I freeze.
This is all allowed, Jane. We’re together, and the security team doesn’t have to sign off on our public interactions as part of a ploy anymore.
He clutches my hips, and my lungs expand. While I lean against his body, I weave my arms behind him and slide my hand down his back pocket.
His peach-perfect ass is all mine.
Maximoff sends me a confused look. “I thought you were sad about leaving him during the trip.”
I crane my neck up at the Moretti brothers. “Do you want to tell them or shall I?”
“You,” they say.
Banks curses under his breath as they speak at the same time again. And quietly, I unleash the twin swap plan. By the end, Farrow is grinning so wide that his smile reaches cheek-to-cheek.
“Just say it,” Thatcher cuts in.
“You like breaking the rules for her,” Farrow tells him matter-of-factly.
Thatcher looks only at me, and my heart swells. No man has ever made me feel like a rare beauty worthy of sacrifice. He’s never sought after my fame or fortune.
He’s just sought after me.
I open my mouth to speak. “I—”
A drunken fool plows into my boyfriend’s back.
“Merde,” I curse.
Thatcher hardly sways. He’s quick to take my hand out of his pocket, to pull my arms safely in front of me, and just as the fool barrels into him with purpose again, Thatcher swerves onto this twenty-something man and shoves his chest. Like the violent rip of caution tape, the packed bodies explode with rowdy, hostile force.
Pushing.
Yelling all at once. “Get outta here!” can be heard above the jumbled, slurred mess.
My heartbeat spikes.
Banks is suddenly facing me and back-to-back with Thatcher. My boyfriend’s brother is guarding me.
I see Tony out of the corner of my eye. Squeezing through the mosh pit of a crowd. “HEY!” he yells. “Knock it off, Gio!”
He knows one of these assholes?
“Morettis can’t come in here actin’ like they own the place!” Gio yells back.
Male voices from all directions drown out his complaint. Thatcher and Banks included, shouting over him.
Curiosity nearly goads me to stay and watch. Thatcher is more willing to argue here than if we were somewhere else. He outwardly blazes, and he glances back and communicates with his brother.
I swallow my speeding pulse. “We need to leave!” I shout to Moffy, and I grab my fur coat off the stool. Once I look up at my best friend, I pale.
His red-hot fixated glare is all too familiar. He’s hyper-focused on three young guys in green Eagles merch. They berate Farrow, who’s as cool as can be. He couldn’t care less, only a hand outstretched to keep them from shoving. But he shoots Moffy a warning look to stay back.
And then they spit on Farrow.
“Moffy, no.”
He launches forward. I drop my coat and clasp his waist.
“MOFFY!” He barely even notices me pulling him, and so I leap onto his back.
“Janie?” He stops in place.
Someone hollers, “Look, cousins screwing cousins!” My stomach lurches, but I try not to listen because if I let go of him, he’ll—
Tony suddenly tears me off of Maximoff.
“No!” I scream and kick my feet out.
I’ve been ripped off my best friend plenty before; it’s protocol—and every time, I yell about not leaving him behind. But in this moment, only one word escapes my lips.
No.
I yell it again.
Tony cages me to his chest. I squirm against his stronghold, and my panicked eyes land on Thatcher.
He’s already coming towards me.
He heard me scream.
Moffy sees me struggling. “Let her go!” he shouts at Tony.
I flail my feet, and my heel makes contact with my bodyguard’s crotch. Tony grunts, “Fuck.” He sets me down and doubles over.
“Moffy!” I bolt to catch his arm. Now that I’m fine, he’s already leaving for Farrow, who does a fantastic job restraining the pushing crowd.
“Jane!” Thatcher cuts off my path and shields me. “Jane!”
I lose sight of Moffy. “I can’t leave him!” I put my hands on his chest to push him backwards. But my strength doesn’t outmatch his, so I use all my weight and jump on my boyfriend.
He catches me in a front piggyback. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist—his hands cup the backs of my thighs.
Hoisting me higher on his tall build.
Oh.
My.
God?
I hold his neck, and our eyes sink into each other. As though the world falls hush around us, as though meeting the safety I’ve always craved has the power to stop time and grow impossible gardens. As though we’re Adam and Eve and whatever sinful deed we commit, we’ll commit together.
Wild pieces of my hair stick to my lips. His narrowed gaze is full of purpose and potency.
He breathes hard.
I breathe harder. “Thatcher.” I can’t leave my best friend. I can’t leave him, and I’m not ready to be dragged out of this bar like I always am when Maximoff fights.
“You’re my eyes,” Thatcher says strongly. “Watch Banks. He’s helping Farrow and Maximoff. Copy?”
“Yes.” I inhale. “I’ll be your eyes.” I scrutinize Banks. His arms are extended, and he barricades the angered bar patrons from physically confronting Maximoff and Farrow.
My pulse decelerates for the first time, and I realize it’s because I’m in Thatcher’s arms.
He takes charge and yells at Tony. “Tell your friend to mind his own fucking business! Or take him out of here!”
“My friend?!” Tony unleashes a bitter laugh. “Gio and I haven’t been friends since we were sixteen! If it were up to me, I wouldn’t even be in this shithole!”
I can practically feel Tony gesturing to the rustic green bar sign above the televisions.
The one that reads: South Philly Brew.
Thatcher has spent countless nights at this sports bar with his family. He’s told me about how his uncles would buy Banks and him beers when they were teenagers. Yes, even underage, and they’d watch football and blow off steam.
He’s rigid against me, boiling. “You grew up in this shithole like the rest of us!”
“And I made it out! Unlike you!”
I cringe, hating every little jab that Tony loves to take. South Philly is a beautiful place, and I want to turn and defend Thatcher to the death, but I made a promise to watch Banks.
Not coming to my boyfriend’s defense—it hurts like a billion blades in my stomach, but I force myself to stay pinned to his brother.
Ohh…
No.
No.
My eyes grow as a thin guy in a winter beanie stands on a chair, a plastic shopping bag in hand. What did he buy?
For what purpose?
“Gio, sit down!” Banks yells.
“Thatcher,” I warn.
He swings his head, and immediately, he lowers me to my feet, his towering height shielding me.
Zeroing in on the target, Thatcher yells, “Che cozz’!”
He’s taught me enough Italian that I remember the translation: What the fuck are you doing?
“Just bought this for you, Moretti!” Gio digs his hand in the shopping bag. “So you can tie up your rich bitch!” He chucks an object at us, but Farrow intercepts first and catches what looks like restraint cuffs, meant to tie a submissive to a bed.