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)
I think I can live with that endnote. Treading the line carefully.
It could be much, much worse. I could’ve said, Oh God, Thatcher, I’m dripping wet right now. You’ve soaked me like Niagara Falls. Please, please plunge your sinful tongue inside of me.
Let me come out of this unscathed.
I look over.
Thatcher seizes my gaze. “I worked out yesterday.” His nose flares some, his muscles tightening, and he uncrosses his arms, just to adjust the seat. Sliding further back so he’s not crowding me.
The air strains with a hundred-and-twenty degree scorch.
I clear an aroused knot in my throat. “12th and McKean?”
“12th and McKean,” he confirms, chest taut, and he rolls his sleeves higher.
I reroute my attention to the road and drive the speed limit. My approach to wild cameramen on Philly streets differs greatly from my best friend.
I avoid heavily trafficked roads. One-ways are my greatest allies, and the narrower the street, the better.
Maximoff’s license will be reinstated in October. Just next month, and I’m hoping Farrow can convince him to not exceed ninety or maybe take the passenger seat. I worry about Moffy trying to outrun paparazzi, especially after the crash.
I turn onto 12th . “Merde,” I curse aloud, suddenly noticing the coffee stain on my frilly white sleeve.
On this very important morning, I chose to wear a laced long-sleeve blouse, a faux fur cheetah vest, pastel jeans, ballet flats and an acorn squash-shaped purse, and the probability that I already made Celebrity Crush’s Worst Dressed List is inevitably high.
And it’s only 6 a.m.
Sometimes I believe the media relishes in putting me on blast. I could sneeze and tabloids and internet trolls would say I’m doing it wrong.
Normally, I wouldn’t care about the coffee splotch, but I also don’t want my appearance to read as disrespect.
I keep a hand on the wheel and lift my arm to my mouth. I bite the sleeve and try to tear the fabric off with my teeth.
Thatcher glances over with the same bold toughness.
I mumble, “This is more difficult…than it appears.” This is not working. In my head, I succeeded gloriously all over this idea, but reality likes to slap me with failures left and right. I spit the sleeve off my tongue.
His mounting silence is like a heater in a blizzard. Comforting. And irresistible.
I look from my coffee stain to him and back to the road, spinning my wheel and turning on to McKean. I sigh. “I suppose there are worse stains like blood or jizz.”
Jizz.
I talked about cum on my sleeve in front of my bodyguard.
My eyes gradually widen and widen. So what if I did? I tap the steering wheel, wondering what he’s thinking.
I look right at him for the countless time.
He stares unblinkingly at me, and in one quick flash, he reaches over to the steering wheel and takes my wrist in his large hand. “Can I?”
“Can you…do what?” I squint at Thatcher, my pulse speeding. I have to watch the street, but as his fingers brush my sleeve, I understand. “Yes.” I inhale. “Yes, you can.”
Thatcher suddenly rips the frilly lace right off its seams. In one motion, it’s gone.
My ovaries just exploded.
And my lips rise in a small smile. I give him my other arm. “Again, please.” Our eyes meet for the shortest, most exhilarating second.
He gently cradles my other wrist, and in one strong tug, he tears off more lace.
I haven’t exhaled yet.
Laughter from the radio hosts cuts the tension in two. “Cathy, that’s so wrong. No one will ever be a better lead for Wolverine than Hugh Jackman. He’s the OG.”
“I’m going to have to disagree with you, Jackie…”
I tune out the radio. “How much time do we have?” I bang my dashboard to jostle my frozen clock. Fixing anything I break is always low priority.
Thatcher checks his wristwatch. “Seventeen minutes.”
“We’re dreadfully close to being late.” I barely press the gas any harder.
Slow and steady, Jane.
Thatcher straightens up. “Don’t take Passyunk. Go to 19th .” His Philly lilt is thicker on the street name, and I trust his advice.
I’m driving through South Philly where he grew up.
Brick row houses dart past us, along with the occasional market and deli. Hundreds of personal questions nip at me, but even with his promise of transparency, I’ve been very particular about what I ask my bodyguard.
Thatcher is like a sacred text. I’m tempted to rush through the pages, but something has compelled me to draw out each line, each word. Reading so slowly and carefully so as to never miss a syllable. So a single book, a single person, could last me forever.
I look over at him and settle on a question. “Do your parents still live here?”
He runs a hand across the firm line of his unshaven jaw. “Our—my mom.” He blows out a heavy breath. “Sorry, it’s a habit, always being with Banks.”