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)
Evidence: he slept with Thatcher’s high school girlfriend.
I continue, “That alone makes him an awful person and a prick.” I pause. “Anything else pertinent?”
He shakes his head, neck stiff. “Banks would tell you Tony mostly just spews shit without thinking.” He grabs my notebook off the bed, and we both check the clock on the nightstand.
I’m supposed to be at security’s townhouse by 8:00 a.m., just to briefly go over my notes with Tony since he’s new to my detail. I still have time, but if I’m late, I worry he’ll show up in my living room unannounced.
Thatcher meets my gaze. “Can I check your preference notes?”
I nod. “But I don’t have a lot written yet. I wasn’t sure how specific I should be.”
“I can help you.” He flips open the spiral notebook, his severe focus like a loaded gun. Deadly when needed.
Thatcher is my most powerful catnip. I’m transfixed to him, all the while dazedly placing my bin, with Walrus, under the bed.
He stops on the right page. “You’ll need to type this out and either email him or print it. He can’t read your handwriting.”
My stomach twists. “…I forgot he couldn’t.” I’ve been so spoiled having Thatcher, who made a huge effort when he started on my detail. Learning to read my illegible handwriting and all. “I might as well type it now.”
I take a seat on the edge of my bed and open my phone’s notes app. Thatcher remains standing, reading my list, and his brows pull together. “Jane.” He says my name with intensity.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your number three.” His shoulder muscles pull taut. “You wrote: do not touch me under any circumstance.”
I sit pin straight. “It’s called a preference list. I prefer that Tony doesn’t touch me.” I cringe picturing his hands even hovering near my body.
“He’s your bodyguard, honey.”
“I don’t know him.”
Thatcher seizes my gaze, much harder to read. “You didn’t know me, and you still trusted me to touch you.”
My eyes burn, hearing Thatcher relate himself to Tony.
Thatcher might be all stoic, hard lines, but I know he wouldn’t push me into another man’s arms. I can’t let fear or insecurity distort his intentions. I can’t. He’s just trying to rebuild trust between me and my new bodyguard—someone he can’t stand. It slices a knife through my lungs.
Very quietly, I ask, “Is this as hard for you as it is me?”
His nose flares. “I’d rather be chugging battery acid.”
“Pass the jug,” I quip.
His lip almost rises, but seriousness darkens his features. “Under certain circumstances, your bodyguard will need to put their hands on you.”
I wince.
He squats so he’s eye-level with me. “He won’t hurt you. All seven of us on Omega are triple-checking Tony when it comes to you and your family.”
“I’m not afraid of Tony. The things he says just make my skin crawl, which is my number six.” I point to the notebook.
Thatcher glances at the page. “Six, do not converse with me.”
“I’m covering my bases,” I tell him.
“You need to uncover number three.”
“Is it so terribly necessary that Tony touches me?”
“He can’t protect you if you don’t let him.” Thatcher cups my cheek, and I can practically hear my heavy heartbeat. He tells me, “There’ll be times where you have to rely on Tony. I can’t be with you when I’m on-duty protecting Xander, and you’re not always going to be around Banks, Maximoff, and Farrow.” He trusts them to look out for me when he can’t. “Your safety is what matters. Above everything.”
I loosen my grip on my phone. “What if I request minimal touch? Only when absolutely necessary?”
Thatcher nods once. “That works.” He stands up, his hand never leaving my cheek, and he places a knee on the mattress.
My phone lights up next to his knee and buzzes on the duvet. A text message blinks on the screen, but it isn’t from Tony.
Your mom and I are on our way. We need to talk. – Dad
2
THATCHER MORETTI
This is a weird position to be in. Days ago, Connor Cobalt and Rose Calloway knew me as a professional, stringent bodyguard. Nothing more.
Today, I’m the man that’s been dating their daughter.
Flipping that switch isn’t just turning on and off the lights. It’s going from pitch-black darkness to a neon-fluorescent disco.
I’ve been mentally preparing to face two pissed-off parents just looking out for their kid. Hell, if I had a daughter, I’d probably lay into the fuckbag who secretly hid their relationship from me. Sneaking around—not a great look to impress the parents.
I just want to make it right.
Unfuck this fucked situation and start on solid ground.
But I’m standing in front of Connor Cobalt—a man who literally was on the cover of Forbes this month—and I realize that anything I say could bury me deeper.
The fridge hums, ice machine gurgling in tense silence. The cramped kitchen feels more compact with another man over six-feet here. But I have three-inches on Connor.