Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

Just until the temp bodyguards, the ones trailing us in the Range Rovers, arrive here. When the temps take over door-duty, Thatcher and Farrow will flank our sides once again.

It’s very systematic.

Which provides a great deal of calmness to my life.

I can’t bite my tongue. “Thatcher called me honey ,” I confess in a whisper to Maximoff. It is a small, innocent confession, seeing as how the much greater one is under lock and key.

That Thatcher spends the night fucking me.

Maximoff’s brows furrow. “In what way did he say it?”

I push aside a few leather corsets. “Caringly, and like it was the most natural thing in the world.” I feel oddly giddy; my lungs might as well be inflated with helium, levitating inside my chest.

He scrutinizes me. “I’ve never seen you like a guy this much.”

I send him a furtive look. “It’s just physical attraction.”

Maximoff gestures towards our bodyguards while he speaks. “Gawking at Thatcher, who looks like a six-foot-seven version of Jon Snow after he killed White Walkers and made friends with wildlings—that’s physical attraction. Liking when a guy calls you honey is…” He scrunches his face. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not physical .”

“It’s verbal,” I point out. “Verbal communication comes from the tongue, which is in fact a physical appendage.”

He blinks and then stares off. “Tu as peut-être raison.” Maybe you’re right.

I smile. “Thatcher is also…” I catch myself before I blurt out, Thatcher is also good with his tongue in more physical ways.

I want to express how Thatcher’s otherworldly talents in bed are by far the best I’ve had between my legs. But roping Maximoff into this secret will complicate his life when he just uncomplicated it.

Sheltering these moments in my life from Moffy is so difficult. I have a giant urge to gush forth what’s happening. Just like he told me all about his first time sleeping with Farrow.

There are so few people I trust in the world, and since we learned to talk, Maximoff and I shared everything.

“Thatcher is also what?” Maximoff picks out a spiked brown leather jacket.

I try to recover. “He’s also exceptionally sweet.”

“Jesus, that is nowhere near physical attraction.” He motions to me. “You’re supposed to be light-years smarter than me.” He gives me a look like I’m acting strange.

I’m sweating beneath my pale yellow faux-fur vest. I try to smile, but it feels a little forced.

Maximoff can tell. “Everything okay?” He sets the leather jacket back and focuses on me.

“Fake dating is just complex, but not in a bad way.” I smile in thought. “It’s more stimulating, actually.”

Stimulating. Really, Jane? I suppose I could’ve chosen a more sexual word. At least I didn’t say erotic . I tie my wavy hair back into a low pony, my neck flushed.

Maximoff is in deeper thought, and he cracks a few knuckles.

I pull back my shoulders. Confidence. I can survive tiptoeing around this secret. “And I’d rather talk about you, old chap.”

He’s about to speak, but Thatcher and Farrow approach us as temp guards claim their positions.

Teenagers shriek outside the windows as our 24/7 bodyguards walk over to us. Cellphones braced at the glass, along with paparazzi’s professional cameras. Everyone takes such keen interest in Thatcher and Farrow, who do their best to ignore the extra attention.

I’m taking a very keen interest in Thatcher Moretti at the moment too.

As he nears, he’s only staring at me.

“Thatcher,” I greet, a smile playing at my lips.

“Jane,” he says huskily, looking into me with open-booked desire. In public.

It’s not only allowed, it’s encouraged .

My heartbeat accelerates to unknown, unquantifiable speeds, and as soon as I take one step closer to Thatcher, he’s already here.

His large hands clasp the back of my thighs, and my arms take flight around his broad shoulders. All in one seamless movement. He hoists me up and my legs wrap around him. Breath abandoning my body.

His hand travels in a boiling trail up my spine, and he pulls me into his muscular build with a deep, full kiss that I reciprocate in kind.

I run my fingers across his scruffy jaw, and as I catch my breath, my lips stinging, we both seem to register the onslaught of passionate squealing.

“JANE! THATCHER!!”

We’re not glancing in that direction just yet, and I whisper, “We’re selling this well.” Another small smile tugs my cheeks. “It’s like we’re partners in crime, you and I.”

Light touches his vigilant eyes, and his gaze drifts at the next wave of shrieking. More so to double-check the safety of the perimeter.

His attention returns to me, his seriousness never waning. He’s safety, the forceful gravity that grounds me, that helps stop me from rattling sideways inside a world that tries and tries to shake me.

Thatcher drops his voice to a deep whisper. “The team will love this.” He cups my cheek in affection before setting me on my feet, his hand pressed to the small of my back. “But not more than me.”

I go to speak, but flush has overtaken my face and my tongue is tied.

My eyes glimmer with so many questions and curiosities. I want to know every miniscule detail about Thatcher. I feel as though we’ve just started this exploration. We’ve just pressed play , and we keep hitting pause to draw this out longer.

As we near Maximoff and Farrow, Thatcher’s hand falls into mine like second-nature, having no hesitation at treating me like a real girlfriend for our fake relationship.

All of our heads turn as a girl outside shrieks bloody-murder, “MAKE LOVE TO ME, THATCHER MORETTI!”

It’s not so humorous. She can’t be older than a very young thirteen.

Thatcher is unflinching. He’s used to these impassioned declarations, but not directed his way. Yet, this hardly seems to bother him.

I frown a little—there is guilt knowing that I’ve traded the suitors who were only interested in me for crowds that are now obsessed with him and us.

We all look back at each other, and they spot my unease.

“They’re harmless.” Farrow lifts his aviators to his head, pushing back his platinum hair. “That girl isn’t going to force herself on Moretti. But the sick dipshits who think they have a shot with you…” He raises his brows.

“They’re threats,” Thatcher says curtly.

“True.” I tip my head towards Thatcher.

“And those potential stalkers are gone ,” Maximoff emphasizes to me, his strong arm across Farrow’s shoulders.

I want to mention that 35% still remain. Just to be more specific. None of these threats concern me because stalkers will always exist, and I trust our security team to handle them. But I can see that Maximoff wants me to feel safe. And I do, especially with Thatcher so close.

So I don’t mention the statistics.

Thatcher looks down at me, and as added reassurance, he says, “It’s better this way, Jane.”

“Maybe not for you,” I point out.

He shakes his head, his brows drawn together. “Eliminating anyone who wants to hurt you is the better path for me.”

He sounds incredibly sincere. I trust him. And I’m fortunate to have him. “That’s…” I grapple for words that tumble in my head. “You know, I…” I take a breath. “I like…”

You.

I clear my throat. “I like that you feel that way.”

Thatcher starts to smile. Really and truly, and then he threads our fingers, his hand so much larger than mine.

My pulse speeds, and I glance back at Maximoff and Farrow. “Have you two decided on a couple’s Halloween costume yet?” I know Moffy has been leaning towards a superhero pairing, but he’s also wanted to see what Farrow would choose.

“No,” Maximoff says. “Because Farrow is being an asshole and

leaving this shit up to me.”

Farrow rolls his eyes into a wider smile, staring at Maximoff with such pure love. “You want me to hold your hand and walk you through this shit because I will, but only for you.”

Maximoff grimaces and smiles all at once. Trying to hide his affections. I give my best friend a weak 4 out of 10 this time, deductions for poor effort.

He’s suddenly more rigid, his forest-green eyes on me. “You and Thatcher are picking out couple costumes too, right? You haven’t said anything about it.”

“I don’t know if it’s up to me,” I say. “I’m assuming security will need to verify whatever we choose?” I look up at Thatcher for confirmation.

“I already asked,” Thatcher tells me, more than he speaks to Moffy. “The team agreed on no couple costumes.” His voice is strict, and his chest is tight like this isn’t news he wanted. But he has to obey.

Maximoff growls, “What, why?”