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)
My eyes sweep her for a second. “I don’t think our attraction to each other has ever been a question, honey.”
She smiles. “True.”
“Gomesegiam’,” I say in Italian. “That means How do you say? ”
“Gomesegiam’,” She repeats. “I like that one, too.” She’s liked every word I’ve said in Italian. I’m beginning to realize it’s not just the language. She likes me. There aren’t many people that get off on other people’s happiness. Other people’s interests. Jane is that rare kind of person.
“Ma che bell’,” I say another phrase. Our eyes latch for a hot second. “How beautiful. ”
Her lips part.
My muscles strain underneath my shirt, and she doesn’t look away. It’s an intense moment of silence, just drinking each other in.
Then she crumples her napkin and puts it in her empty cup. “So I’ve decided,” she says softly, her eyes still on me. “That’s my favorite.”
“It’s a good one,” I agree and then look down to her cup. “Done?’
“Only if you are.”
“We can push out,” I say. “But the crowds are bad, so you’re going to stay behind me. I’ll have the temp bring up the rear.”
She cranes her neck to the window. Fans and paparazzi line the sidewalk, snapping photos of us through the windows. She’s blocked them from her mind thus far. It’s easy for her to just forget they’re there. Like background noise.
I can imagine that comes with twenty-three years of practice living in the spotlight.
Jane meets my gaze and secures her purse over her shoulder. “Let’s do this.”
Minutes later we’re outside the frozen yogurt shop. Swarmed.
“Jane! Jane! Look here!”
“Thatcher! Thatcher!”
Jane is fisting my shirt, her fingers tightened on the fabric. I have one arm wrapped behind me, hand on her hip and pressing her chest up against my back. My other hand shoves a cameraman in front.
Create a path.
Clear the way.
Objective: her Beetle.
Distance: one block.
Targets: every shitbag in my vision.
A Canon is inches from smacking me in the eye. Pissed, I knock it back with my wrist. The cameraman looks like I assaulted his child.
I growl, “You take my eye out, I’m going to put you on the ground.”
“Dude, back up!” Another pap yells at him. They do that a lot. Dissociate from the shitbags like they’re not also here blocking our path.
“Jane! What flavor of fro-yo did you get?!” The question comes from my four. Can’t see who.
“Strawberry,” Jane answers like it’s second nature. She doesn’t sound rattled from the amount of people. Though this is twice the size of the crowds she normally gets.
“Thatcher! What about you?! What’s your favorite flavor?!”
My instinct is to not reply. Ignore. But then I remember my security meeting, where my superiors basically said, give the media what they want. Be compliant. Answer their questions as long as they’re respectful.
So to not be chewed out later, I say, “Vanilla.” My voice is stringent. No-nonsense. Still on-duty.
“Is that also your kink preference?!” someone shouts.
“Highly rude!” Jane yells back.
I squeeze her hip. She doesn’t need to defend me. Also, I don’t want her in a fucking fight. I will kill anyone who tries to lay a hand on her.
“So your relationship is nothing like Rose and Connor Cobalt?! You don’t do any bondage?” a pap asks.
I narrow my eyes. “That’s inappropriate.” I’m one second away from smashing his camera. I’m also one minute from the car. I can see it across the street. But we have to stop at a red light and wait for the pedestrian walk signal. Would have had a temp pull the car up to let us in at the curb, but the crowds are too amassed for that.
“Is that yes or a no?” the same pap asks.
“Shut up, man!” a young fan yells at him. “She already said it was rude!”
“Yeah!” a few people yell in agreement.
“Thatcher! Which of Jane’s cats is your favorite?!”
Innocent. Respectful. Engage .
“I love them all,” I reply.
I can’t see it, but I can practically feel Jane’s radiant smile.
The walk sign appears. We’re on the move again.
“Ugly bitch!” That scream comes from the sidewalk we’re approaching. A group of young teenage guys ride electric scooters and pop wheelies near her car.
“Spoiled cunt!”
That one tries to steal all of my attention. But I’m alert and focused and some mouthy teenager isn’t going to distract me. I grit my molars down, holding back a harsh fuck you.
She tucks her head into my back, and I take out the keys to her car. The crowds grow louder, more aggressive. Some shouting at Jane. Others shouting at the scooter-riding teenagers. Adrenaline pumps into my veins, fueling me along with my purpose.
When I unlock the door, fingers tightening around the handle, the tempo of the crowds suddenly change.
“Jaaaane! Don’t go!” someone screams.
“Jane! You didn’t sign my photo!” an older guy yells angrily.
“Jane! JANE!!! I just want a selfie!!”