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)
And he nears me.
I leave my notes on the couch and rise to my feet. I plan to extend a hand in greeting, but his sheer imposing height seizes my attention.
Oh…
My eyes slowly widen.
He’s an archangel. Sent to protect me. And I doubt it’ll be the first time I think it—because, dear God, the analogy fits.
I lift my chin to meet his gaze, my hands naturally perching on my wide hips. “We’ve obviously met many times before,” I say aloud.
He nods. “Yeah. We have.” The corner of his lip almost lifts, I think, but then he rubs his mouth. Not much else passes through his stoic features. He attaches his radio to the waistband of his black slacks, also dressed in a black button-down while I’m in pajamas. “But this is different.”
My brows jump. “How so?”
He rakes a firm hand through his brown disheveled hair, longer pieces curled under his ears. “I’m here to protect you, Jane. You’re my first priority now.”
“Even though you’re a lead?”
“Even though I’m a lead,” he confirms. “Your safety is what matters most to me.” He holds my gaze.
I don’t want to look away. I lean closer, even.
He asks, “Do you prefer I call you Jane?”
“I do,” I say softly, entranced by him. Thatcher might be hard to decipher, but I realize that I’m finding his strong presence extraordinarily comforting. His whole protective demeanor envelops the room and wraps around me—as though silently commanding: I am here for you.
Warmth spreads through my limbs, and I could bask in this safe feeling for eons of time. Maybe that’s why I keep my eyes on his eyes, even as my neck aches.
“And I should call you Thatcher?” I make sure since I’ve called him Mr. Moretti before (I was a little drunk) and he said, Thatcher is fine.
He nods. “Thatcher works. Unless you feel more comfortable calling me something else.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I like your name. It’s unique to you. I don’t know any other Thatchers.” We’re still staring intently at each other, and I can’t tell if he’s reading into my bloodshot eyes. Knowing that I’ve been crying.
“I don’t know any other Janes,” he admits.
I nearly smile. “I always thought Jane was a common name. There were five in my grade in high school. But most people just referred to me by my full name anyway.” I rock forward on my feet. “I was the Jane Cobalt. Still am, I suppose.” I think of my family.
I think of my mom and dad, and a frown drops my lips.
My eyes burn.
Thatcher never breaks my gaze. “Look, it might not be my place to say something, but you should just know that you’ll get through this.”
I clutch the comfort in his eyes. Earlier today, Thatcher told most everyone here that he knows what these kinds of accusations feel like. So I say, “As a twin, you said you’ve received rude questions before?”
“Yeah. That and more.” He weaves his arms over his chest. “Guys in high school used to say that my brother and I did some…things together for fun.”
Things.
I assume it verges on incestuous things, which is why he can relate to me now. I do wonder if he’s censoring himself to remain professional or because the past is hard to talk about. Either way, I won’t pry.
I tilt my head. “Did it change your relationship with your brother?”
He’s nodding.
And my hands fall off my hips, and my heart plummets. It’s what I feared. That this rumor will forever destroy my relationship with Moffy.
“It made us closer,” Thatcher says. “We got stronger.”
Stronger.
I inhale. “I want that so terribly for Moffy and me.” I stare off at the burning fireplace logs. “I think our odds are 50-50.”
His brows draw together. It takes him a second to ask. “You’re that unsure?”
I smooth the wrinkles of my cat-chasing-yarn-balls pajama top. “I know that you know me and my family better than most ever will because you’re a bodyguard, and I might never fully know you—and that’s okay.” I speak quickly. “But I’m not my mom. I’m not always so sure of myself, even when I wish I were, and I’m not a warrior goddess, even when I wish to be. I have to take that into account when constructing probabilities.”
Thatcher stares at me in a way that causes my pulse to speed, heart to pound, and my lips part as I find more words to fill the quiet.
“Do you agree?” I wonder.
He almost shakes his head, but I see how he cuts the movement off. And he just says, “I think you’re really hard on yourself, Jane.”
I like how he says my name so softly at the end, and I wasn’t searching for reassurance, but I didn’t mind that at all—in fact, I think I liked that too.
“Not 50-50. 70-30 then,” I say. “Moffy and I come out stronger.”