Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
His cheeks went red above his beard. Had I known Thatcher could blush? “I wouldn’t say usually. I’ve been actively bisexual for a long time. A great many people are aware of my sexuality.”
“Meaning, the men you’ve hooked up with,” I said with a smirk.
He spread his hands in a gesture of agreement. “I think it’s great for people to come out publicly if it feels right or important to them, but that’ll never be me. The last thing I want is to give the media more reason to speculate about my personal life.” He cocked his head, studying me. “I imagine it’s the same for you? Patricia’s never mentioned any nice gentlemen you’ve dated.”
I shrugged. “I’ve never officially come out to them, no. My parents are supportive of my brother, and I’m sure they’d support me, too. My mother would have no problem throwing eligible bachelors my way. But if people don’t have to come out as straight, why should I have to come out as pan? Someday, if there’s a good reason, I’ll have that conversation, but for now, I seem to be doing an okay job of finding my own eligible bachelors.” I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively. “Hell, sometimes they find me.”
Thatcher snorted. “I had meant to find a man I arranged to meet on an app,” he admitted. “I was supposed to recognize him by his distinctive feathered mask…”
“No,” I breathed, leaning toward him in delight. “So you’re telling me that some poor schmoe was waiting and waiting for a hot, dominant Roman warrior to make his New Year’s Eve…”
“And instead, I ended up in bed with my friend’s son? Yes. If you hadn’t been wearing that same mask, if it hadn’t been too dark in that ballroom to see your hair and your eyes…”
“And if you hadn’t shaved your beard and my mother hadn’t specifically told me you were supposed to be out of town…”
We stared at each other across the table, thinking of how impossibly small the chances of this—us—happening had been. In a million alternate realities, one of us would have made a different choice and we’d have missed each other entirely. I found myself once again wishing I could read Thatcher’s mind. If he could go back to that night and change things, would he?
Would I?
“I like your beard,” I said. The words came out husky and low, and the slight tension in the air morphed into something hotter.
Thatcher leaned back in his seat and smirked a little. “Is that right? Maybe you should come over here and show me how much.”
But before I had a chance to move from my seat, the bus slowed, and a quick glance out the window showed that we were pulling into a truck stop, probably for one of McGee’s scheduled breaks. The man pulled back the curtain that blocked off the driver’s area and joined us a moment later.
“Morning,” he said, darting a shit-eating grin at both of us before turning to fix himself some coffee. “Did everyone have a… restful evening?”
Thatcher and I exchanged a look.
“Very,” Thatcher said blandly. “You?”
“Yup. Got to sack out on a real bed at my buddy’s place and stretch out—oh.” He snapped his fingers in an exaggerated gesture. “That reminds me. Thatcher, I meant to mention last night that Reagan was taking your bed, and you were supposed to sleep at the Martinezes’ house. But I guess you two figured it out, huh?” He leaned back against the countertop and lifted the mug to his lips, all innocence.
I covered my snicker with a cough. So that was how Thatcher had ended up in my—well, his—bed? I suddenly felt bad for every wrinkly comment I’d made. I owed McGee a solid.
“Did you get my message a little while ago?” Thatcher asked.
McGee’s sunny smile faded, and he nodded. “Picking up your new passenger at the airport in Omaha tomorrow? Yeah, I got it. Also got a weather alert about dangerously cold weather and the possibility of an ice storm in the region.” He shook his head. “Who the hell voluntarily flies to Nebraska in the dead of winter?”
“Someone dedicated,” Thatcher said, though he didn’t quite manage to sound enthusiastic about it.
“Or obsessed,” McGee muttered under his breath. He sipped more coffee. “Gonna be crowded.”
“Not really. One more person won’t matter much either way,” Thatcher replied.
“If you say so,” McGee said darkly.
Interesting. McGee might be the only person I knew, besides me, who didn’t seem to like Layla these days. But my issues with her were personal since she’d dismissed my ideas, accused me of causing a PR disaster, and… okay, possibly there was a little lingering resentment over the way she’d touched Thatcher in the leadership meeting since the only one allowed to be inappropriately proprietary about Thatcher was me. I wondered what McGee disliked about her.