Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Sloppy drunk.
A sloshed fool.
Just plain messy Jane.
“Indisposed,” I say aloud.
He almost smiles again. “You were cute indisposed.”
I brighten. “You mean I was a hot mess?”
Thatcher looks me over. “I’ve seen hot messes before, and you’re your own thing.”
“Cute indisposed,” I muse.
“Cute indisposed,” he confirms with a nod.
We stare deeper, and emotion tries to burrow further into me. I try to stay on track. “I meant to say more.”
He nods me on.
“About last night…” I add again.
I feel and see Thatcher hanging onto my every word. Like I’m building towards a climax and it could be disastrous or the most glorious extreme we’ve ever reached.
It’s up to me where I take us, I realize. Which is so different from when we were fake-dating; our fate was in his hands back then.
“I had less control of my body,” I mention, “and I felt really quite safe with you.” My pulse is strangely on an ascent, as though I’m still climbing up the steep hill. “And not because you’re a bodyguard but because you’re you.”
His chest rises.
“Someone I trust. Someone I…” I falter, burning up from nerves. “And…and I very much liked this morning.” Why am I so abysmally frightened admitting this to him?
I adored how he doted on me the second I woke up. How he asked me how I felt, gave me Advil, made me breakfast and slyly brought the poached eggs and waffle to my bed. All without the Epsilon bodyguards noticing, he took these risks just to help me fight a hangover.
It made me feel…loved.
Yet, my emotions pull and push in a tug-of-war with my head. Logically, I know that I’m taking far too much.
I tilt my head up to meet his eyes. “And if you ever need a sober-someone to take care of you, then I’m more than willing to return the favor. It’s what I’m most used to, you know. Taking care of my family.”
Thatcher never looks away. “You don’t need to give me what you give your siblings. I’m not your little brother, honey.”
Flush ascends my cheeks as I picture his dick inside me. “You’re definitely not my brother, I agree completely.” Sweating, I unzip my jacket. “But if I could give you something in return for last night, what would you want?”
He runs a hand over his unshaven jaw, staring stronger into me as though he’s trying to figure out the depth of what I’m saying. “There’s no cost to being with me, Jane. I don’t want to be reimbursed for cooking you breakfast or holding your hair back.”
My neck flames. “But I don’t want to be your burden. I want to be your equal.”
Realization slams at him, and I swear he careens back from the force. He inhales, then breathes strongly out. He dips his head to be nearer, his hand teasingly close to my hand. “You’re not my burden.” He hardly blinks. “And you already are my equal. I hate that I’ve given you an impression that you’re not.”
I believe him, but I can’t quite grasp what I’ve done for Thatcher in the same regard as to what he’s done for me.
It still feels awfully lopsided, especially after the boozy pub night.
I’m quiet.
Thatcher rubs his mouth with a look of concern. Dare I say, he even appears nervous. He drops his hand to his side.
I murmur, “I’m sorry—”
“No,” he interjects. “You never need to apologize to me for expressing what you feel.”
I exhale a pained breath. “One part of me hates that I even apologized to begin with. I feel like I’m losing sense of what I’ve learned from the women before me. From Aunt Daisy, from my mom.” My eyes burn. “But I also love that you reminded me that it’s okay to feel what I feel, even if it’s terribly confusing.”
He shakes his head, a thought pinching his brows and tightening his eyes. He shifts his visceral intensity off me.
“What is it?” I whisper, aching to hear everything that rattles his brain.
He softens his eyes before placing them on me. “You’re so fucking hard on yourself.” In a silent beat, deep understanding passes between us because he’s also tough on himself with most everything. “You’re just twenty-three, Jane. You don’t have to be perfect versions of the women who raised you.”
My heart swells. “Women,” I repeat the word. “You included my aunts?”
He nods once. “I know what they all mean to you.”
If my mom were here, Thatcher Moretti would be her favorite almost instantaneously. She loves her sisters like they’re a part of her soul, and I love that he understands how much I look up to all the women in my life.
Aunt Daisy has taught me to use my voice, even if the world says stay quiet. Aunt Lily has taught me fierce courage, even on days when you feel lesser than. And Rose Calloway Cobalt, my mom—she’s taught me how to walk into a room full of men and never back down.