His boldness should heat me head-to-toe like a boiling furnace. It usually does, but there is a glaring issue with Mackintosh House.
It’s hellishly cold.
I shiver as I wheel in my suitcase.
“This place is super creepy,” Sulli says under her breath, the wallpaper deep reds and greens, a winding banister leads to the dark upstairs, and old black and white photographs hang on the walls. Doily cloths are absolutely everywhere.
“I love it,” I announce.
Oscar passes me. “Retro Granny Realness.” He raises his hand for a high-five, and I tap his palm with a smile before he treks upstairs.
“I bet it’s kinda haunted.” Luna snaps photos on her phone. “Kinney is gonna love this.” She inspects the picture she just captured. “Or she’ll hate that she’s missing out.” The young girls couldn’t ditch their last week in school before winter break.
Sulli and Luna leave to go unpack, but I don’t follow.
While footsteps and voices echo around the drafty eight-bedroom house, I’m on a hunt in the rustic kitchen. Knees on the icy hardwood, I fumble through a crooked junk drawer, searching for any manuals to the heaters.
None will turn on, and Mackintosh House is far too large to be heated from a single living room fireplace.
I reach the bottom stack of papers.
“Any luck?” Thatcher saunters into the kitchen.
I blow a frizzed hair off my lip. Oh…
He’s…exceedingly tall. While I’m down here, on my knees.
His white button-down and dog tags also take me aback for a second. Even if he appears like his brother, I could never mistake him for Banks like Tony and O’Malley already have.
Neither one batted an eye on the plane.
I skim him a little more, a sweltering breath in my lungs. I suppose Thatcher seeing me dressed in all black would be just as jarring for him.
I shut the drawer. “The only manual I could find was for the washer/dryer.” I stand, a chill biting my neck, and I pull my zebra coat tighter around my breasts.
Thatcher switches on the gas burner and oven. Flames lick the stovetop grates. “Come here.” He motions me closer.
He is incredibly inviting. All six-foot-seven of him. Oh-so-warm and…hot.
So eloquent.
I follow his direction. More cautiously, I land next to him but keep my distance. A dreadful six inches separate our bodies.
That should be enough.
I’d normally stand this far from Banks.
Thatcher stares down at me, as though assessing my temperature from sight alone, and I look up at him, aching to step a little closer.
“It should heat up soon,” Thatcher says, standing sturdy next to the oven door. He glances from the kitchen entryway to my arms that hug my body. “Can I?”
My lips pull higher. “Can you…?”
He reaches out and his fingers run gently along my wrist, tingling my soft flesh. I pulse between my legs, and I inhale without the ability to exhale. Warmth pricks my nerves like he’s carried me to a roaring fire.
Our eyes dive deeper, and when I nod him on, his clutch strengthens. He guides my palm over the flaming stovetop, and his hand lingers on my wrist, not letting go of me.
I don’t want him to.
My hip brushes his stoic body, the six inches now shrunk to zero. Thatcher and I risk the nearness, and he’s so perceptive of his surroundings that I trust his instincts if we go too far.
He subtly checks the entryway.
I check more blatantly.
Clear.
Attention returned to each other, I whisper, “I’m glad you’re here with me.” I’ve said so a few times already. “I like you—I mean, I more than like you, which you know…” Nervous flush bathes me, and I stare at him, panic-eyed.
He seems so put-together in this moment, and I’m still frazzled like an awkward mess. Yet, I love how he makes me feel utterly unraveled. As though he’s the only man who can reach a rare piece of me and pull and undo me at the seams.
“You know,” I add unhelpfully.
“I know,” he confirms.
“Good.” God, he’s hot. His whole unfaltering demeanor. His whole being.
He nods back, tension brewing. Thatcher studies me a beat longer. He has that look again. Like he’s staring directly into the brightest, hottest sun. “I want to ask you something that might be hard for you to answer.” He eyes the entryway, then me. “Later tonight?”
Curiosity has latched its sharp claws into me. “You can ask me now.” I whisper even more quietly. “If you think it’s safe to talk.” We hear footsteps above us and chatter in the distance, but the kitchen is ours in this second.
He sweeps our surroundings one more time, then nods. “We can now, if you really want.”
“I want to know.” I cage a breath in preparation. “Go ahead.”
His mouth dips towards my ear, his voice low and gentle. “Why are you afraid to love me?”
I shake my head on impulse, and a cold pain stabs my lungs. “I don’t…I’m…” I lean to the right.
“Watch out—Jane.” Thatcher lifts my hand higher. I nearly pressed my palm to the iron stovetop.
Hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I can’t blink or close my agape mouth, and I realize I’m pressed up against his chest.
I ran into his body for safety.
It overwhelms me, my throat swelling.
My wrist is still in his grasp, and he keeps my hand raised in the air. We both breathe heavily, and I manage to say, “Usually…I can articulate what I’m thinking, but what I’m feeling—what I feel for you is so inexplicably complex and I feel like nothing is coming out quite right. Just that alone…scares me in the best and worst way.” I wince at myself. “And that was a terrible non-answer.”
“No,” he refutes, his chest tightened like he’s controlling himself not to hold me. To touch me further and greater. He looks to the right, then back to me. “I understand.” He softens his gaze on me. “Look, I’m crawling through this with you—” He cuts himself off and his features lose all emotion, completely professional. “Be careful, Jane.” He’s still clutching my wrist.
I frown, about to respond, but another voice slices into the kitchen.
“Whoa, Banks.” O’Malley rolls to a halt with an armful of firewood, and Quinn bypasses him with another bundle. The Epsilon bodyguard eagle-eyes Thatcher like he’s lost his mind.
Thatcher is surprisingly calm and casual. Like Banks would be. He lowers my arm to my side and steps back from my body. “What do you want?”
O’Malley lets out a soft laugh. “You’re three inches from your brother’s girl and that’s not bizarre to you?”
“I had to grab her before she touched the burner. She didn’t realize I turned it on.” He lifts a shoulder. “That’s it.”
I shoot O’Malley a look. “Why? What’d you think Banks was doing?” I’m still a client, and he treats me with more respect than he does Thatcher.
Apologies fill his eyes. “Sorry. My mistake, Jane. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He disappears towards the living room.
Alone again, worry bunches my brows. “Did he buy it?” I whisper. “Or was he just placating me?”