Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
But being vigilant is usually my default setting, no matter what, and Jane’s life is too important to me to be anything less than what I know and who I am.
Muffled voices crack in my eardrum. Comms chatter is close to fully down, but I received enough intel to figure out the rest on our own.
After she skims our new surroundings, Jane perches her hands on her hips. Blue eyes fixed on me with a poised determination. Like she’s ready to help a fighter pilot navigate air space in combat.
I love that—don’t fucking go there, Thatcher. I have a job to do. My cock needs to stand the fuck down.
Neither of us shifts our gazes.
Jane asks, “Is there anything I can do?”
Protocol: do not engage your client in a crisis. It could inflict unnecessary stress on them. For Xander Hale, the protocol is applicable. But pushing Jane out of these conflicts has always made her more anxious.
I edge closer. “You know how to read these?”
“I do. There should be a table of contents in the front.” She glances quickly at me. “Have you read a newspaper before?”
I stand right beside Jane. “I never read through one.” I pause and decide to add, “My grandma reads them all the time and she’ll line drawers with old newspapers. I just use them to clean grill grates.”
She smiles at that image, for some reason. I think I’m a pretty plain person. Too quiet, too serious, I’ve been told. But she appreciates even the simplest things I say.
I lower the newspaper to her height. Careful not to touch my body to any part of her body, the space between us like a tense void, and I fan out the paper with strict hands.
She skims the inked words. “The entertainment section begins on page thirty.”
“We’re not looking for that section from what I heard.” A sharp electronic frequency from the comms suddenly nails my ear. I breathe in. Angry bands of my muscles tighten, but I can’t recoil. I stay fixed in place.
Fixed on this mission.
I hold her gaze. “We’re looking for an ad.”
Her brows jump. “An ad?”
“I don’t know what kind,” I explain. “All I could hear was that there’s an ad in a newspaper. It might not even be in this one.”
She nods and then peers closer, practically tucked to my side. My muscles tighten while I resist an impulse to place my hand on the small of her back.
Jane points a finger to the table of contents. “Ads should all be in this section. The classifieds.”
Page 52.
Good to go. I flip pages while I hold the paper between us.
One more page.
I turn the last one—and the advertisement is impossible to miss.
Jane freezes, wide-eyed at the paper, and my harsh gaze narrows on the typed headline and full-page ad below.
MODERN DAY CINDERELLA: JANE ELEANOR COBALT IS LOOKING FOR HER PRINCE CHARMING.
Are you single and searching for love? Are you a gentleman ready to spend your life with a studious young woman? Jane Cobalt, daughter of Rose Calloway Cobalt & Richard Connor Cobalt, is seeking a man who is…
1. Formally educated: college degree required, masters or doctorate preferred, bonus points if Ivy League.
2. Property owner: a man who bought his own place is sexy.
3. Businessman: can be a hobby or profession, bonus points if finance is involved.
4. Financially set: a six-figure salary minimum, and don’t leave her with the bill, even if she’s worth more than you.
5. Must own a 2nd mode of transportation, other than a car: yacht, private jet, helicopter, etc. Motorcycle does not count, sorry boys!
If you meet these five requirements, please contact 215-555-4908 or janecobaltcinderella@gmail.com. A resume and photo are required before the selection process begins.
Whatever deluded jackass wrote this pile of shit—they just put Jane in real danger, and instantly, I want to shield her from all of it. This ad won’t go unnoticed. I’ve been a bodyguard long enough to know this’ll attract a certain kind of man.
My eyes flash hot like missile strikes at the newspaper, blood boiling.
I’m not letting anyone near Jane.
She expels a breath. “The initial shock is starting to wear off.” Leaning closer, she rereads the ad with a methodical expression.
I look her over in another critical sweep. She’s my first concern.
First priority.
And she’s been through enough hellfire to be numb to a ton of fucked-up things. More than imaginable. I’m not surprised she’s taking an analytical approach right now.
I lower my voice. “The team and I will deal with this. The Tri-Force should already be involving lawyers.” When I used to be the lead of Epsilon, I had to handle those details, and I would’ve already had legal on call.
“Thank you,” she says, almost in a whisper. “The paparazzi’s enthusiasm outside is making more sense now.” Her brows bunch, confused about something.
The team actively tries to stay ahead of the media, but no one tipped us off about the ad. Now that it’s in print, I home in on a bigger security issue: who’s behind this bullshit?