Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
He cocks his head. “Is that really how you’re gonna treat your uncle?”
I love that my mom married Nicola. I hate that Nicola is his older sister, and I can’t stand that he’s related to me on paper. Thank fucking God it’s not by blood.
Under my breath, I growl, “I’m going to treat you a lot worse if you don’t move your ass.”
Tony rolls his head back like I’m a joke and he’s some kind of king. “You sure you don’t want a progress report on your girlfriend first? I’ve been with her all day. Want to know how many times she mentioned you?” He mouths the word, zero.
I grit my teeth.
Don’t grab him. I force myself not to shove him. Not with cameras flashing, not with paparazzi in view, and I stare at this piece of shit. Blistering inside out.
I tap into the last sliver of fucking willpower I have just to suppress a hotheaded reaction.
Don’t deck him.
“Move,” I order again. I’m not playing around. “Or else I’ll radio your lead and let him know you’re disobeying a direct command.”
His mouth forms a line. “You’re not my superior, Moretti.”
“No, but I’m the boyfriend to your client.” I glare through sheets of rain. “And I’m allowed direct access to my girlfriend, so I’m telling you one last time. Move.”
Tony lifts his chin like he thinks I’m bluffing.
I touch my mic almost instantly, and I open my mouth to speak into comms—and just then, Tony finally sidesteps.
Jane is all I care about, so I don’t even acknowledge him again as I grab the handle and open the door.
6
JANE COBALT
I hug a messy binder that contains budget spreadsheets and vendor information for Moffy and Farrow’s wedding, and my heart patters at an uneven, queasy speed as the limo door swings open.
I need Thatcher—no.
No, I’m an independent, self-sufficient woman, and I don’t need any man for affection and love and emotional support. I can still provide all of this to myself now that we’re together.
Do not fall into his lap like a bird without wings, Jane.
You’re born from lions.
I lift my chin, holding breath, and I watch as Thatcher slides his long legs into the limo and shuts out the thunderstorm behind him.
“Thatcher.” My face falls. “You’re soaked.” I couldn’t hear much outside with the raucous storm or even see with Tony’s body obstructing the tinted window.
Thatcher’s black shirt suctions to his abs. Rainwater drips from his hair and soaks his shoulders, and after he locks the door, he pushes the damp strands out of his face.
“Do you need…?” I begin to ask, but he’s already shaking his head.
His strong gaze tunnels through me, his grave concern like a safety net that I could so effortlessly collapse into.
How easy it can be—to be swallowed by all of what Thatcher offers me, and I claw for equal ground where I can engulf him just as fully.
I open my mouth, but words stick for a second.
“What happened, Jane?” He tries to edge closer to me on the leather seat, but with my binder to my breasts, I shift back against my door, further away from him.
Air vacuums out of the limo. As quick and powerful as a shotgun blast.
He goes rigid.
I inhale but can’t exhale. My knee-jerk reaction of adding distance between him and me causes an unbearable amount of strain. I’m making a terrible mess out of this, and I don’t mean to.
“Wait,” is all I manage to expel as I gather breath and courage.
Thatcher grips the top of the seat and rubs his mouth with his other hand. His protective gaze never abandons me.
In our silence, I hear the ping, ping, ping of rain on the limo’s roof.
I glance down at my lavender tulle skirt, my arms hot beneath a rainbow blouse and leopard faux fur coat. I’m not supposed to cower or unravel this way. “I’m not unraveling,” I whisper to myself, but he surely hears.
“Just talk to me, honey.” His deep voice practically cradles me and pushes me to a metaphorical stance.
As I raise my eyes, I linger on the stretched leather seat we share. “I was born right where you’re sitting,” I realize aloud, and my cheeks heat.
He looks at the seat, very briefly, then back to me. He’s so stoic; I can’t even begin to guess what he’s thinking.
“It’s just a fact,” I mention unhelpfully. “My birth.” I roast from head to toe and waft my blouse. “And I’m sure this is what my parent’s pictured twenty-three-years later,” I quip. “Their daughter struggling to talk to the man who she…”
Loves.
I withhold the word, even though I’ve said it once before. My body floods with the sentiment that overwhelms my senses, that rips breath from lungs and pricks my eyes.
Love is a violent emotion. Full of fortitude and might, and I’m going to be destroyed under ours, aren’t I?