Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

Pussy.

God, Jane is right in front of me. Maybe not pussy.

I scrutinize the photo. “Are you pursuing him?” I ask outright.

She tilts her head. “What do you mean by pursuing ?”

“Dating,” I clarify. Having sex.

“No dating.” She’s practically whispering. “Nothing else. It’s purely platonic.”

My expression closes up. What she intends as being platonic could become something more.

And then what?

And then nothing. My feelings don’t matter. I can’t just break rank and say, fuck it.

But something in my mind is saying, unfuck this.

Get rid of the fullback and the Wall of Suitors. “What about just calling your grandmother?” I ask Jane.

Farrow chimes in, “That’s what I said before these two started tacking dipshits up on the wall.”

Maximoff blinks slowly. “Thank you for illustrating how great of a friend I am.”

“The best,” Jane says in a warm smile.

Maximoff smiles back.

Jane turns to me. “And I have called our grandmother. Twenty times. She has to be screening the calls because I’m sent to voicemail every time. Watch.” She picks up her phone from the coffee table and dials a number. Hoisting it in the air, we wait.

It rings once before the line clicks.

Her eyes expand to saucers, and she brings the speaker to her lips. “Grandmother?”

“Jane, dear.” Grandmother Calloway sounds like she’s sucked on helium for half her fucking life. Uppity blue-blooded aristocrats were foreign territory to me until I became a bodyguard.

Her grandmother eats foie gras and Beluga caviar.

I grew up eating fried baloney three days a week.

Jane starts, “I—”

“I’m so glad you called,” she cuts her off.

She’s been calling.

I keep an eye on Jane more than anyone else. She’s worried about her cousin.

Maximoff is glaring at the phone, and Jane backs away from him like she can protect him from their grandmother at a distance.

Farrow has his hand on the back of Maximoff’s neck in comfort.

He’s lucky.

What I’d give to be able to—no, it can’t happen —for Jane. My thoughts are now a clusterfuck. I rake my hand across my jaw.

She starts again, “Grandmother—”

“I was disappointed that you put out a press release demeaning the advertisement. But I understand. Not everyone loves surprises.”

Farrow rolls his eyes.

“Grandmother. It was—”

“Better news is coming, dear.”

Jane sighs out in frustration from being cut off.

“I’ve scheduled an afternoon tea this Saturday,” her grandmother says.

“But—”

“And I’ve picked out the three best men from the resumes. You’ll find a winner in one of them.”

She takes a breath. “Grandmo—”

“I’ll send the details over. See you Saturday, and wear a dress.”

The line clicks.

“Shit,” Farrow curses.

Things are now fucking worse. I’ll have to vet three suitors. She’s gone from just entertaining the football player to now taking four men on a tea date.

Jane stares at the phone in a daze. “What just happened?”

Maximoff tries to unclench his fist. “You just got roped into afternoon tea.”

“I don’t even like tea and dresses,” she mutters. “And now she’s staging an episode of The Bachelorette. ”

I look down at her. “You don’t have to do this,” I remind Jane.

She shakes her head like she’s disoriented. “No, I can just…I’ll take the football player to afternoon tea. The plan is the same that way. He can just upstage whatever men my grandmother chooses—”

A fist bangs the door loudly.

Jane jolts.

I put a hand to the small of her back. “Hold on.” I pass her and head to the locked door. Farrow is right behind me in seconds.

Temp guards should be securing the perimeter outside.

The next sound is a whack. Sounds like an object.

I speak into my mic and try to communicate with the temps while Farrow checks the security cams on his phone.

We figure out the issue in less than a minute.

“Are they throwing eggs?” Jane asks. She’s not even surprised that people would.

I shake my head.

“It’s a drone,” Farrow explains.

“Goddamn drones,” Maximoff growls under his breath.

“One more thing,” Farrow adds. “The drone dropped off a package.”

11

JANE COBALT

My curiosity about the package is only half-full. Thatcher occupies the other half, and I catch myself looking backwards for him.

He’s not here.

He carried the luxury shoebox to security’s townhouse a few minutes ago, Farrow in tow. But only after they scanned the package for metal.

Our bodyguards have more tools to test the contents for anything hazardous. I know Moffy would prefer to be involved, but I don’t love hearing about all the ball gags and leather that stalkers send me.

Maximoff has stayed behind to keep me company, and our twenty-year-old cousin has finally arrived.

“It’s a fucking madhouse outside, guys. Way worse than a few days ago,” Sulli tells us in the tiny kitchen while the three of us unpack groceries from canvas tote bags.

At six beautiful feet tall with cascading brown hair, carved biceps, and a squared jaw, Sulli looks like the athlete she was born to be. She lingers in the walk-in pantry. Just so we can hand her paper towels and other items to shelve.

“Akara had to do some kind of reverse-maneuver and a three-point turn just to avoid running over some old dude with flowers,” Sulli says. “And there are literal fucking news vans. Like Channel 14 and Good Morning Philadelphia.”

I slowly take out a dozen eggs from a tote. I can imagine a morning news segment about the Cinderella ad. All the smiling anchors and their theories about who I’ll choose to date. It’s one thing to have my grandmother play matchmaker.

It’s another to have the world laser-focused and invested in my love life.

I’m trying not to worry, but I’m starting to realize this may be less of a passing storm and more of a staple to my every day.

I look to Sulli. “Hopefully they’ll disperse and we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming.”

Maximoff feigns confusion. “What is that again?”

“Glorious dumpster fires on Tuesdays,” I say theatrically.

He nods strongly. “Shit storms every other Friday.”

I smile at him. “And we can’t forget the evening apocalypse.”

Maximoff smiles back. “Jesus, we’ve survived the apocalypse. It’s like we’re pros at this already.”

“That we are, old chap.” I mime tipping a top hat to him.

He hooks an arm around my shoulders. “Que ferais-je sans toi, ma moitié?” What would I do without you, my other half? He kisses the top of my head.

I’m about to reply, but we notice Sulli deep in thought, a few fingers to her lips.

“Sulli,” I call out. “Is something wrong?”

“Fuck…no, I just…I hope you two know that I’m a novice at this stuff compared to you guys.” She means the media chaos outside.

Maximoff hands her a jar of jellybeans, a topping she puts on pancakes. “You won’t even notice them after a while, Sul.”

“And we’re in this together,” I chime in. “You don’t have to face anyone or anything alone.”

“Yeah.” She nods, thinking. “It’s such a strange time to be moving in with you two. You’re like Philly’s Bachelorette, Jane, and Moffy, you’re getting married— ”

“Not any time soon,” he cuts in, his tone forceful like he’s enacting a new law: no wedding talk.

> He’s been adamant this whole week about it too. While this crisis revolves around me, he doesn’t want any wedding planning going on.

Sulli smiles. “Got it. No wedding bells yet.”

Maximoff flips open a box of donuts that we bought for Sulli as a welcome, this house is now yours gift. He picked them up yesterday, so they may be stale. “Are you regretting moving in already?” he asks.

“No way.” She shelves the jellybeans. “I’m excited. Just a little freaked out by the people on the fucking street, but I think the FanCon prepared me for a lot.”