His chest rises.
“Someone I trust. Someone I…” I falter, burning up from nerves. “And…and I very much liked this morning.” Why am I so abysmally frightened admitting this to him?
I adored how he doted on me the second I woke up. How he asked me how I felt, gave me Advil, made me breakfast and slyly brought the poached eggs and waffle to my bed. All without the Epsilon bodyguards noticing, he took these risks just to help me fight a hangover.
It made me feel…loved.
Yet, my emotions pull and push in a tug-of-war with my head. Logically, I know that I’m taking far too much.
I tilt my head up to meet his eyes. “And if you ever need a sober-someone to take care of you, then I’m more than willing to return the favor. It’s what I’m most used to, you know. Taking care of my family.”
Thatcher never looks away. “You don’t need to give me what you give your siblings. I’m not your little brother, honey.”
Flush ascends my cheeks as I picture his dick inside me. “You’re definitely not my brother, I agree completely.” Sweating, I unzip my jacket. “But if I could give you something in return for last night, what would you want?”
He runs a hand over his unshaven jaw, staring stronger into me as though he’s trying to figure out the depth of what I’m saying. “There’s no cost to being with me, Jane. I don’t want to be reimbursed for cooking you breakfast or holding your hair back.”
My neck flames. “But I don’t want to be your burden. I want to be your equal.”
Realization slams at him, and I swear he careens back from the force. He inhales, then breathes strongly out. He dips his head to be nearer, his hand teasingly close to my hand. “You’re not my burden.” He hardly blinks. “And you already are my equal. I hate that I’ve given you an impression that you’re not.”
I believe him, but I can’t quite grasp what I’ve done for Thatcher in the same regard as to what he’s done for me.
It still feels awfully lopsided, especially after the boozy pub night.
I’m quiet.
Thatcher rubs his mouth with a look of concern. Dare I say, he even appears nervous. He drops his hand to his side.
I murmur, “I’m sorry—”
“No,” he interjects. “You never need to apologize to me for expressing what you feel.”
I exhale a pained breath. “One part of me hates that I even apologized to begin with. I feel like I’m losing sense of what I’ve learned from the women before me. From Aunt Daisy, from my mom.” My eyes burn. “But I also love that you reminded me that it’s okay to feel what I feel, even if it’s terribly confusing.”
He shakes his head, a thought pinching his brows and tightening his eyes. He shifts his visceral intensity off me.
“What is it?” I whisper, aching to hear everything that rattles his brain.
He softens his eyes before placing them on me. “You’re so fucking hard on yourself.” In a silent beat, deep understanding passes between us because he’s also tough on himself with most everything. “You’re just twenty-three, Jane. You don’t have to be perfect versions of the women who raised you.”
My heart swells. “Women,” I repeat the word. “You included my aunts?”
He nods once. “I know what they all mean to you.”
If my mom were here, Thatcher Moretti would be her favorite almost instantaneously. She loves her sisters like they’re a part of her soul, and I love that he understands how much I look up to all the women in my life.
Aunt Daisy has taught me to use my voice, even if the world says stay quiet. Aunt Lily has taught me fierce courage, even on days when you feel lesser than. And Rose Calloway Cobalt, my mom—she’s taught me how to walk into a room full of men and never back down.
She’s taught me familial love. And loyalty.
She’s taught me how femininity is everything and anything. Harsh and icy. Soft and stiff. Boisterous and unruly. Timid and unrelenting. Oxymorons and complements and conundrums that no one needs to understand.
We’re women because we say so. We feel so. And that realization freed me.
Very deeply, Thatcher tells me, “When they were your age, they were figuring out being in their twenties and in love—you’re allowed this part.”
I cage breath. “This part?”
“Of life,” he clarifies. “The stomach-flipping, head-scratching moments where you feel like everything is going off the tracks.”
Curiosity ignites me. “You’ve been here before?”
He lifts his shoulders. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved,” he reminds me. “But I’ve had to right a lot of wrong-tracked trains in my early twenties.”
I remember that we’re in this together, and I can’t imagine experiencing this part of life with another man. His patience and respect constantly boosts me into another stratosphere.
He deserves better than me.
I push down that hurtful voice in my ear.
I’m amazing too. I’m triumphant and beautiful, and I deserve his love.
I have so much to offer him. Love (that I’m withholding), Strength (that keeps vacillating), Great Sex (sure, there’s that).
Slapping aside my insecurities, I tell him the good I feel. “I’m really glad it’s you who’s experiencing this part with me.” I smile at a thought. “If I had a glass slipper, I’d put it on your foot right about now.”
His mouth curves upward. “You choose me?”
“Oui.” I breathe. “Toujours.” Always.
Fear tries to stab me. My shoulders bind and my back arches a little. We look into one another, and though his eyes never stray from mine, I can feel him studying my stiff posture. He’s a perceptive man, which I love.
Wind whistles, and our fingers nearly brush. A strand of hair slips out from behind his ear and caresses his cheek. He tucks back the brown tendril, then swivels a knob on the radio. He straightens some and speaks hushed in the mic.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
He nods, muscles flexed. “Tony thinks we’re standing too close.”
My brows jump. “Do we need to back away?”
“No.” His eyes devour me. “I told him that you’re cold.”
I begin to smile. “Thank God for the weather.”
His lips lift, then lower, and lines crease his forehead. “I just need confirmation about something.”
“Of course.” I inhale, more on edge.
“Did you like that I took care of you last night?”
“Yes,” I say so suddenly and from deep in my core. “So much so. More than just like, even.”
He nods a few times, his shoulders relaxing, and then asks, “How much do you remember?”
I file through my hazy memories. “Most everything in the pub. Very little afterwards.” I squint. “I think the last moment I can picture is you pressing a washcloth on my forehead.” What I’d give to be a fly on the wall to Black-Out (SOS) Jane.
He stares off for a moment.
I peel a flyaway hair off my wind-chapped lips. “Did I do or say anything mortifying last night?”
He shakes his head, about to speak but his phone rings. Checking the Caller ID, his expression hardens. “It’s Banks.”