Page 12 of Tangled Like Us
Because that’d be oh-so-inappropriate, Jane.
The oath intact, we’re at a much better place than we were before Greece, but all we’ll ever be is bodyguard-and-client.
Yet, it couldn’t hurt to just imagine.
I sip my coffee and take another peek.
Bulked muscles stretch the sleeves of his gray button-down, fabric rolled to his forearms, and a few popped buttons show off his firm chest and natural hair.
Heat gathers between my legs.
I pulse as I picture his big arms and chest swathing me. In another life, I’d wrap myself up in the powerful heavenliness of Thatcher Moretti, like he’s my warrior archangel prepared to blanket me with his twelve-foot wingspan. All before he hoists me up around—
Thatcher turns slightly. And he catches my ogling gaze.
Flush reaches my cheeks.Merde.“Thatcher.” I’ve greeted him five times today already.
He crosses his arms. “Jane.” His deep tone is never scolding towards me.
“You look…impressively big in my car,” I confess, confronting embarrassment like blasting a slingshot at my own forehead.
I possess the unfortunateinabilityto run away from my own mortification.
Thatcher stays mostly stoic. His gaze is unflinchingly fixed on my eyes.
The way he’s staring—with bold hardness—just lights my curiosity ablaze. I should definitely shut up now, but I’ve never been good at that. “Truly.” I set my thermos in the cup holder and glance from him to the road. “You have nice muscles. Really quite nice.”
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. “12thand McKean?”
“12thand 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 madeCelebrity Crush’sWorst 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.
