Page 95 of Headstrong Like Us
I’d usually have a good response, and I have noticed his jealousy other times before—but he makes me think there’ve been a million more instances that I’ve missed. “When? Where?” I sound too damn eager.
“You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”
“Mine will take a solid century.”
He grabs my wrist and checks the time. “We have seventy-years until we die, give or take.”
Yeah.
I can work with that.
19
FARROW KEENE
I don’t love keepingthings from Maximoff, but today’s “covert op” called for a little white lie. And I’m not alone in this.
Thatcher Moretti delivered the same line to Jane this morning—that we have an important security meeting to attend—so we’ve made this bed together. However uncomfortable it is.
He turns the SUV (a security vehicle) on a back-alley street, so narrow that the carbarelyfucking fits. I could roll down my window and touch the wall easily.
I scoop a spoonful of microwaved oatmeal. “I think this might be a pedestrian alleyway.”
He side-eyes me. “You really care I’m driving through it?”
“No, I do not.” I lean an arm on the door and eat my lunch. Security chatter soft in my earpiece. I’m listening in for anything from the temp that’s guarding Maximoff today.
The car bumps over warped asphalt. “How’s our tail?” Thatcher asks.
I check the rear windshield over my shoulder. “Paparazzi are definitely gone.”
“We’re good to go then.” He drives back on the actual road.
Cries escalate in the backseat, and he glances at Ripley through the rearview mirror. Five-months-old now, he does his normal screaming routine, this time buckled securely in a car seat.
Thatcher strengthens his grip on the wheel. “You had to bring your baby.”
I roll my eyes and grab Ripley’s yellow parrot from his diaper bag. “Maximoff is working, and I’m not dropping Ripley off with someone else. So yeah, this had to happen,Mom.” I give him a look. “Where’s your cat anyway? She deep-throat Ben’s cockatiel yet.”
Thatcher cringes. “Don’t say that around Jane.”
“I’m not; I’m saying it around you.” I unsnap my seatbelt and pass Ripley his stuffed animal. He quiets, the trick working for now. “Let’s make a deal,” I tell Ripley. “When you can talk, just promise me you don’t name that parrotanythingwolf scout suggests. Give me that, at the very least.”
Ripley lets out a giggle.
I’ll take it.
Returning to my seat and food, Thatcher glances at me, then the road. “Do you really want to know where the cat is?”
I swallow oatmeal. “I wouldn’t have asked, if I didn’t give a shit.”
He switches off the air vents. “LJ is at the Meadows cottage. It’s not ideal having the cats separated, and it’s just another reason we need to unfuck this living situation.”
I nod and rest my boot on the seat. Elbow to my knee while I eat. Thatcher and I have been wearing the same battle colors these days. For most everything.
It’s strange as hell that we’re agreeing so often, but we’re engaged to two famous ones who are as close as twins. So whenever their safety is at risk, I’m finding myself falling in line beside Thatcher.
As for the move to New York, Maximoff would be cleaning up messes and pulling overtime dragging the Cobalt brothers out of deep shit. More than he already does.
