Sinful Like Us (Like Us 5)

I scan my surroundings, and I zero in on a blue-blazer-wearing, gold-brick-shitting rich white guy: the Rooster (aka Will Rochester). He’s prep-school manufactured, birthed and raised in WASP society. Even his teeth look expensive.

He laughs with Tony and O’Malley at a four-person table.

Will might be Sulli’s new boyfriend, but he was the one person Jane and I were hesitant to share intel about the twin swap with. Now that he’s best friends with Tony, I’m glad we told him nothing.

He can be in the dark the whole trip.

I lower the radio volume and focus on Beckett Cobalt. “Where do you want to go?” Until this plane takes off, I’m still attached to him, and I’ll follow him wherever he wants to sit. But I’m hoping he chooses next to his sister.

He fixes his bed-head hair. “Back to New York.”

“I meant on the plane.”

“I know,” he says softly.

I catch movement in my peripheral, and our heads veer towards curtains that conceal the front of the plane.

An athletic-built girl pushes through the fabric, her dark brown curls bouncing as she looks around. I recognize Joana Oliveira instantly. Not only because I attended her Catholic confirmation, but because she’s Oscar and Quinn’s nineteen-year-old little sister.

Joana carries a nylon backpack over her toned shoulder. Black leggings and a crop top show off her abs, and as soon as she sees me, she gives me a nod. “Hey, Banks.” She grins, knowing I’m not my brother.

Unlike Will, I trusted Jo not to blab this fucking secret to Tony or O’Malley. There was no reason to trick her too.

“Jo,” I greet. “Glad you could make it.” She’s tagging along to spend time with her brothers before she has a professional boxing match in London.

“Me too.” She lingers and eyes the tattooed, shirtless, and lean but muscular ballet dancer next to me.

He rests against the bathroom door. “I’m Beckett.” He nods in greeting. “I’d shake your hand, but…” He hoists his cuffed wrist and tries not to jerk mine.

Jo’s brows rise. “Kinky.”

He speaks calmly. “If it were kinky, I’d be enjoying it more.”

She snorts and readjusts her backpack strap. “How many times have you used that line?”

“It’s not a line.” He studies her in a quick sweep. “Believe me, you’d know if I was using a line on you.”

Intrigue sparks her brown eyes. “Why is that?”

“Because you’d already be in my bed.”

My muscles bind. Very few men on the team have younger sisters, and Jo is one of them. I need to end this before he signs his death warrant, and under my breath, I whisper to Beckett, “You want to keep your balls, don’t hit on Oscar’s little sister.”

“It’s okay, Banks.” Jo fits on her other backpack strap and stares right at Beckett. “I don’t speak douchebag so I didn’t hear a thing.” She walks ahead of us and searches the cabin. Only glancing back to ask me, “Where’s Maximoff? I want to thank him for inviting me.”

“He should be with Jane in the fourth lounge. It’s the rear of the plane.”

She mouths the word, fourth, with huge eyes before heading that way.

All the while Beckett watches her ass as she goes.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“I wouldn’t hurt her.”

“I never said you would.” He might think I’m protecting Jo, but I’m trying to protect him. He doesn’t need SFO on his ass. “Oscar and Quinn are going to kill you if you even look at her sideways.”

“Yeah, well…” He exhales a deeper breath and steps away from the bathroom. “We’re preparing for a wedding, might as well have a funeral too.”

17

JANE COBALT

The plane ride seems to last forever, but I enjoy the furtive glances Thatcher and I share and the stolen moments as we wander the plane to stretch. He kisses me in the narrow bar, pumping adrenaline in my lungs and a fire beneath my heart, and then we part as though we were strangers in…love.

I smile all the way back to my seat, and the dance we play happens more than once, more than thrice, more than I can count—and by the time we land, I long to be back in the air with him again.

Five rental cars later and a four-hour drive through a picturesque landscape of sprawling hills and valleys—grass a blend of brown and burnt green hues for winter, and the air chill with every crisp breath—we’ve finally reached our destination.

Everyone carries or rolls their luggage into an old, family-owned inn called Mackintosh House, complete with turrets and worn burgundy stone. For one week, it’s all ours.

Charlie meanders towards the garden, studying the relic of a building. He has a quiet love of old architecture.

I glance behind me before I enter. Beyond our parked cars on the gravel path.

Land stretches as far as my eye can see. Sheep roam with leisure, and if I strain my ears, I can almost hear the babble of a stream passing through this calm little hamlet.

I begin to smile. I’m truly happy that this is a viable option for my best friend’s wedding. It’s peaceful here. Maximoff and Farrow also chose this remote spot in the countryside because it’d be an absolute pain for paparazzi to reach.

It wasn’t even easy for us.

Figuring out how to shuffle vendors and guests to this location is a brainteaser. But I love a good logic puzzle, and I haven’t been this excited in a while. Something must be in the Scottish air or the fact that Thatcher keeps stealing glances as we head inside.

His boldness should heat me head-to-toe like a boiling furnace. It usually does, but there is a glaring issue with Mackintosh House.

It’s hellishly cold.

I shiver as I wheel in my suitcase.

“This place is super creepy,” Sulli says under her breath, the wallpaper deep reds and greens, a winding banister leads to the dark upstairs, and old black and white photographs hang on the walls. Doily cloths are absolutely everywhere.

“I love it,” I announce.

Oscar passes me. “Retro Granny Realness.” He raises his hand for a high-five, and I tap his palm with a smile before he treks upstairs.

“I bet it’s kinda haunted.” Luna snaps photos on her phone. “Kinney is gonna love this.” She inspects the picture she just captured. “Or she’ll hate that she’s missing out.” The young girls couldn’t ditch their last week in school before winter break.

Sulli and Luna leave to go unpack, but I don’t follow.

While footsteps and voices echo around the drafty eight-bedroom house, I’m on a hunt in the rustic kitchen. Knees on the icy hardwood, I fumble through a crooked junk drawer, searching for any manuals to the heaters.

None will turn on, and Mackintosh House is far too large to be heated from a single living room fireplace.

I reach the bottom stack of papers.

“Any luck?” Thatcher saunters into the kitchen.

I blow a frizzed hair off my lip. Oh…

He’s…exceedingly tall. While I’m down here, on my knees.

His white button-down and dog tags also take me aback for a second. Even if he appears like his brother, I could never mistake him for Banks like Tony and O’Malley already have.

Neither one batted an eye on the plane.

I skim him a little more, a sweltering breath in my lungs. I suppose Thatcher seeing me dressed in all black would be just as jarring for him.

I shut the drawer. “The only manual I could find was for the washer/dryer.” I stand, a chill biting my neck, and I pull my zebra coat tighter around my breasts.

Thatcher switches on the gas burner and oven. Flames lick the stovetop grates. “Come here.” He motions me closer.

He is incredibly inviting. All six-foot-seven of him. Oh-so-warm and…hot.

So eloquent.

I follow his direction. More cautiously, I land next to him but keep my distance. A dreadful six inches separate our bodies.

That should be enough.

>

I’d normally stand this far from Banks.

Thatcher stares down at me, as though assessing my temperature from sight alone, and I look up at him, aching to step a little closer.

“It should heat up soon,” Thatcher says, standing sturdy next to the oven door. He glances from the kitchen entryway to my arms that hug my body. “Can I?”

My lips pull higher. “Can you…?”

He reaches out and his fingers run gently along my wrist, tingling my soft flesh. I pulse between my legs, and I inhale without the ability to exhale. Warmth pricks my nerves like he’s carried me to a roaring fire.

Our eyes dive deeper, and when I nod him on, his clutch strengthens. He guides my palm over the flaming stovetop, and his hand lingers on my wrist, not letting go of me.

I don’t want him to.

My hip brushes his stoic body, the six inches now shrunk to zero. Thatcher and I risk the nearness, and he’s so perceptive of his surroundings that I trust his instincts if we go too far.

He subtly checks the entryway.

I check more blatantly.