They’ve forgotten about Banks, and I have to grab hold to this useless fucking fact or else I’ll burst a blood vessel in my neck.
This isn’t good.
This is bad.
Really bad. We’d been speculating fan theories to come to light if I stayed with Jane past October, but not this theory about SFO as a whole. The media believes we’re pretending to be bodyguards.
For fuck’s sake.
I read more.
Clearly these couples are trying to hide their tracks! Thatcher is no longer protecting Jane just to throw us off, and Paul is no longer protecting Beckett. But our source says they’re all still together.
I hang onto that last line.
We’re still together. Jane and me.
I breathe out, not realizing how good it’d feel to hear the media change their position on my relationship. Even if the rest isn’t true.
I decide to text Akara rather than use comms.
Did you see the “holy secrets” article? I press send.
A minute later, I get a reply.
But instead of answering me by text, he responds to everyone. “Akara to Omega, if you see the article in Celebrity Crush about SFO, ignore it. Protect your client and keep your heads up. Prove that this means nothing.”
Roger that.
14
JANE COBALT
I’m afraid.
I’m so very afraid that I’ll be too soft on my brother. I’m afraid that Maximoff will have to be the strong-hand and it’ll create unnecessary tension between him and Beckett when that should be my burden to bear.
I’m afraid that I won’t be enough to help him.
That I will fail in epic glory, as I always seem to do in the end.
Fears commandeer my mind and rattle my core. We’ve packed our bags and left them in the Range Rover outside the Hell’s Kitchen apartment complex, the world quiet and still at 3:30 a.m.—our flight for Scotland departs today.
And we’ve come to gather a passenger.
The ritzy elevator feels compact and ominous as we ascend the floors to my brothers’ bachelor pad, and I know my apprehension is apparent. Concern spills out of Thatcher, Farrow, and Moffy. I sense them looking at me as the numbers tick and we rise.
At least I was able to convince Tony to take another elevator. Most likely because Banks stayed behind with him. Before we leave Hell’s Kitchen, the Moretti brothers plan to swap clothes in a restroom, and when they come out, Thatcher will pretend to be Banks and Banks will be Thatcher.
Igniting the twin switch.
But right now, only the four of us are in the elevator, and Thatcher is still entirely himself.
I blow out a controlled breath. Hot beneath my cheetah-fur coat and pastel jeans.
“We’re right here with you, Janie.” Maximoff has squared shoulders and these tough green eyes that say, we can power through anything. And with Farrow at total ease next to him, that resilience doubles.
Thatcher is behind me, his sculpted arm protectively wrapped around my collarbones while I lean back against his chest. I look up, and he looks down.
His narrowed gaze carries unadulterated confidence that washes over me. Like we’re standing beneath a steaming shower in a faraway land, alone together. Like we’re naked.
Bare.
Vulnerable, and I’m syphoning his assurance and composure. My chin rises, my shoulders lifting. I’m a leech, I realize.
I’m leeching his strength, and I don’t want to rely solely on him. Or anyone for that matter.
Not my parents, not Maximoff and Farrow, not bodyguards, siblings, cousins, or strangers—I need to offer something and be of use and value. Yet, I can’t move.
I can’t push Thatcher away. It hurts even thinking about stepping out of this embrace. I inhale and reach behind me, gripping his waist.
Eyes still fixed together, his lips lower and meet mine. In an upside-down kiss, brief and explosive. Detonating an emotional meteor in my heart, my body swells, and I breathe and breathe.
We break, and I look ahead.
Eyes wide in the same thought.
I’m a leech.
But is it so bad to leech another man’s confidence?
Yes.
No, because possibly he leeches a great deal from me too.
Does he?
What if he leeches nothing, Jane?
I don’t know anymore. I’ve never questioned my confidence so deeply, and these insecurities weigh a fifty-ton pressure on my chest that I don’t need today.
Think of Beckett.
Think of your brother.
Think of your goal.
I drop my hands off Thatcher, and I find strength to move. Whether it’s the right kind of strength, I’m not certain. I’m so confused, but I step out of his hold anyway.
His arm tears off my collarbones.
It hurts.
I can feel the air slice painfully, and I struggle to even look him in the eyes. I glance over at my best friend, and Maximoff shakes his head with a wince. Feeling my unease, possibly.
Farrow is eyeing Thatcher, then me. I think he sees a strain that my leech-insecurities just created.
“Jane?” Thatcher says.
I clear a pained knot in my throat. “I hate that we’re forcing my brother to join us.” I adjust the strap of my fuzzy mint-green purse, the unusual contents inside weighing on me. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.” But none of us could formulate a better solution.
Silence thickens, the floor-numbers still increasing.
I finally look up at Thatcher.
He rubs his mouth, brows knitted. “Do you not want us to be here?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Not at all.”
“Do you not want me to be here then?”
“No,” I emphasize, my stomach lurching. “You have no idea how much…” I exhale, my pulse hiking to devastating speeds. “…how many times it’s dawned on me and overwhelmed me—that Moffy and I have fallen for two men who fight to help us protect who we love.” My eyes burn. “Not just half-heartedly or out of loyalty to us, but because you deeply love our siblings and cousins. And if we weren’t here, you’d still fight for them as deeply as we would, and that is priceless to me.”
I love him.
Say it, Jane.
His eyes cradle mine, offering comfort from afar. His chest rises in deeper breath.
I open my mouth. “I—”
Ding.
The elevator doors slide open. We’ve arrived.
“Try not to wake Eliot and Tom,” Charlie whispers, letting us inside the lavish and sleek apartment. Dark, no lamps or lights turned on, I skulk ahead of everyone and reach Beckett’s bedroom.
I tie my wavy hair back with a velvet scrunchie.
Don’t let up.
Confidence.
I pull back my shoulders and gently open the door. Quiet, I tiptoe on the dark hardwood and into the cleanest, most organized space. Books sit in neat rows on a polished shelf, pencils perfectly lined on a desk, and a fern is situated in the precise corner, near ironed curtains where navy fabric is pleated in straight lines.
Beckett sleeps soundlessly beneath a tucked-in, blue comforter. He holds the pillow beneath his head, colorful floral tattoos sprawling down his right arm. Donnelly inked every single one of Beckett’s tattoos, and all are flowers from roses to daisies to lilies and poppies, as homage to our mom and aunts.