Page 8 of Tangled Like Us
Like Farrow. Figuring out where he’s fucking off at during regular days is like playing Where’s Waldo.
The more distance we add from the firelight, the more darkness descends over us. I turn my head to Jane.
She looks over at me.
We say nothing.
I’m trying not to thinkanythingI shouldn’t.
She focuses ahead again, and my flexed muscles contract. I keep the pace she sets. We’re several meters away from her family. Tension snaking around us in thickening silence. But the rush of the sea grows louder as we leave behind the chatter.
We’re alone together, but in my line of work, it’s not uncommon at all that I’m alone with Jane. But it’s not usually under the pretext of “can we talk?”—and I need to fucking talk.
My jaw feels wired shut.
Jane appears the furthest thing from annoyed when I’m quiet, and thatstunsme. She just looks me over with that mounting curiosity, and she scuffs sand with her bare foot. Humidity expands the volume of her hair, and wind carries the strands.
“Can you hold this?” Jane lifts the beer up to me.
I take the bottle, and she ties her frizzing brunette hair into a low pony. We drift closer to the water. Making boot-prints and footprints in the damp sand.
I glance strongly back at Jane. Being assertive is my natural state, and I just say it, “I want to make this right.”
Finished tying her hair, her arms drop.
I hand the bottle back.
“Merci,” she says, her features harder to read in the dark. “After you apologized to Farrow and Maximoff, they forgave you.”
I could believe Farrow and Maximoff would give me another chance when I didn’t deserve one because they’re both good men. It didn’t shock me, and it doesn’t surprise me that Jane is still conflicted.
Her loyalties are to them. As they should be, and I hate that I’ve put her in a position where she felt like she had to cold-shoulder her own bodyguard.
I fix my earpiece and tuck a few strands of hair behind my ear. “I meant I want to make this right with you.”
Her eyes slowly widen, and we come to a stop. “In what way?” Her shoulders curve forward, goosebumps pricking her skin. We’re far from the fire now, and she didn’t bring a jacket or blanket.
I unbutton my shirt.
“Oh—” Her lips part. “I can’t take your shirt, Thatcher…you’ll be terribly cold.” Her breezy voice and distinctive way of speaking is like honey dripping down my throat.
It’s my job to make her life safe.
It’snotmy job to imagine tasting her words against my tongue while I push deep inside—don’t.
Don’t.
My muscles sear as each tendon contracts.
Before I became her bodyguard, Banks warned me that being around Jane would be hard on my end. Figuratively.
And physically.
I didn’t believe him. Not at the time.
I don’t look away from her, and I keep unbuttoning. “I’m not cold, Jane.”
A shiver snakes through her body. “Are you positive?”
