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)
She has a lot of love for Rose and Connor. In the public eye, her parents might as well be gods. Impossible to live up to, and I’ve seen that immense pressure weigh on her shoulders.
Jane peers closely at the oil and matchbook. “Is all of this to ward off the evil eye as well?”
I nod. “I do the maliocch’…which actually means evil eye, but it’ll take the evil eye away. Which should help with my brother’s headache.”
Probably more than the cornic’.
She leans in closer, her shoulder a breath away from my chest. “What do you do with the oil?”
Air strains again.
I run my hand over my jaw and glance down at Jane, who lifts her chin to meet my hardening gaze.
“I can’t tell you, Jane.”
She nods, understanding. “Because you’re my bodyguard, and I’m your client, and that’d be too much information…” Her voice fades in a shallow breath as she sees me shake my head. We’re too close. My hand skims her waist, and her arm brushes my chest before she rests her knuckles to her lips.
Blood scorches my veins, and my cock throbs.
I force myself to take a step back before our legs touch. “Because it’s a secret. I can’t even tell Banks how to do it.” I hold the knot of my towel. Secured.
Boundary intact.
She tucks a flyaway hair behind her ear like we just fucked on the counter. “So…how come you know how to do the maliocch’ but your brother doesn’t?”
It takes me a minute to explain how in my family, you can only learn the maliocch’ at midnight on Christmas Eve. Superstition and tradition. My grandma taught me. Banks used to fall asleep by that time as a kid. As an adult, he just forgets. Drinks too much spiked eggnog or is working on the holiday.
We talk for half a minute, and then we exit the kitchen into the living room, my supplies in hand. The half-gallon of milk in hers.
Jane drifts towards the adjoining door, next to the brick fireplace. Which leads to her townhouse. I walk back towards the narrow staircase. But we haven’t broken our gazes. Not yet.
“I suppose I’ll see you sometime later,” she says in a soft breath.
She’s only going one door away, but when Jane is at home in her townhouse—when that door shuts—we stay separated and I give her space.
Because at the end of the day, I’m not supposed to mean anything to Jane Cobalt. I shouldn’t be a thought she goes to sleep to.
I’m just someone who protects her from volatile people and dangerous situations.
I expel a coarser breath through my nose. I can’t move yet. “I’ll be there when you call.”
“Sounds perfect.” She smooths her lips together.
We linger.
She motions to me. “I should let you return to your brother.”
I nod.
We stay still.
“Jane.” I hear deep, solid longing in my voice.
“Yes?” Her chest elevates in a bigger breath.
Goddammit. I grind my teeth. Hoping to saw-down this attraction. She’s my client. It takes me a long second, but I get out, “Call me if you need me.”
“I will.” She nods, her collarbones tight.
One of us needs to move.
She’s just twenty-three.
“I’ll see you later,” I say another goodbye.
“À la prochaine.” Until next time.
And finally, I lift my cemented feet and move to the staircase.
9
JANE COBALT
Oh my …oh …my …oh my God.
We just shared an intimate moment in his kitchen, didn’t we? Heat still ascends my breastbone to my neck to my cheeks, and my breath comes out like I’ve jogged five-miles around the block. In practicality, that’s five-miles more than I would ever jog.
Or perhaps I’m just drawing conclusions and filling in blanks that I shouldn’t.
I gently shut the adjoining door behind me, half-gallon of milk tucked to my chest.
If I remove some bias, then I’m left with facts, and those facts are that I don’t need more from anyone. Not love, not sex, not anything in between, and Thatcher and I simply had a normal , polite conversation.
About his personal life, which he very rarely shares.
While he was in a towel—but towels are just ordinary fabrics a person uses after bathing. Towels don’t have to be sensual. Not even when they’re fastened to six-feet seven-inches of heaven and man.
He talked about his family traditions, then he washed my sunglasses without second thought, and did we both struggle to depart?
I touch my lips, my smile absolutely uncontrollable.
“Janie?”
“Hmm.” I wake out of a Thatcher Moretti stupor much too slowly. Just barely noticing Maximoff, who stands rigid beside the pink Victorian loveseat.
“Are you panting?”
“She’s definitely breathing hard,” Farrow states.
“What?” My mind snaps into clearer focus, and my face burns as I notice my audience of two men. Right where I left them.
I’d been in deep conversation with Maximoff and Farrow before I went to retrieve milk next door, and I knew they’d be here when I returned.