She was trying to wrangle her cat on a leash to leave. I was trying not to stare too intensely.
“I thought you were smarter than me,” I say deeply, carrying her to bed.
She blushes, trying to suppress a smile. “How so?”
“You knew words I didn’t.” I can’t remember the exact word. It’s been too long, and she mulls this over while I gently place her on a twin bed.
I sift through her suitcase and find her favorite flannel pajamas, and I amble over, my knee on the mattress. Easily, I slide her legs into the pants and then arms into the top. She does her best to help, but she whacks herself in the face.
“I have you,” I whisper.
She lets me dress her, and when she’s warm and clothed, she plops back down with a content smile.
Before I pull up the covers, she rolls over and clutches my leg. “Stay.” Her body shakes as a chill ripples through the room.
“Okay.” I crouch down, unlacing my boots, slipping them off, and then I stand and unbutton my slacks. Surprisingly, she’s able to keep eye contact, but I can tell she’s still under the influence of whiskey.
She shifts her legs more than usual and her arms hang lifelessly on her hips.
“Is that all you thought about me?” she asks softly.
“No.” I shake my head.
There is a great chance she’ll never remember what I say now, but the truth isn’t hard to share with Jane drunk or sober.
“I thought you were young.”
Too young for me.
Too rich for me.
Too much of a Cobalt for me.
I was starting a career that would include protecting her and the people she loved, and I didn’t want to fuck it. I wanted to respect the fact that she was underage and the only thing that mattered was her safety.
Jane actually smiles. “I’m not that much younger than you…yourealize.” She slurs again.
“Five years?” I climb onto the small bed, and she rolls onto her back, spreading open her thighs. Fuck. My hands press on either side of her head on the mattress, and I keep my body weight off Jane. “You were only seventeen.”
Our eyes latch tightly as she whispers, “You were only twenty-two.”
I nod a few times.
I was only twenty-two. I was younger than she is now, and I hadn’t been out of the military for long. “Now I’m twenty-eight,” I say strongly, “and I’m doing what I should’ve done on day one.”
“What’s that?” She blinks hard, fighting a heavy sleep.
I dip my head and whisper against her ear, “Let myself love you.”
Jane grips my hair, as though to say, stay. Her breath comes out in a sharp wave, swelling my chest, and I slip under the covers, my legs hanging off the bed. I tuck her trembling body against my chest.
She burrows into me for warmth and security.
Moments pass, her eyes closed, and right before she drifts off, she murmurs, “Thatcher?”
“Yeah?”
She seems to hold tighter.
I cup her cheek. “I have you. You’re safe, honey.” I repeat the sentiments, and her body loosens.
And into the silence, she breathes, “I love you.”
It jolts me, and I hang onto those words, my veins pulsing. She’s only ever said I’m falling in love with you. It could just be a drunken slip, but it’s like a drug.
And I fall to sleep with in an indescribable high.
22
JANE COBALT
My heart is racing. “About the other night…” I speak quietly to Thatcher, as though my voice will carry across the endless rolling mountains.
Chilly wind whips my wavy hair as I try to catch my breath. We just completed a climb to the top of a beautiful plateau, the flat grassland stretching left and right while sheep roam leisurely around us.
“Yeah?” Thatcher takes a quick glance down the steep rock-littered grass: what we just trekked up, where we left Tony at the bottom, my bodyguard a speck in the distance as he waits with the cars.
I was surprised when Tony listened to my request to stay there.
Even more shocked that he didn’t argue about “Banks” accompanying me. Though he made comments.
He said, “Take the killjoy. See how much fun you’ll have without me.” He leaned on the car like he was the smoothest sex god worthy of my lust, and then he flashed a flirty smile that made my ovaries shrivel.
“I don’t love being around you,” I snapped. “And if you believe you’ll be my bodyguard for long, you’re mistaken.”
His smile fell. “Come on.” He sounded hurt. “Whatever Moretti has said about me, it’s not true.”
“I can make up my own mind,” I rebutted, just as Thatcher approached us.
He assessed the uneasiness and the tension that wound between me and my bodyguard. His gaze narrowed on Tony. “What’d you say to her?”
“Nothing that everyone doesn’t know already.” Tony tried to raise his chin to appear taller than Thatcher. “I was just telling Jane that I’m more fun than you.”
To which I snapped back, “And your unsolicited opinion on Banks or Thatcher or a combination of the two is deeply unwelcome.” I glared.
Hotly.
I caught Thatcher smiling down at me. Maybe just the corner of his lip slightly rose, but that means more coming from a man who’s stern exterior rarely crumbles. And I could practically see the light pooling inside him.
Now that we’ve left Tony behind and it’s just my boyfriend and me, nerves flap in my stomach. Butterfly-nerves—I have them tenfold around Thatcher and his commanding presence and his hard-to-read features that I canvass eagerly.
He has his arms crossed, radio mic attached to a blue outdoorsy jacket that reminds me of Banks. And his eyes have returned to me with such raw intensity.
I squish my binder tighter against my puffy jacket.
Last night, Jane. We’re discussing last night, and I shake the cobwebs from my head. “…I appreciate, more than anything, you taking care of me when I was…”
Sloppy drunk.
A sloshed fool.
Just plain messy Jane.
“Indisposed,” I say aloud.
He almost smiles again. “You were cute indisposed.”
I brighten. “You mean I was a hot mess?”
Thatcher looks me over. “I’ve seen hot messes before, and you’re your own thing.”
“Cute indisposed,” I muse.
“Cute indisposed,” he confirms with a nod.
We stare deeper, and emotion tries to burrow further into me. I try to stay on track. “I meant to say more.”
He nods me on.
“About last night…” I add again.
I feel and see Thatcher hanging onto my every word. Like I’m building towards a climax and it could be disastrous or the most glorious extreme we’ve ever reached.
It’s up to me where I take us, I realize. Which is so different from when we were fake-dating; our fate was in his hands back then.
“I had less control of my body,” I mention, “and I felt really quite safe with you.” My pulse is strangely on an ascent, as though I’m still climbing up the steep hill. “And not because you’re a bodyguard but because you’re you.”