Page 110 of Tangled Like Us
Reckless cars fight with each other to be closest to my blue Beetle and to Maximoff’s red Audi, my best friend driving in front of me.
We stay in the right lane, and I concentrate and ride close to his bumper. Not letting anyone squeeze in between our cars.
Thatcher and I would’ve just taken back roads and split up from Maximoff and Farrow, but with the sheer aggression and swarms of cameramen who like to play chicken and bumper cars, we would’ve been trapped in Center City for a troublesome decade. We’ve chosen a troublesomehouron a highway instead.
As my brother Eliot would say, “Paparazzi are ravenous fiends out for flesh and blood.” That has never been truer.
Especially since the Bed & Breakfast.
The ploy worked as well as security planned. When we were checking out, I caught Oscar telling Thatcher,“Heard you almost all night. Incredibly believable.”
I’d hope so.
At least Oscar, Donnelly, and Banks believe they just listened in on our pretend sex noises. We havenointention of ever telling them they overheard real grunts, real moans, real orgasms—I will most surely die with this secret.
But Oscar’s predictions were right. The guests believed us. And so has the media and thusly, the world. Click-bait articles were trending for days.
JANE COBALT AND HER BODYGUARD CAUGHT LEAVING A BED & BREAKFAST TOGETHER!
And you’re not going to believe what the other guests overheard!
I did swipe through some of the comments on posts.
Vera K:Jane is living the dream!
EarlyBird_4:Can’t believe she’s hooking up with her bodyguard. The crops are thriving.
PrincessPeachez16:If my bodyguard looked like that, you best believe I’d be dating him too.
HeyyyHey:Get it girl!!
I glazed over most negativity and just basked in the positives for a while.
These scandalous rumors incited the media, but the tipping point that caused paparazzi to drive in emergency lanes and feverishly crowd us—it came just yesterday.
When I publicly confirmed the rumors.
That I, Jane Eleanor Cobalt, am dating my handsome and oh-so-stern bodyguard. I wanted it to be more personal than a press release. So we became official via a Live Story on Instagram.
Secretly overseen by security, of course. Their hand in everything reminds me this is afakerelationship.
Totally, undeniablyfake…
I take a quick peek at Thatcher in the passenger seat. He’s surveying the rabid paparazzi and our extra security vehicles in tow. He clicks his mic, attached to the collar of his black button-down. Sleeves rolled up to his carved biceps.
“You want to do a hand-off?” He’s radioing Farrow in the Audi. “…Copy.” When he drops his arm, his large hand just naturally rests on my thigh.
Beneath my purple tulle skirt.
I rub my lips together that rise. His touch sends electric jolts coursing through my veins. Reminding me that our sex has been overwhelminglyreal.
Every night since the Bed & Breakfast, Thatcher has snuck out of security’s townhouse and into my room. It feels illicit and clandestine, a covert mission that only we share, one that has scorched my bed with my eagerness and his strength and volcanic yearnings. Blazing strokes of skin to skin as we try to keep quiet, so no one overhears.
And I’ve never been held against a man’s chest the way that he holds me.
I’ve never had a friends-with-benefits ask how I felt. I was fully aware that they wanted me for fifteen minutes of fame or notoriety—to say they hooked up with the daughter of Connor Cobalt and Rose Calloway. But all I wanted from them was sex. I felt like I was using them too, and I chose these guys purposefully knowing I’d never fall for them.
It was easier that way.
