Page 117 of Tangled Like Us
His hand brushes along my back, and he scouts every inch of ground. He’s on-duty. Regardless of fake-dating, he places my safety above all else, and so each glance we take still feels stolen.
Each touch still feels forbidden, and I’ve come to realize that this allure will never die with Thatcher Moretti. As long as he’s my bodyguard, as long as he values protecting me and taking care of me first and foremost, our embraces in public will be drawn out slowly like flowing magma.
Until an eruption happens. Somewhere, sometime. At night.
Thatcher surveys the back area. “I meant to tell you in the car, about what the team decided.” He stares down at me, then fixes on a fog machine that gurgles out smoke, whisking along his boots, my ballet flats. He adds a deep, “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be.” We trek further, and he pushes aside a fake spider web that almost catches in his hair. I take a breath. “I distracted you back in the car.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “We both know I distracted you.” He glances back at me, his eyes falling down my body. “Honey.” He cradles those five letters.
I inhale, about to say more, but I’m trapped just watching him. Staying pinned to his hard features. Engraining all the stern creases around his eyes. As though he may vanish soon. It’s terribly illogical.
He’s still here.
And he’ll still be my bodyguard no matter—Thatcher suddenly catches me around the waist, stopping me from bumping into a life-sized mummy.
He pulls me back against his muscular chest, my breath ejecting.
Heartbeat racing.
And while I’m in his protective, warm clutch, while we’re alone, I feel safe to ask him anything. “I have so many questions,” I say softly, thinking aloud. “I want to know all about you, but I can’t ask fast enough—and when I think about you, I wonder what your hands have held. What your eyes have seen.” My pulse has skyrocketed, but I keep speaking. “What your ears have heard and where your feet have landed.”
He’s quiet, and I ache to see him. So gradually, I unfreeze and turn to look up at Thatcher. I skim his stoic features, more entranced. But I also mentally replay what I just said and my eyes grow bigger. “If that sounds disturbing, I’m so sor—”
“No,” he cuts me off, one of the few times he ever has. “You’re an American princess. You being comfortable enough to say what’s on your mind in front of me—and to me—is something I don’t take for granted.”
My lungs flood, knowing he’s felt this way means more than I realize or thought it would.
His hands fall to his radio, and he hawk-eyes the rear exit that saysemergency only. We’re very close to the back of the store. Where neon wigs and animal masks are shelved on endless rows of mannequin heads, and I’m multitasking, perusing the nearest rack of gothic costumes, heavy lace and black veils.
Fog continuously rolls over the ground, hiding our feet.
He seems to be aware of every little thing.
Especially me.
Thatcher sweeps me head to toe. “And I want you to know all about me. So shoot.”
I will most surely fire away. “How old were you when you lost your virginity?” I’m too intrigued, especially after how exceptional he is under the sheets…and on top of the sheets, on the floor and against the shower wall.
“Fifteen,” he answers, unflinchingly. “What about you?”
My brows bunch, fingers paused on a veil. “Don’t you know about me already?”
It’s not public information. But the boy had to sign an NDA, and my bodyguard at the time was around to protect me.
Our bodyguards are privy to stories and secrets that they’re supposed to safeguard. For most of my life, I had Mitchell, who’s now retired. I always believed he shared more stories with the team about me, which is allowed. So I just assumed all of security knew this one.
“I do know how old you were.” He holds my gaze tighter. “But I want to hear it from you.”
My lips rise. The act of sharing personal stories feels intimate. I’ve never really done this with anyone beyond the docuseries producers and family.
“I was fifteen when I lost my virginity,” I say aloud. “Same as you.” I can’t restrain a smile.
His carriage lifts in a headier breath.
“Did you enjoy your first time?” I ask.
