Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

Seeing them afraid always hurts more.

Thatcher looks deeply into me. “The active stalkers on our radar right now are surrounding you.”

Because of the Cinderella ad.

Farrow runs his thumb over his lip piercing. “And there’s one fucker out there who we know for certain wants to torture Maximoff.”

My stomach drops.

Nate.

I look from Thatcher to Farrow to Maximoff beside me. These are the three men that have been so inextricably affected by the bad apple that I brought into the house.

I clear a pained ball in my throat. “What’s the probability that Nate is the one who broke in?” It hurts even saying his name.

Thatcher explains, “The team is still looking into where he was tonight.” His eyes carry more security than anything I’ve met. As though to say, you’re safe in my arms no matter where he is.

I want to be shielded within Thatcher Moretti’s powerful embrace tonight, tomorrow, and next week and far beyond Halloween.

I’ve never met such a taunting dream. And this one is taunting me oh-so-very hard.

I take a tight breath. “I just want this to be out in the open. The threat of Nate is not enough to make me want to move out of the townhouse. In fact, it’s exactly why I think moving will serve little purpose.”

They all wait for me to explain. Their concern bearing down on me. This is the most I’ve spoken about Nate in a long while.

“I have a restraining order against him. If I move somewhere in the hopes of keeping my new address private from Nate in particular, I won’t be able to. One of the provisions of the restraining order is that he has to know my home address just so he can stay away from me.”

They all tense.

Thatcher’s nose flares, his eyes pierced like he could murder Nate.

Farrow is not much better, and Maximoff is cracking his knuckles next to me. His glare just as hot and deadly.

My coffee has gone cold in my hands. I haven’t even taken a sip. “To be frank…it feels more violating if Nate knows something that is meant to be private.”

Like the location of a new home.

I would much rather protect what we have. Maintain control.

“We’re not moving,” Maximoff reiterates, and this time, both Thatcher and Farrow nod without a single hesitation.

The need to scrub the house and myself clean hasn’t vanished. I set my mug on the coffee table. “Do you think you can check my room again?” I ask Thatcher.

Partly, I want him to ensure it’s safe. But really, I want to share his company for longer tonight.

He’s already headed to the staircase. “I can check now.”

33

THATCHER MORETTI

I know Jane better than I’ve known past girlfriends. I know she always tries to push forward with a lighthearted stride. I know that I handle things a lot worse. I’m about as fucking walled-off and shut down as they come.

With most people.

For as much time as we’ve spent around one another, Jane and I—we’ve never dug deep into the past surrounding Nate. Never breached anything personal, anything emotional. We just touched on security facts: Nate only got a short stint in jail and a restraining order, not allowed near Maximoff or Jane.

And I promised Jane I’d protect her.

I still take fault for the past. I’m her bodyguard, and a serious target wasn’t in my peripheral or even on my radar. And I’m not making that same mistake again.

It’s why I’m dialed into comms chatter tonight, and I sweep her bedroom a fourth time for threats and hidden cameras while Jane takes a quick shower.

The team is concerned the suspect broke in to bug the house.

“You need to check the outlets,” Akara tells me over comms. “Fake USB ports can double as cameras.”

I click my mic at the collar of my black button-down. “Copy.” I hike around the small room. Inspecting every outlet, and I pick up some of her blouses off the floor, folding them on her vanity stool.

I crouch and eye the electrical outlet behind her headboard, then I straighten up to a towering stance. Back on comms, I respond, “All clear.” Right then, my phone rings.

I don’t guess who it could be. Reaching the back pocket of my slacks, I pull out my cell. My gaze tightens on the screen.

Connor Cobalt is calling me.

I soften comms chatter in my ear. No hesitation. I have to talk to him.

He’s considered the king of this American dynasty—and he’s Jane’s dad. Guys on the team say Connor Cobalt is all-knowing, all-seeing like the Wizard of fucking Oz and if you have the honor of protecting him, you’ll come back with a higher IQ.

I can’t know what he’d think of me because to him, I’m just a bodyguard and a pawn in a ploy to protect his daughter.

My mission is to maintain professionalism. And it’s abnormal for him to be calling me while I’m not a lead.

I’ve never been the bodyguard to Connor Cobalt. Parents typically don’t reach out directly to their child’s 24/7 bodyguard. Not unless they’ve built some type of bond already with them. Like how Farrow was the bodyguard to Maximoff’s mom.

Parents, instead, communicate with the three leads , who’ll then pass intel to men on their respective force.

Connor should’ve called Akara. It’s likely he already did.

My brows pull together. I’m not slow to answer. I put the phone to my ear on the second ring. “Sir.”

“Akara knows I’m reaching out to you,” Connor says calmly. “I’m assuming you already know I’ve talked to my daughter.”

“Yes, sir.” I fix the cord to my earpiece.

Earlier, Jane spoke to her mom and dad over the phone. They were concerned about the break-in, but Jane told me, “My parents are brilliant at solving problems—but they know not to solve mine. And if I really need them, I recognize they are one call away from unlocking a cabinetry of battle armor and hell. But we have this covered.”

Maximoff and Jane like being self-reliant, and after the parents made a massive fuck-up at the Camp Away, not initially believing Jane about the incest rumor—they’ve tried to back off and not involve themselves.

“You’ve been a lead and a bodyguard for over six years. When it comes to the safety of my daughter, I value your opinion.” His calm, smooth voice never changes shape. “So I’m asking, is the townhouse safe for Jane to sleep there tonight?”

“It is, sir,” I say sternly.

She’s with me. I’m staying alert so she can sleep peacefully. It’s my job. My duty. I add, “We’re posting more guards outside tonight to secure the perimeter.”

“I heard. Do you think it’s enough?”

I sweep the room while I talk. “Yes, sir. Farrow and I are prepared if anything were to happen. We’re co

nfident in our ability to defuse all targets.”

We know this townhouse is safe. We just wish it could be safer.

Farrow wouldn’t let Maximoff spend the night here if he believed the threats were critical. I wouldn’t let Jane. We’d already pack their shit up and drive them to a hotel.

But it hasn’t come to that.

Hopefully it never will.

“Thank you,” Connor says. “I’ll keep in touch.” He hangs up. Brief. To have longer conversations with Connor Cobalt, you have to be important to him.

I pocket my phone.

Floorboards creak.

I turn my head a few seconds before Jane appears. Already dressed in a long-sleeved, collared pajama top and matching pants. What some bodyguards and family call her grannie jammies —and this blue pair has images of kittens and yarn balls.

She’s cute in them.

Jane twists a towel around her wet hair, and I watch as her blue eyes dart around the bedroom.

“It’s safe,” I assure.

“Thank you.” She shuts the door behind her. “I know it’s overkill to have you check again, but…I’m…” She lets out a tight breath and wafts her cotton top away from her chest. “Do you think it’s hot in here?”

Unsaid serious things are cranking up the fucking temperature. I go to the middle of the room and tug the cord to her ceiling fan. It whirls and circulates some cool air.

“It’s not overkill to check again,” I tell her deeply. “I wanted to.”

She starts to smile. “Do you think…could you check my closet, just once more while I’m here? I think seeing you do so…it makes me feel less apprehensive.”

I’m already there. Opening the mirrored closet door, I push through some of her skirts, and I use my phone’s flashlight to examine the darker spaces and clutter.

I sense Jane crawling onto the four-poster bed. Mattress squeaking. “Can I talk or will I distract you?” she questions.

“You won’t.” It’s not the first time she’s asked me this. I glance back at Jane. “I’d rather you talk.” I’m trained to listen to comms chatter and my client and scope out a room all at the same time.