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)
Thatcher shook his head, and I couldn’t tell whether it was because he didn’t believe McGee or because he couldn’t believe Layla’s behavior, but I kept my mouth shut because it wasn’t any of my business.
Thatcher narrowed his eyes at me. “Right,” he said, then nudged me down the narrow aisle toward the bedroom.
“What are you—?”
But he ignored me. “McGee,” Thatcher called over his shoulder, “find us a place to park for a bit. I don’t care if Layla’s waiting for a while. I’m going to get Reagan sorted.”
“Good call,” McGee called back.
“What do you mean ‘sort Reagan’?” I asked, trying to shrug Thatcher off me. “I don’t need sorting.”
He pushed me the rest of the way into the bedroom before closing the door. “Sit down.” He nodded at the bed.
I shrugged and didn’t argue, but I couldn’t help remembering how he’d all but thrown me onto the bed this time yesterday. It was funny how quickly you could get used to a thing you had no business getting used to—
Thatcher dropped to his knees in front of me and caught my hand. “Stop it,” he said. “Stop it right now.”
Shit. Had he read my mind? My stomach dropped. “Sorry?”
“No,” he snapped, shaking his head. “No apologies. Stop acting like you’re the junior gopher to the mid-level assistant. You’re Reagan Fucking Wellbridge. You’re a valued member of this team. You’re… you’re a valued member of this team,” he added, releasing one of my hands to point to his chest.
The gesture, the words, and the way he knew me well enough to see what I was feeling and call me on it made my chest ache with want and gratitude. But it was a bittersweet feeling, too, because having this and losing it was going to hurt like fuck, even if I never let it show.
Was this what love felt like? Jesus, why would anyone actually want to feel this vulnerable on purpose?
I cupped Thatcher’s cheek and smiled a smile that made heat kindle in his eyes. “That’s sweet and all,” I said archly, “but how about you stop treating me like I’m an injured bird who needs rescuing and do something useful?” I leaned back, resting my weight on my hands, and spread my legs slightly. “I’d like my cock sucked before we get to the airport since apparently the rest of the drive is an endless expanse of blue balls.”
Thatcher’s eyes darkened, and his nostrils flared. “Demanding.”
I flashed back to Chris’s description of Thatcher as the same and couldn’t help but grin. “Like recognizes like.”
“Baby boy, you can demand whatever you want of me, but we both know who’s in charge here.”
His words lit me up and drove all the blood to my dick. “Yeah. Me.”
The deep rumble of his laugh accompanied a sincere smile that went straight to my gut. “Thinks he’s Mr. Important,” he murmured. “I see.”
Hearing that nickname on his lips was another sweet ache, though I knew him using it was pure coincidence—he hadn’t been around Pop enough to hear it, and he sure as heck wouldn’t have heard about it from my parents, who thought Pop’s nicknames were silly and borderline slanderous.
“The clock is ticking, Mr. Pennington. We don’t have much time until we pick up my boss from the airport. Do you want to spend it—”
His lips crashed into mine as he pushed me all the way to my back, hands gripping and knees shoving my legs wider to make room for him. I allowed my rational brain to take a much-needed break so all I could do was feel.
And try to forget that within the hour, I’d be back to being very unimportant once again.
Chapter Fourteen
Thatcher
Despite telling myself for an hour that I wouldn’t allow Layla’s sudden appearance to disrupt the trip, things began to go wrong the moment she arrived.
She swanned onto the bus in a cloud of perfume that nearly drowned out the remnants of Reagan’s scent lingering in my nose and on my tongue, apologized over and over for her “misunderstanding” of my instructions, tossed her leather computer bag onto the dinette, and declared the bus “incredibly cozy.” She inspected the bunk situation and assured Reagan with a smile that she wouldn’t “pull rank” and claim the bunk he’d been sleeping in, even though it was her “favorite.” Then, while I was trying to catch his eye and tell him without words that he’d only switch bunks over my dead body, Layla took advantage of my distraction to run her hands down my biceps appreciatively and tell me how amazing I looked in my Elustre shirt.
Sixty seconds into our journey, she’d sucked all the air out of the space like an oncoming tornado and left Reagan vibrating with tension.
But while every protective instinct told me I needed to fix this and make it okay for him, there was nothing she’d done that I could actually take issue with. Could I tell her to stop being… aggressively cheerful? To stop… smiling? To stop casually touching someone she’d known for years, when the only reason I even registered her touch was because I was so aware of Reagan that I noticed his eyes locked on her hands and mentally replayed our mutual jealousy at the expo back in Wichita?