Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

She returns the smile with a warm one. “Welcome to the Concord B&B.”

“We have a reservation under…” I realize that I didn’t book the reservation. I might be terribly messy, but I’m very organized and can juggle more than what meets the eye. I usually plan travel details myself. Never leaving them up to assistants or family members.

But this weekend trip was different.

Thatcher steps forward, his large hand hovering near my hip. “It’s under Moretti.”

Why was that so very sexy? He put the reservation under his name. Possibly the Tri-Force told him to do so. I try to read his stern features, but he’s so vigilant at the moment. Constantly scanning the foyer, then glancing down at me.

Checking on me.

The back of my neck blazes, and I try to retrain my attention on the innkeeper.

“Let’s see here.” She plucks her reading glasses off her chest, a beaded chain linking them around her neck, and she perches them on her nose. Wispy blonde tendrils twist in a nest upon her head, and her honey brown eyes dart between me and the four bodyguards who flank my sides.

Thatcher, Banks, Oscar, and Donnelly.

This is a team mission, after all. Plus, SFO said there should be more security around, especially since a parade of paparazzi has been trailing our every move.

Now that Thatcher is gaining more fame, his job as a bodyguard is going to be harder, and Omega wants to protect him like they did Farrow.

I can still hear some of the fanatic shouting we left outside of the Bed & Breakfast.

“Jaaaaaane!”

“Thatcher!!”

I’m not sure how Oscar and Donnelly got off their details with my brothers. But I assume it might’ve been easiest to give Charlie and Beckett temp bodyguards this weekend.

Maximoff and Farrow would’ve come along. I wanted them here badly. There is a large absence that only they can fill in my life, and it’s a strange feeling not having them with me on such a huge endeavor.

But Moffy and I knew if we stayed overnight together at a B&B, it could potentially unbury the HaleCocest rumor. Regardless if he’s engaged to Farrow or not, it could happen, and that is the mother of all dumpster fires that we desperately do not want to reignite.

She types on a keyboard. “Breakfast starts at eight and ends at eleven.” She squints at her computer screen. “Ah yes, you’ve requested the Metropolis, Blue Ridge, and Victorian rooms.”

Skeleton keys are hung on wooden pegs behind the innkeeper, and there are only three out of six left. Meaning, strangers already occupy the other three rooms.

It’s purposeful. Security is hoping the guests will spot Thatcher and me together. We need strangers passing pictures and information to the press.

Paparazzi will question anyone who leaves the Concord.

Gretchen gingerly picks the remaining three keys. “The Blue Ridge is on the first floor, two twin beds. The Metropolis and Victorian are a short distance up the stairs, second floor on the right. If you need anything, you can find me in the study. Third door down the main hall.”

“Thank you,” I say, and she passes the keys to Thatcher.

She darts off to the study.

Thatcher hands a skeleton key to Oscar. “You or Donnelly need to be on night watch. So rack out as soon as you can.”

Donnelly surveys the ceiling, nooks, and corners of the old house.

“I’ll be on during night,” Oscar confirms.

Thatcher lowers his voice to a whisper. “I won’t be on comms, so text if you can’t hear us.”

Hear us.

I smooth my lips together to keep from smiling. By us , he means me and him. Pretend fucking. That is precisely what we’re doing here. Making sex noises in our room so other guests can hear from the thin walls.

I am terribly thrilled to fake sex with Thatcher. Maybe it’s the Cobalt in me that thrives on strategic plans and deception. We’re playing 3D chess, and my teammate happens to be serious and brooding and currently pinning his stern eyes onto me.

“Ready?” Thatcher asks, deep and husky.

I grip the handle to my weekend suitcase, my palms perspiring. “Yes, I am.” I rub my clammy hand on the thigh of my pale yellow jeans.

The other bodyguards on SFO don’t draw attention to my shallow breath. They’re very mature about this whole ordeal.

Donnelly and Oscar say quick goodbyes to me.

“Stay frosty, boys,” Banks tells them, and those two leave to locate their bedroom on the first floor.

Thatcher slings his backpack over his shoulder. “I can get that.” He reaches for my suitcase, but he stops when he sees me shake my head.

“I can wheel it, really. I’d rather carry my fair share.”

He nods, and as we make our way to the carpeted staircase, his hand falls to the small of my back, lightly brushing against my body. His fingers might as well carry static electricity, my nerves humming. Trembling.

We sneak glances at each other.

Banks follows behind us, duffel slung on his shoulder.

And we all ascend the creaky stairs. Before I try to drag my luggage, Thatcher reaches over and I let him take the handle. He hoists the suitcase up like it weighs no more than an inflatable beach ball.

He is impossibly attractive.

I skim him more openly and start to smile. I love that my terrible version of Say Anything with unnerving stalkers has now changed to something more enjoyable. More enthralling.

We reach the narrow hallway on the second-floor. Paintings hang off-kilter on dark wooden-paneled walls. I think we’ve been transported to a Nancy Drew novel, and so far, we haven’t run into any other guests.

It’s also possible that Gretchen could leak information. She hasn’t signed an NDA, so there are no legal ramifications if she spills details about our stay here.

We all walk down the hall.

“What’s the word on the Wi-Fi?” Banks asks his brother.

“None,” Thatcher answers.

I glance back at Banks. “Is it a security problem?”

“Nope,” Banks says.

Thatcher catches my gaze. “Queen of the Ring is on tonight.”

Sounds unfamiliar. “Queen of the Ring?”

“It’s a WPW pay-per-view match. World Pro Wrestling.”

Realization washes over me. “I’ve heard of WPW before, but I wouldn’t know the names of any big matches,” I say aloud. “I’ve never seen one.”

Thatcher is about to answer, but we reach our rooms.

Banks sticks his key in a door across from ours. The plaque reads: Metropolis. The Moretti brothers exchange a look that I can’t decipher, and then Thatcher nods before Banks disappears.

Thatcher and I are officially alone.

It makes what we’re about to do more real. Share a bed together for the night. Though, security reminded us to sleep on opposite ends. Bonus points if Thatcher takes the floor.

No cuddling produces zero temptations.

Or so they believe.

I think they’re placing complete trust in Thatcher’s professionalism. And I also think they’ve forgotten to add other variables. Like how I’m easily aroused by Thatcher, and all he has to do is be himself.

Assertive, considerate, stern and protective. And more, so much more—some layers I’ve only just glimpsed.

Thatche

r uses the skeleton key and unlocks the door. I trail inside behind him, and he has me stop at the entrance. He checks the bathroom, and while he assesses the rest of the space, the interior catches me off guard.

Pretty pale green wallpaper lines the room, and a king-sized bed overpowers the space, a glittery champagne comforter tucked nicely in the iron frame. Three pink stained-glass windows above normal panes let in soft light, and a Victorian velvet chaise rests near the bathroom door.

It’s eclectic and gorgeous and I’m immediately in love.

“This okay?” Thatcher asks, closing the door behind me.

“More than okay.” I place my suitcase near the foot of the bed. “It’s like someone dug around in my head and this exploded out of it.”

“Hold on.” He drops his backpack beside the chaise and then checks the latches on the windows. He tests the locks.

All seem to be secured, and then he snaps the blinds shut. The only source of light now comes from the stained glass above.

The sun has already begun to set, and I pull the tassel to a frilled lamp, a warm glow bathing the bed.

Quiet lingers, and nervous anticipation sizzles my skin and flip-flops my stomach. I eye him curiously, watching as he sits on the edge of the chaise and unties his boots.

If I don’t fill the silence, I may boil to death—or in the very least, sweat through my long-sleeve fuzzy shirt.

“Who from security proposed this idea?” I ask, placing my beet-shaped purse on the nightstand.

He yanks off his boots. “I’m not sure. I came into the meeting and it was already the most popular option.” He rolls up the sleeves of his black tee and then grabs his backpack.

He lifts his head, staring more strongly into me. His gaze is a thousand-watt bulb. Scorching me head to toe.

He asks, “Have you changed your mind about doing this?” His husky voice somehow contains deep concern and reassurance all at once.

“No, not at all.” I push a frizzed strand of hair off my cheek. “Is it odd to say that I’m actually excited? I’ve never faked an orgasm before. Usually I just tell the guy that they didn’t please me, and I’ll provide pointers and then let them solve the rest. So this is a first—the faking orgasm part.” I intake a short breath, my eyes widening at my unraveling thoughts that I’m purging out loud.