Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
We bought out the bakery today, but Thatcher and I guard the glass entrance for a few extra minutes. Partly to ensure the locks aren’t completely worthless and that no fans, hecklers, or paparazzi can crash inside.
Mostly to give Maximoff and Jane time to catch up before we taste cake samples.
They’re in view, seated around a horseshoe, peach-hued booth. The bakery is very Jane Cobalt with pastels, dainty doily cloths, and crystal chandeliers. Cake is cake. I’m not that picky.
I scan the emotional crowd outside the door, then Thatcher. “Have you met Owen Erickson? He’s one of the new temps.” He’s been on my mind, and if anyone is all-knowing about the ins and outs of security, it’d be Thatcher or Akara.
Plus, as it turns out, Thatcher isn’t that bad. He hasn’t made my job harder in almost a year, and his personality outside of work isn’t grating. He’s actually unintentionally funny. Last month, he told me he made Ben Cobalt vegan pancakes, and in his words, “The kid spit it out like I served him cow shit.”
I couldn’t stop laughing. The Cobalt who would eat dirt-covered cardboard couldn’t stomach Thatcher’s cooking. Which is above average. Back when we lived together, he used to make meals for the townhouse, and I’ve tried some of his chicken parm.
Thatcher is easy to be around, and that’s how I like my friends.
More than that, the way he’s staring at Jane—before he turns to me—is what she deserves.
Just incomprehensible love and devotion.
“Erickson?” Thatcher has a hand on his radio, half his attention on the entrance. “He has a military background. Navy.”
I heard most of the temps for Akara’s new company were referrals from Loren Hale’s bodyguard, Bruno Bandoni, who’s also Navy. “Who trained Owen?”
“Me and Oscar.” His brows pull together. “Did he make a mistake on-duty?”
“Eh.” I tilt my head. “I’m not sure.” My jaw tightens, and I explain the entire situation at the aquatic center before saying, “If I have a choice, I’d just prefer that Owen not be on Maximoff’s detail.”
Thatcher nods. “I’ll let Akara know.”
“Thanks.” I laugh when I glance at the bulge in the breast pocket of his black suit jacket. Thatcher breaking security rules is one thing, but seeing him break bakery rules by bringing a kitten inside this establishment is entertaining as shit. “I’m surprised you’re okay with having a mascot on the job.”
His features harden. “LJ almost killed Ben’s new cockatiel last night.” LJ is the kitten.
I let out a whistle. “Damn.” Since he’s living at the Cobalt Estate with Jane, he’s also living with the teenage Cobalts like I’m living with the teenage Hales. “You ready to move out?” I watch Maximoff laugh with Jane, their faces bright and happy, and she points to an item in the wedding binder.
His gaze is on his fiancée too. “Not until she is. You?”
“Not until he is.” My lip rises, and I dig into my jacket pocket. I’ve been meaning to give Thatcher something.
He eagle-eyes the door. “As a reminder, you need to read Akara’s handbook.”
“I’m getting to it.” The thing is mammoth and could be used as a doorstopper.
“Get to it faster.” His strict tone is my bigger reminder that he’s now classified as the Omega lead of Kitsuwon Securities. Thatcher ranks above me again. But Akara is at the very top. He’s the boss. The captain of this seven-man bodyguard fleet.
“Okay, Mom.”
He sends me a stern look. “I know you have a lot going on, but it should be a priority. The only way fresh blood will be trained correctly is if we learn Akara’s rules. I don’t care what the fuck you chuck out right now, but the temps need to cross every T and dot every fucking I.”
That, I understand. “I’ll read it tonight.” Let’s be honest, I’ll skim it. “This is for you, by the way.” I pass him a business card.
He looks confused at the Philly Aquatic Center logo.
“Flip it.”
Thatcher turns it over and reads the scribbled words: be my groomsman? He’s unblinking and hard to read, but finally, he meets my gaze. Questions in his. “Why?”
I lift my brows. “Because I wanted to. It’s that simple.”
He nods once, and we exchange a serious look, silently acknowledging all the situations we’ve been through together that not many will ever understand. We’ve worked decently well to get the people we love out alive.
And to make sure we’re both okay.
From barreling through broken bottle-wielding crowds after a bingo hall shit storm. To warming Maximoff and Jane after they fell in a bone-chilling Scotland ravine.
“I didn’t expect this,” Thatcher admits.
“You can say no,” I say easily, “but you and I are going to be attached for a long time. As fucking strange as that seems.”
Our future spouses are best friends. Our future kids will most likely be best friends. There are very few paths where he wouldn’t be in my life.