“I was about to leave,” I tell him, “and Tony was waiting for me in the lobby just outside the women’s restroom. Through the door, I could hear him talking on the phone.” My stomach roils, and I shift closer, my knees knocking into his leg.
I freeze again.
He assesses me in a sweep, and I clutch my elbows, looking at his lips more than a few times. Once he notices, our breathing switches tempo. Desire pulses between my legs, and I imagine his large hands knowing exactly how to please the aching, building need inside me.
Wrong time.
The body wants what the body wants, and I suppose so does the soul. I’m just struggling with feeding the latter.
Thatcher keeps us on track. “You heard Tony talk on the phone?”
“Oui.” I straighten up and tuck a flyaway hair behind my ear. “He mentioned you and your brother.”
Lines crease his forehead. “Which brother?”
“Skylar.” I shake my head hotly and cringe. “He said, Thatcher never even visits his dead brother’s grave, and he wants everyone to be sympathetic about that shit.”
Thatcher mumbles an Italian curse word and almost rolls his eyes. “He’s unbelievable.” He looks back at me. “I visit Skylar’s grave.”
I bristle. “So he’s inaccurate and cruel.”
“He got us confused,” Thatcher clarifies. “Banks is the one who never goes to the cemetery.”
I wonder why.
If I could classify my relationship with Banks Moretti now, it’d be filed under new. Simply, he’s been more of a bodyguard to me and I’ve been more of a famous client to him. Whatever we know personally about each other has been what Thatcher has shared.
I whisper, “Tony has no empathy for you or Banks.”
Thatcher scowls. “He wouldn’t. To him, we’re a punch line and fucking twin gag like Thing 1 and Thing 2.”
I understand being dehumanized by internet trolls and media outlets. But Tony isn’t a nameless internet user. He grew up with the Moretti brothers, and I can’t even imagine how much worse that would hurt.
“He’s like an impenetrable, grinning Cheshire cat,” I say softly. “I think it’s easier when we both shut him down together.” We’re frowning because under our current situation, Thatcher can’t help me this way.
He dips his head, his voice low. Eyes serious. “I should be next to you.”
We both know he has to be with Xander. “It’s two months,” I breathe. “Once the probationary period is over, he’ll be transferred.”
Thatcher glances down.
At my hand.
That’s been on his thigh. “Oh,” I say aloud, warmth spreading throughout my body. “I didn’t realize I was…” touching you.
“You can keep it there.” We’re impossibly close now, and I don’t move away anymore. I don’t freeze, and his large hand hovers next to my cheek. Sensitive places tingling, electricity sparking, and an ache pulses harder and begs for him to just pick me up and devour me whole.
I whisper, “Thatcher.”
His forehead nearly presses to mine.
My eyes scald. “I can’t believe I’m going on a trip without you.” It’ll be strange. He was my bodyguard for almost a year. With me every day, and now…
I drop my gaze.
His hand encases my cheek. “Fuck it.” He’s a breath from my lips. “We’re switching places.”
“What?” I shake my head, utterly confused.
“Me and my brother. I’ll explain everything.”
7
JANE COBALT
“You can’t be serious,” I whisper to the Moretti brothers, and I can’t believe I even ask. Both are very serious men, Thatcher more so than Banks. They’re definitely not playing a practical joke on me.
My bugged eyes dart between my boyfriend and his twin brother in the noisy South Philly sports bar. So crowded here that only one barstool was unoccupied.
Thatcher has taken the stool. And while I clutch a pint of beer, I sit across his lap, his strong arm around my waist—and I’ve been really, really taken with our seating arrangement. Especially the nearness of his chest, his body heat flushing me all over, and how my arm brushes against his abs.
That was, until, they dropped a Mary-Kate and Ashley sized bomb on me.
“It’s just one week,” Banks says with a slight smile, one teeming with confidence that Thatcher matches in a shared glance. “This is nothing for me, even less for Thatcher.” He cocks his head to his brother. “Pack me up and ship me out, I’m ready.”
I begin to smile, sensing their energy. “You’re both excited about this, aren’t you?” Thatcher enjoys his job, and it’s often a high-octane, high-risk one, and I suppose this will jolt them with more adrenaline.
“To spend more time with you,” Thatcher says, looking down at me. “Hell yeah.”
A smile explodes across my face, and I sip my beer, feeling like my thirteen-year-old easily smitten sister. But realities take hold, and my smile starts to fade. “If you’re caught…” I trail off as they shake their heads.
“It won’t happen,” Thatcher assures.
It makes me sad to think they truly believe very few people can tell them apart. It makes me sadder to think it could be true.
They said they’d be fooling a small number of individuals. Mostly Tony, which should be easy enough.
I take another sip of beer. Thatcher keeps a hand on my binder that I placed on the bar counter, as though someone might snatch it and leak Maximoff & Farrow’s wedding plans.
It is a possibility, and I love how he ensures that all parts of my life are safe.
Thatcher looks into me. “You’re going to help us.”
My lips rise. “I like the sound of this.” I doubt I could sit idly backseat to this plan. I want to make sure the risk is low for them. With the tilt of my chin, I stare up at my boyfriend. “How can I be of service, Mr. Moretti?”
His palm slyly disappears under my robust, tulle skirt. The better to hide my boyfriend’s hand with.
I smooth my lips together and try to subdue my shallow breathing. His warm hand tracks hot lines up my thigh. Thatcher kisses the nape of my neck before whispering, “Okay?”
“Yes.” Oh my God, yes. If I blink three times, I feel like this raw, sexual, warrior of a man will disappear in a poof, and I’m wide-eyed and too eager.
Banks… is staring right at me. He nearly laughs.
Am I panting? Am I childishly head-over-heels?
My face is on fire. “I like your brother,” I state outright.
“Right on.” He smiles and swigs his beer. He’s been standing and shielding bar patrons from reaching me. People pack in tight to watch football and a pro-wrestling pre-show.
I sweep Banks more curiously. Whereas Thatcher carries himself like a commander in a mythic warzone, Banks is a primed solider who would fill every frame of a documentary. He’s background that can’t be unseen.
I glance back at Thatcher, just as he tells me, “Banks and I need an objective eye when it comes to our similarities and differences.”