Page 13 of Tangled Like Us
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—mymom.” He blows out a heavy breath. “Sorry, it’s a habit, always being with Banks.”
I smile at the mention of his twin brother. He speaks more about Banks than anyone else in his life.
It reminds me of Charlie and Beckett. My twin brothers are extraordinarily close, but they’re not identical and they didn’t choose the same career path like Thatcher and Banks did.
