Page 53 of Tangled Like Us
Farrow just nods. He has the ability to radio my bodyguard on my behalf and call him here, but that would mean talking to Thatcher longer than he wants to talk to him.
Maximoff crosses his arms. “Your bodyguard should be here if we’re serious about this.”
We are.
I instantly procure my phone.
10
THATCHER MORETTI
I’m not gonna fuckinglike whatever this is. I can already tell, and I’m just staring at a bunch of photos tacked up to the brick wall.
More specifically: photos of guys, mostly around Jane’s age.
Targets?
No doubt, my mind blares.
My mouth sets in a harder line. Knowing that’s not right. I need to dislodge whatever protective, defensive feelings I have for Jane for a fucking second, and I’m left with a reasonable response:too soon to tell.
I step back and glance over at the kitchen. Where Jane and Maximoff talk on speakerphone to Sullivan Meadows. Jane’s cousin called them about the same time I entered their townhouse.
Interruptions from family are routine. Especially with Jane and Maximoff, who try to be easily accessible to anyone who needs them.
I spot Jane in short glimpses through the archway. She breezes around the kitchen. Heating up a mug of coffee while chatting.
“There’s more than enough room in the garage, Sulli,” Jane reassures, “I promise your Jeep will fit.”
Maximoff speaks. “We shifted around the bikes, and I can park my Audi on the street if it’s still too cramped.”
That’ll be a major security issue. But Maximoff’s car isn’t as recognizable to the public as Sulli’s old Jeep. If they’re willing to risk vandalism or theft for one vehicle, the Audi is the least likely to be targeted.
It’s the right pick.
“You both are the fucking best,” Sulli says on the phone.
I catch another glimpse of Jane.If she looks at you a lot, it means she likes you.Childhood advice, man. It pops into my head like a bullet piercing a tin can.
And now I’m staring at my client and thinking,look back at me.
Jane rests a hip against the counter in a momentary pause. She smiles brightly at something that I can’t see. Maybe the phone in Maximoff’s hand.
I shouldn’t want to be that phone. I shouldn’t want to be the receiver of Jane’s vibrant energy or any fucking thing that belongs to her mind or body, but I keep thinking,look at me.
She turns her head.
And looks right at me.
I’m not shifting away. Our gazes latch for a solid beat, but I stand about four meters from her position. Roughly fifteen feet apart.
Her blue eyes slowly dance over the stoic lines of my face, then my clothes: gray crew-neck and red flannel.
As though remembering earlier. The kitchen.
My towel.
Her flushed neck and shortened breath.
