Page 4 of Sinful Like Us
That fact aloneis highly attractive. And it means that he’s paid attention to my life before being assigned to protect me.
Thatcher cups his hands together, elbows to his thighs. “You’re fine, Jane.” He takes a short beat. “It’s inappropriate for me to be around you in anything that I wouldn’t wear on-duty.”
Interesting.I lean forward some. “But you’ll be on a tour bus with SFO and my cousins and brothers soon, so the lines will inevitably blur?”
He never flinches. “SFO will maintain professionalism while we’re in close quarters with our clients. We’re having a security meeting before your parents arrive to discuss these details.” He’s not a buddy-guard. He’s not about to fist-bump me or lounge on the couch beside me.
I understand.
“Right,” I breathe, and I tie my hair back in a pony, warmer all of a sudden. “Professionalism is important to you?”
He runs a hand over his mouth, nodding.
I tense, unable to read him. The air thickens with a new sort of heat. “I respect that. Very much.”
“I appreciate it.” His husky voice might as well rake hot coals over my body.
I’ve been trying not to notice how physically handsome Thatcher is, but he exudes powerful masculinity justsitting.As though he could lift me up in his arms and carry me to heaven. Somewhere safe and beautiful.
I clear my throat. “If you’re tired, we can make this quick.”
“I’m awake,” Thatcher says. “And it doesn’t have to be quick. I want to make sure we’re squared away before we leave the lake house.” He starts to reach a hand towards me, and my shoulders arch. I eye him in curiosity.
What’s he about to do?
Thatcher suddenly goes still, his hand a couple inches from me. “Can I?” He nods to the purple paper.
“Oh…yes. Yes, of course.” I lift my hands off my lap, and he takes the stationery paper.He wants the notes, Jane. Not to touch you in carnal ways.
Which would be too orgasmically good to be anything other than a fantasy. And we’ve just solidified what we are to one another.
Professional.
Respectful.
Bodyguard and client.
I lace my fingers together. “My handwriting can be illegible, so I’d be happy to type out the list for you.”
He concentrates on the notes. “I can read your handwriting.”
I can’t help but smile. “You must be able to read all chicken scratch.”
“No,” he says, multitasking well by talking to me and doing his job. “It took practice to read yours.”
Fact:Thatcher Moretti taught himself to decipher my handwriting.He didn’t have to do that. My old retired bodyguard never did.
My pulse skips. “You know,” I say, thinking aloud, “I’ve knownofyou since I was seventeen.”
He looks up at me.
“Which you already know,” I add quickly, flush creeping up my neck. “Because that’s when we met. I was seventeen…” Oh my God, why am I repeating this fact? “And you were twenty-two. Now you’re twenty-seven.” I waft my pajama top away from my sweating breasts. “You look older, very much a strong…twenty-seven.”
Shut up, Jane.
He sees that I’ve stopped talking. “Jane—”
“How does this work exactly?” And there goes my big mouth cutting off my new bodyguard after I just word vomited all over him. “I’ve never hadtwo24/7 bodyguards before, though I know this is just temporary. You’re temporary, I mean.” I shake out my jumbled thoughts. “I mean, you and I—we’re temporary.”
