Page 62 of Tangled Like Us
12
JANE COBALT
Akara just sharedthe disturbing details of the shoebox with Sulli, Maximoff, and me in the tightly packed living room. Mainly to let us know this is a security matter.
Don’t worry,they all say.
It’s not about you, they all say.
It only affects us, they all say.
I think Security Force Omega has forgotten how much we deeply care about them and how much it hurts seeing them harassed while they shield us from harassment.
It’s our job, they say.
I know.
I appreciate their sacrifice more than they can possibly understand.
Did I ever imagine one of our bodyguards would be sent roadkill? In a box? With a bow wrapped around the mangled squirrel’s broken neck?
No.
Gross acts are tragically normal for me, but mostly when my family and I are the recipients. I’m not used tomybodyguard being a target.
Thatcher is a soldier. Tremendously tall. He’s physically a powerhouse, a supreme godly and angelic being who is built to protect and defend. I see so clearly that this is where he wants to be. I see how much of himself he’s willing to give to keep my family safe.
I’d just like to be next to him.
To be a wingwoman.
His confidante.
His right-hand.
I want to slip into his back pocket.
Possibly even literally sliding my hand down south and squeezing his…oh-so-inappropriate, Jane.
I try not to pulse. Now is definitely not the time. But the air has lightened as chatter returns, cats scampering around everyone who’s gathered here, which includes Farrow, Donnelly, Oscar, Quinn, Thatcher, and Jack.
I sit on a stair, nibbling on a chocolate turtle, and I find myself picking my bodyguard out of the small crowd.
Thatcher stands incredibly stoic at the front door. He’s shrugged off his flannel, his plain gray crew-neck snug on his firm build. Features hardened, biceps chiseled, and shoulders braced in a vigilant stronghold.
His narrowed gaze slides along the room and lands on me.
I inhale a soft breath.
His chest rises.
I ache to talk to him. To ask how he’s feeling. I ache to be closer, for his large hand to hover beside my arm or waist. I ache for so much between him and me that I shouldn’t welcome or invite.
But we are allowed to converse. Weshouldtalk.
Reach out, Jane.
Just as I begin to stand, Thatcher detaches from his spot, and he crosses the room. His attentive gaze never leaves me.
