Page 87 of Tangled Like Us
“So it wasn’t on purpose?” There’s a lot of earnestness in his voice. Like he wants to believe this version of history.
“I’dneverpurposefully tase one of my men like that,” I say sternly. The thought actually sickens me.
Silence blankets the room for a longer second.
Maximoff tries to read my features.
I’m not sure I’m anything but hard, strict lines. I push myself to add, “I’ve never hated Farrow, and I can’t fault him if he’s hated me.”
He lets out a final breath. “Thanks,” he says sincerely. “I needed to hear that.” He also reminds me, “I’ll tell Farrow what you told me, but it’s not going to mean as much to him.”
I nod.
Farrow believes in actions more than words, and he’s already given me a pretty clean slate when he didn’t have to. I’ve made Farrow repeatedly prove himself to the team. Now I have something to prove to him.
“About Jane.” Maximoff changes the subject. “I just want you to know that I’m appreciative of what you’re risking for her. It’s not a small thing, losing your privacy.”
She’s worth it.
“She’s my client,” I tell him.
Just my client.Gotta remember that.
17
JANE COBALT
Our first order of business:announce our fledgling but oh-so-romantic relationship to the public.
The security team listed out the specifics to accentuate our role as boyfriend and girlfriend, and for this first task, we have to be calculated.
The Cinderella ad is still a hot topic on the web, and if I post a photo of us kissing online, it’ll seem utterly suspicious. The media has to actuallybelieveI’m dating my bodyguard and not trying to cover-up the ad.
For this to happen, we’re tearing a page out of the good ole celebrity handbook. Get a gossipy-someone to tip off the paparazzi about my whereabouts—and that gossipy-someone is obviously being tipped off by my “team.”
In LA, actresses, actors, celebrities and influencers do this all the time to stay relevant. I don’t much care about relevancy.
But I do care about the public believing I’m dating Thatcher. Which means the run-around is terribly essential.
“Who’s calling the paparazzi?” I ask Thatcher as I put my Volkswagen in park. We occupy a mid-row space outside a local grocery store. Pumpkins are already being sold in giant crates near the sliding glass entrances.
It’s not too busy or crowded on this sunny afternoon. But it took two hours driving around the city just to lose the cars that followed us from the townhouse.
And not all were paparazzi. I noticed new vehicles. Strange men behind the wheels.
Suitors, most likely.
Thatcher scoots the passenger seat back from the dash, giving his long legs more room. “Banks called a friend and casually mentioned you’d be at the Acme on Passyunk.” He pronouncesAcmelike Ack-a-me.
It makes me smile. I lift my blue retro sunglasses to my head. “How do we know he’ll tip off the paparazzi?”
Thatcher unbuckles his seatbelt. “Because he’s broke and his nickname wasSnitchin high school.”
“Does he realize he’s calledSnitch?”
“Yeah,” Thatcher says, his brown eyes holding mine for a beat longer. “He didn’t give a shit about it. Said it reminded him ofHarry Potteror something like that.” He shifts. Turning more towards me, and his strong arm slides across the back of the headrest.
His boldness and masculinity consumes my teeny car. And me.
