I sweat underneath my checkered blouse and lilac, tulle skirt.

“How do we know when paparazzi have arrived?” I whisper.

He speaks just as quietly. “They pulled in a minute after us.”

He’d know. Always alert. It’s dreadfully attractive.

I try to subdue an overpowering smile, and I lift my chin. Rotating to face my bodyguard more, my elbow brushes the steering wheel.

Silence breeds more heat, and from a breath apart, we look one another over. We’re allowed, you see.

I trace the chiseled edges of his scruffy jaw, the carve of his biceps that stretches against his black button-down, the way his muscles flex the more he sweeps me.

Thatcher studies my shallow breathing. “Ready?”

I eye his lips. “Yes please…” Oh God, Jane. “Just yes. Yes, I’m ready for you…” I have torched myself with flaming balls of desire and mortification.

There is no escape.

His large hand falls to the nape of my neck, and I place my palm on his firm chest.

Carefully, slowly…Thatcher leans forward until our lips meet. Chastely . It’s what the security team decreed. He kisses me tenderly, a soft kiss that electrifies my senses.

Pulsates my veins, and I ache to touch my bundle of nerves.

I run my fingers up to his unshaven jaw and then thread my fingers through his tousled brown hair.

No tongue.

His muscles tighten.

The kiss lasts a few seconds—not nearly long enough—before we slowly draw our lips away, only putting a sliver of space between our mouths.

Our breath still melds as we look into one another.

I ache for even more. In places that shouldn’t be aching. I think Thatcher can read my need too well.

“One more,” Thatcher says huskily. Our hands are still on each other, and his other palm has found a home on my hip. Mine are woven in his hair.

“One more,” I agree.

“Just in case they didn’t catch the photo.” His gaze already engulfs me.

“Yes.”

Yes.

He closes the dist

ance. Our lips crash together, our hands grasping—we pull into each other with piping hot desire. His tongue glides sensually along mine with such explosive skill. Both of our asses have risen off the seat for closer contact. Bodies meeting in the middle. His towering build nearly sheathing me.

His smell, his touch, drives me to carnal places that I haven’t reached in forever with another man. But this is different than all those other times. It feels different.

Maybe because it’s all pretend.

Maybe because I know I’m safe.

And I can’t be certain when my hand went from his head to his peach-perfect ass or when he cupped my butt—but it happens. He sucks my bottom lip, and I pulse like a second heartbeat has dropped between my legs.