A recent tabloid headline:
VAIN HEIRESS SCURRIES TO SALVAGE REPUTATION AFTER ADVERTISEMENT BACKFIRES
“How’d your grandmother respond?” Farrow asks.
“She emailed, bad press is good press . And that was it.”
Farrow shoots a caustic look at the wall and mutters, “Fucking hell.”
Maximoff glowers at the ceiling. Pissed. “I’m guessing she only thinks bad press is good press when it’s convenient for her.” He’s not as close to our grandmother, which is another reason why she most likely wants me to marry first.
They already know this.
I shuffle through a few more photos. “I think she’s convinced herself of a lot of terrible things.”
Farrow waits to take a bite of apple. I notice him staring at the titanium wedding band on his finger. He looks up at Maximoff. “There is something we could do, wolf scout.”
“No,” I cut in. “You’re not eloping because of her.” Emotion burns my eyes.
His lip quirks. “I didn’t say anything about eloping, Cobalt, but nice try.” He locks gazes with Maximoff. “We could tell your grandmother we’re not planning on getting married for a few years, maybe four or five. That way she’ll stop feeling pressure to wed Jane off this fast, and she won’t pull another stunt like this.”
They wanted a long engagement, but they didn’t want that long.
Maximoff nods powerfully. He’d do anything for me.
They both would.
But I don’t want them to outright lie about their wedding for my sake. I don’t want to tarnish what’s supposed to be beautiful. “No,” I say again, capturing their gazes. “No . It’s not worth it.”
Farrow eyes the corkboard. “So you’d rather date one of these dipshits—”
“Date is a strong word,” I interject. “I’m going to have one luncheon with one of these suitors she’d despise. Most likely Mr. Football Man.” I pat the photo on the board of the auburn-haired athlete.
Farrow bites into the juicy apple. “Call Moretti.”
“Already?” I’m surprised he’s even asking to be in the same room with Thatcher a second longer than he needs to be.
Farrow just nods. He has the ability to radio my bodyguard on my behalf and call him here, but that would mean talking to Thatcher longer than he wants to talk to him.
Maximoff crosses his arms. “Your bodyguard should be here if we’re serious about this.”
We are.
I instantly procure my phone.
10
THATCHER MORETTI
I’m not gonna fucking like whatever this is. I can already tell, and I’m just staring at a bunch of photos tacked up to the brick wall.
More specifically: photos of guys, mostly around Jane’s age.
Targets?
No doubt , my mind blares.
My mouth sets in a harder line. Knowing that’s not right. I need to dislodge whatever protective, defensive feelings I have for Jane for a fucking second, and I’m left with a reasonable response: too soon to tell.
I step back and glance over at the kitchen. Where Jane and Maximoff talk on speakerphone to Sullivan Meadows. Jane’s cousin called them about the same time I entered their townhouse.
Interruptions from family are routine. Especially with Jane and Maximoff, who try to be easily accessible to anyone who needs them.
I spot Jane in short glimpses through the archway. She breezes around the kitchen. Heating up a mug of coffee while chatting.
“There’s more than enough room in the garage, Sulli,” Jane reassures, “I promise your Jeep will fit.”
Maximoff speaks. “We shifted around the bikes, and I can park my Audi on the street if it’s still too cramped.”
That’ll be a major security issue. But Maximoff’s car isn’t as recognizable to the public as Sulli’s old Jeep. If they’re willing to risk vandalism or theft for one vehicle, the Audi is the least likely to be targeted.
It’s the right pick.
“You both are the fucking best,” Sulli says on the phone.
I catch another glimpse of Jane. If she looks at you a lot, it means she likes you. Childhood advice, man. It pops into my head like a bullet piercing a tin can.
And now I’m staring at my client and thinking, look back at me.
Jane rests a hip against the counter in a momentary pause. She smiles brightly at something that I can’t see. Maybe the phone in Maximoff’s hand.
I shouldn’t want to be that phone. I shouldn’t want to be the receiver of Jane’s vibrant energy or any fucking thing that belongs to her mind or body, but I keep thinking, look at me.
She turns her head.
And looks right at me.
I’m not shifting away. Our gazes latch for a solid beat, but I stand about four meters from her position. Roughly fifteen feet apart.
Her blue eyes slowly dance over the stoic lines of my face, then my clothes: gray crew-neck and red flannel.
As though remembering earlier. The kitchen.
My towel.
Her flushed neck and shortened breath.
Don’t go there, Thatcher.
“Hey, do any of you need anything at the grocery?” Sulli asks them, her voice audible through the phone speakers.
“I’m alright,” Maximoff says. “Jane?”
She misses the question. I’m distracting my client. Fucking unprofessional. I try to wrench my gaze off her.
“Jane?” Maximoff asks again.
“Hmm?” Blush stains her freckled cheeks, and she dashes further into the kitchen. Disappearing from my view. I hear her say, “Both houses need milk.”
I sense another pair of eyes on me.
Not Jane
Not Maximoff.
But Farrow—he’s been sitting and lacing up his black boots at the iron café table. He’s less than two meters away from me, and his threatening glare feels even fucking closer.
I take another step back.
Intimidation is vital to be a bodyguard on the team. I’d be more concerned if he couldn’t do it that fucking well.
I shouldn’t have punched him.
My jaw tightens.
Regret surges, biting. It’s hard every time I see Farrow. Because it’s nearly impossible not to think about my mistake.
I could’ve handled so many things better than I fucking did.
I should’ve apologized earlier. But for weeks, I couldn’t get the words out, not without feeling like I should’ve been fired.
Seeing him just reminds me how badly I blew it. How much hurt I caused, what I deserve in return, and all the debts I feel like I can never repay.
Farrow knots one of his laces. Our clients are still talking, but their chatter muffles now that they’re deeper in the kitchen.
The sound of brewing coffee cuts the air in half.
Say something to him.
I’m not quiet because I can’t think of what to talk about. We have a lot in common. We like a lot of the same shit. Same interest in martial arts, Philly sports teams. Same taste in music. How he jokes around—constant ribs and digs at his friends, I used to be around that a lot in the military.
I hate it over comms.
But in person, it brings back good memories.
We have more in common. Worse things, and sometimes I wonder if he’s realized that I’ve known he’s been experiencing some form of PTSD.
In Greece, I had to hand a bottle of water to Banks to give to Farrow. I didn’t think Farrow would’ve accepted it from me, but I could tell he was mentally thrown back. He doesn’t speak to the team about it that much.
I’m not one to talk. I can barely say the word out loud. Shouldn’t be that way, but it is.
In the end, I’m quiet because I can’t unlock my jaw. It’s like I’m made of cinderblock, and almost no one possesses the right tools to chisel me open.
Not even me, at times.
And all that has ever divided Farrow and me is me. He’s done nothing.
&n
bsp; Comms crackle in my eardrum. Good thing. I zero in on work and listen to the Omega lead speak.
“Akara to Thatcher, Farrow, and Quinn—we’re at the grocery. Is there anything specific you want?”
I touch my flannel collar and press my mic. “Check to see if they have a stop leak additive. Jane’s Beetle is leaking oil again.” Ophelia rubs up against my ankles and purrs. I reach down and scratch behind her ear, she tries to bump her head into my hand, enjoying it. I do a quick sweep of the room and locate the cats.
All but one is in sight. Licorice can be shy, and he’s the most skittish. It’s made me more concerned about him. But there are plenty of places he could be hiding.
“Copy,” Akara responds.
Static buzzes, waiting for Quinn’s response.
I look right at Farrow while he stands up—done tying his boots—and I’m positive he’s silenced his radio.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
I drop my arm to my side. “SFO is at the grocery. You need something?”
“No,” he says with the casual shake of his head. “I’m good.” He quickens his pace towards the fireplace.
I spot movement a fraction of a second after Farrow does. Because the fireplace had been at my back.
He snatches Walrus, a calico cat, off the mantel. Plus, he catches a picture frame that teeters off the ledge.