Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

“Is there a reason?” I ask too, not expecting this kind of finality from security.

Thatcher lowers his voice. “They said it’s probable that our breakup will happen before Halloween.” His gaze softens a fraction on me.

That soon? October just began. My eyes grow in shock. “Wow.” I let go of his hand and tuck a flyaway frizzed hair behind my ear. “Well, I suppose this isn’t terrible…we have a clearer timeline to work with now.”

The bottom of my stomach has dropped, and I wish it’d float back to its proper anatomical position, please.

His chest concaves with a constricted breath, and he’s about to speak—but Maximoff beats him to it. “Just tell the team that Jane wants this to go past October.”

“I tried at the meeting,” Thatcher explains. “Farrow did too.”

My lungs swell, liking that they’re both on my side. Even if the outcome isn’t necessarily what I would’ve hoped for, and anyway, it was presumptuous to expect to spend Halloween with my fake boyfriend.

There was always going to be an end.

But we just started.

“They said probable , right?” Maximoff says, on edge. “So it’s not set in stone, and if you and Farrow really hammer in the fact that Jane wants this—”

“What I want and she wants doesn’t fucking matter,” Thatcher says tightly. “Our feelings aren’t important to security’s op. That’s just how it is.”

I’ve understood this part, but Maximoff is like my heart fighting for something deeper inside me that I can’t even unearth. I wonder if Banks were here, if he’d be fighting for something deeper inside Thatcher too.

Maximoff crosses his arms. “So security related: if this is a shotgun breakup, all the stalkers outside will just come back. Tell them that.”

“We did,” Thatcher says sternly. “The leads don’t want to risk more exposure to SFO. They think me being with Jane longer than necessary will draw too much attention to the rest of the team.”

SFO has already been in the public spotlight from the Hot Santa video, and some fans have paired us off and made creative ship names. Like Quinnivan is Quinn plus Sullivan.

But it’s been contained to one fandom realm of the internet. As Farrow would say, harmless. I can see how security would be concerned if that one realm mushroomed into popular public opinion.

Maximoff thinks hard. “Then Jane and I will talk directly to the Tri-Force. We’re the clients. They’ll have to listen to us.”

“Man, that’s not how that works,” Farrow says, his hand on the back of Maximoff’s neck in comfort. “We can’t have our clients running to our bosses because we want something.”

Thatcher nods once. “We can’t undermine the leads.”

They’d both lose a great deal of respect among security. “You don’t need to put pressure on the security team for this,” I state. “I’m not searching for longer or more.”

Thatcher tenses, looking me over in concern. He rakes his palm across his hardened jaw and then tries to hold my hand again. But I slip out of his fingers and browse through the costumes.

“We have a greater purpose. We’re here for the girls,” I remind all of them.

They know I’m referring to the Girl Squad: my sister Audrey, plus Winona Meadows, Kinney Hale, and Vada Abbey.

They each requested that their older sisters pick out their Halloween costumes this year, and since Vada is an only child, she asked Maximoff, her cousin, to do the honors.

The four girls said, “Surprise us.”

Luna and Sullivan already ordered costumes online for their little sisters—Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz for Kinney and Harley Quinn for Winona. Even if I fail miserably at this and choose something my thirteen-year-old sister despises, I know Audrey will pretend to love it.

Big sister duties are truly my favorite.

And yet, I can’t stop thinking about how abruptly this may all end between Thatcher and me. I have so many questions left to ask.

So much that I prolonged, and I wonder if our fake breakup will force us to return to a time where it’s uncomfortable, where we’re not speaking at all.

Timelines are necessary, I remind myself. You like structure, Jane.

I do, and I sift through more steampunk corsets and a few frocks.

I can feel all three sets of their eyes on my back.

And they’re tall.

Towering behind me.

“Really, I’m fine,” I say loudly.

Men. I love them dearly, but their concern comes so powerfully in my family and security. It could bowl you over, and while Luna, Sulli, and I are harassed more heavily and frequently, we were all raised by three extraordinary sisters who could summon hell and part seas together.

“Would vouching for you help?” Maximoff asks Thatcher behind me. “I won’t persuade the Tri-Force, but I can just tell them you’d never cross a line with Jane—”

“No,” I interject, spinning on my heels with wide eyes, a leather corset in my hands. Unbeknownst to Moffy, Thatcher has already erased that line and drawn a new circle around himself and me.

Thatcher’s arms are ironbound over his chest. Difficult to read, but I think he’s just on guard.

Maximoff looks between us.

I speak quickly. “I highly doubt an extra recommendation in Thatcher’s resume will persuade the Tri-Force of anything.” I hook the corset on the rack. “Let’s just leave things as they should be and not cause more trouble for our bodyguards.”

Maximoff reluctantly nods. “Alright.” He cracks another knuckle. “You want to split up? Farrow and I will meet you back at the checkout?”

I clasp my hands. “Oui. Diviser et conquérir.” Yes. Divide and conquer.

23

JANE COBALT

We hug before I go.

Farrow and Maximoff stay in the steampunk section for Vada’s costume, and Thatcher and I walk into the darker depths of the shop, away from paparazzi and onlookers at the entrance.

His hand brushes along my back, and he scouts every inch of ground. He’s on-duty. Regardless of fake-dating, he places my safety above all else, and so each glance we take still feels stolen.

Each touch still feels forbidden, and I’ve come to realize that this allure will never die with Thatcher Moretti. As long as he’s my bodyguard, as long as he values protecting me and taking care of me first and foremost, our embraces in public will be drawn out slowly like flowing magma.

Until an eruption happens. Somewhere, sometime. At night.

Thatcher surveys the back area. “I meant to tell you in the car, about what the team decided.” He stares down at me, then fixes on a fog machine that gurgles out smoke, whisking along his boots, my ballet flats. He adds a deep, “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be.” We trek further, and he pushes aside a fake spider web that almost catches in his hair. I take a breath. “I distracted you back in the car.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “We both know I distracted you.” He glances back at me, his eyes falling down my body. “Honey.” He cr

adles those five letters.

I inhale, about to say more, but I’m trapped just watching him. Staying pinned to his hard features. Engraining all the stern creases around his eyes. As though he may vanish soon. It’s terribly illogical.

He’s still here.

And he’ll still be my bodyguard no matter—Thatcher suddenly catches me around the waist, stopping me from bumping into a life-sized mummy.

He pulls me back against his muscular chest, my breath ejecting.

Heartbeat racing.

And while I’m in his protective, warm clutch, while we’re alone, I feel safe to ask him anything. “I have so many questions,” I say softly, thinking aloud. “I want to know all about you, but I can’t ask fast enough—and when I think about you, I wonder what your hands have held. What your eyes have seen.” My pulse has skyrocketed, but I keep speaking. “What your ears have heard and where your feet have landed.”

He’s quiet, and I ache to see him. So gradually, I unfreeze and turn to look up at Thatcher. I skim his stoic features, more entranced. But I also mentally replay what I just said and my eyes grow bigger. “If that sounds disturbing, I’m so sor—”

“No,” he cuts me off, one of the few times he ever has. “You’re an American princess. You being comfortable enough to say what’s on your mind in front of me—and to me—is something I don’t take for granted.”

My lungs flood, knowing he’s felt this way means more than I realize or thought it would.

His hands fall to his radio, and he hawk-eyes the rear exit that says emergency only . We’re very close to the back of the store. Where neon wigs and animal masks are shelved on endless rows of mannequin heads, and I’m multitasking, perusing the nearest rack of gothic costumes, heavy lace and black veils.

Fog continuously rolls over the ground, hiding our feet.

He seems to be aware of every little thing.

Especially me.

Thatcher sweeps me head to toe. “And I want you to know all about me. So shoot.”

I will most surely fire away. “How old were you when you lost your virginity?” I’m too intrigued, especially after how exceptional he is under the sheets…and on top of the sheets, on the floor and against the shower wall.