“I won’t,” I whisper, my large palm gliding up and down the length of her back, along the line of her smooth shoulders and her soft thighs.
She reaches back to her spine and tries to snap off her wet bra.
I unclasp it, slipping the straps down her bare shoulders. I watch her eyes follow my fingertips that track scalding trails as I remove her clothing.
And I glance at the windshield. To see if Tony has a visual inside our car. With our body temperature and the heaters on full-blast, we’ve created a sauna, the windows completely fogged.
Farrow makes sure Maximoff doesn’t look back and see his cousin topless.
All clear.
I warm her cold skin, kneading her breasts and puckered nipples, and Jane melts into me. My pulse pounds.
She rests her chin on my chest, just to look up at me. Her breath becomes shallow…then deeper.
Finally.
I clasp her cheek, our lips brushing before I press mine to hers in raw, deep passion. Breathing life into Jane, and she careens into the sweltering kiss. Her fingers gripping stronger on my biceps. My muscles contract and I pull her against me.
When our mouths break apart, I make sure my girlfriend doesn’t look forward and see Maximoff stripping off his wet boxer-briefs.
Farrow undoes his own belt—about to give his fiancé his dry clothes.
I do the same. My white tee off, I pull the soft fabric over Jane’s head, which hangs down to her thighs. The car is heavy breath and blood-scalding heat.
Jane wraps up in my shirt and lets out a soft noise, more content. But then she shifts slightly and winces.
Her leg. I check the cut. Bleeding has stopped. While I apply a bandage, I ask, “How bad does it hurt?”
“It stings,” she whispers. “But I don’t want to move.”
I weave my arm around her hips and shoulders. Tucking her against me. I look at the front seat. “Farrow, you good to drive with the rain?” In the past, storms have triggered certain memories for him.
“Yeah. It’s not affecting me.” Farrow pulls off his dry black V-neck and passes the fabric to Maximoff.
“No, man.” Maximoff shoves the shirt back to Farrow. “You need that more than I do.” A shiver runs through him.
His brows spike with a barbell piercing. “I’m sweating, so no, I really don’t.” He snaps in his seatbelt.
Maximoff relents, already tugging on Farrow’s black pants over his waist. He kisses Farrow, then focuses on his cousin. “You okay, Janie?” He restrains himself from glancing back.
“Yes.” She buries her cheek in the crook of my arm. “Are you?”
“Yeah.”
I speak into my mic. “Banks to Tony, we’re Oscar Mike in three.”
Comms crackle. “Roger.”
While Farrow puts the car in gear, I detect this sadness in Jane, her lips downturned and eyes on the passenger seat. Where her best friend sits.
“What’s wrong, honey?” I whisper so they can’t hear.
She has a pained face. “Moffy won’t pick this location for the ceremony. I know how much he loved it, but we all know it’s not safe, especially if it rains.”
I skim her and can’t help but think that she’s the most loving person I’ve ever met. She just fell in freezing water, and instead of being concerned about her leg, she’s here empathizing with Maximoff.
Still, she’s so afraid to love me.
I don’t know why. Not completely.
I just don’t.
And a part of me is scared of the full-blown answer. Maybe that’s why I haven’t pressed her hard enough to give me one.
24
JANE COBALT
An outing alone with my boyfriend should have been a recipe for a wonderful, epic day. It’s why I jumped at the chance to go grocery shopping for seventeen people.
No one wanted the task of driving an hour in sleet and rain to the nearest food market. Especially after being caught in a storm after location-scouting yesterday.
Maximoff already promised Farrow he’d spend today indoors by the fire, and Tony was all too happy to relinquish his duties as my bodyguard to “Banks” when I asked.
For Tony, I think the drudgery of having to watch me shop for green beans was the least appealing. Or maybe he’s finally conceding in this strange bodyguard cock-fight. I can only hope.
Biscuits and jams line wooden shelves in the small Scottish shop, and it’s just Thatcher and me. No cousins, no siblings, no other bodyguards. A dream-like scenario. Only this isn’t the epic, wonderful day I imagined.
We’re currently at a standstill in the pasta aisle, a shopping cart wedged between us, a literal and metaphorical barrier.
This isn’t our first argument, but this one feels different.
More intense.
Like the billowing steam of a geyser right before the eruption.
I clutch a grocery list, torn apart in two equal halves. Ten different handwritings are scrawled on the paper after being passed around the house.
“We can’t split up, Jane,” Thatcher tells me for the second time. His tone is definitive. No room for compromise.
“We can actually.” My fingers curl around the list. “I’ll take the dairy and produce. You stick to the middle aisles. We’ll cover more ground that way. It’s more efficient than wandering around the store together.” I check my pink wristwatch. “We’ve already wasted ten minutes trying to locate the ketchup.” All the brands are different than the ones I’m used to in the States.
His frown deepens. “I understand that. But you know how this works. I’m on-duty, which means you have to be in my sight at all times.”
I draw in a heady breath.
My first reaction: utter, unequivocal attraction. Dear God, I’m attracted to how much he’s around me. Always present like an ever-consuming forest fire.
My second reaction: shame. Guilt. Horrible feelings that compound on each other.
My head is telling me that I shouldn’t want these things. I shouldn’t want him around me all the time. I should be able to walk around a food market without my boyfriend.
Pressure assembles on my chest, and I follow my head. “We’re the only customers.” I stick to facts about safety. “The one employee is up at the front register, and she looks like she was alive during the Fall of Constantinople. She’s hardly a threat. This market might as well have been bought out and shut down for us.”
“But it wasn’t. And I usually don’t have to explain my job to you—”
“You don’t now,” I say stiffly. My chest is on fire. I waft my sweater for more air circulation. I drop my gaze for a fraction of a second.
Thatcher watches me with intense scrutiny, his eyes an extra furnace engulfing me whole. “Is this really about groceries? Or is something else goin’ on?” His South Philly accent comes through. Dog tags rest against his blue jacket.
He looks like Banks, but he couldn’t be more Thatcher Moretti. Stern and bold and commanding.
I lick my wind-chapped lips, air barely passing between them. Oxygen is dead-bolted inside my lungs. “I…” Words fail me. This is so new and different and I’m battling with too many warring emotions.
Head vs. Heart. I’m a Cobalt. My head should always win.