I moan against his mouth, and the soft noise catches both of our attention. He separates from me. I separate from him.
We drop our hands and lean back to our respective seats. Breathing heavily.
He fixes his earpiece cord that I must’ve accidentally pulled on. His jaw set more strictly, he scans the parking lot.
My fingers linger on my stinging lips. “That was very good? We did well?” I question. “Security said chaste and that was the virgin strawberry daiquiri of kisses, no? I could’ve easily straddled you—not that I would’ve, because boundaries. ” I flush but never divert from his tightened eyes.
“It was good,” he confirms. “But it wasn’t a virgin daiquiri.”
I, so eagerly, want inside his head. “It was a dirty martini?”
I swear his lip tics upward in a momentary smile. “More like a Guinness.”
It’s his favorite beer. Which I shouldn’t know, but I’m very aware he mostly orders Guinness when he’s off-duty. A stout, full-bodied beer.
A stout, full-bodied kiss.
I can’t help but smile, and then I lower my sunglasses over my eyes and slip my arms in a light sweater. We have to do a bit of shopping to make the grocery outing seem real.
He reaches into the back seat and grabs my zebra-patterned heels off the floor, and then he hands them to me.
“Merci.” I slip them on my feet. “How upset will security be if the photos show roaming hands…and tongue?”
His firm expression is unreadable. “This should be believable to the public, and that’s what’ll matter most to the team.”
I take note that he never said the team wouldn’t be upset. He must not want me to fret about security’s reactions. I trust Thatcher, and if he has that area handled, then I won’t pry. Not until he needs an assist from me.
Delegation at its finest.
Thatcher touches his ear, security in communication, and then he looks to me. “Paparazzi have the photo.”
Here we go.
18
THATCHER MORETTI
“Why is his hand halfway up her skirt?” Price, the Alpha lead barks at Akara over speakerphone, volume soft.
I narrow my eyes at the phone in Akara’s clutch.
Sir, my hand is not halfway up my client’s fucking skirt.
It was planted on her ass.
The Tri-Force are on a three-way call, and after an hour of being chewed out, Akara is letting Banks and me listen in on the tail-end of their conversation. All while we make a pitcher of caipirinha in security’s small kitchen.
Banks has to sit on the counter for all three of us to fit in here, limes and a bottle of cachaça next to him.
We’ve been friends with Akara since we joined security, clicking almost instantly, but I really grew closer to him when he became the Omega lead. I was the Epsilon lead at the time. We’d spend long hours in the same meetings. Volleying information back and forth, keeping intel safeguarded between us, and shooting the shit on dull days. And nine times out of ten, with major Tri-Force decisions, Akara and I voted the same way.
Excited commotion comes from the living room. Jane and her cousins are hanging out with us. Celebrating. Despite the disapproval from two leads, the photos have already circulated through major media outlets with rabid obsession.
Spreading like an unstoppable wildfire.
It’s been two hours since Jane and I kissed in the Acme parking lot, and these are some of the most popular headlines:
Jane Cobalt Is Having a Secret Love Affair With Her Bodyguard!
Breaking News: Jane Cobalt Caught Kissing Her Bodyguard
Jane Cobalt Has Found Her Prince Charming After All
Akara leans on the counter, keeping his voice hushed so our clients don’t hear. “You can clearly see Thatcher’s hand in the photos, Price. It’s not halfway up her skirt.”
“Regardless, his hands aren’t where they should be,” Price retorts.
My nose flares, and I cross my arms over my chest.
I understand why they’re up my ass, and if I were a lead, I might be doing the same thing. Karma—it’s rolling in like a fucking tank, for all those times at the FanCon that I used to yell at Farrow. Telling him to separate from Maximoff.
I deserve the third-degree more than Akara. But that’s not how security hierarchy works. And at the end of the day, the kiss was a success.
That’s what matters.
“It’s good that the photos show them clearly together,” Akara reminds the Alpha lead. “We didn’t need articles wondering if they even kissed.” He lifts the speaker closer to his mouth. “You two don’t need to be concerned about Thatcher. He’s my guy. I’m keeping an eye on him.”
I stand more on guard, and I nod to him in appreciation.
He nods back.
Akara is covering my ass. It feels fucking strange putting him in this position. Not long ago, we were two leads covering our men and helping each other.
“You do that,” Jon Sinclair pipes up, the new Epsilon lead and current bodyguard to Audrey Cobalt. “And tell Thatcher to put his dick back in his pants and start using the right goddamn head.”
Akara quickly decreases the volume on his phone.
Banks tries not to laugh—until Sinclair carries on, and then my brother glares at the phone.
“He’s not a lead anymore. He needs to show respect to the men that’ve been here before him.”
I rake a hand across my jaw.
That comment fucking bugs me. Because I feel like I have been respecting the leads.
I understand hierarchy. The Tri-Force is at the top of it in security, and each lead represents a different part of the team.
The Alpha lead, Price Kepler, represents the old guard. The first wave of guys that showed up when Jane and Maximoff were just babies. There’s not many of the old guard left.
The Epsilon lead, Jon Sinclair, represents the military hires. The second wave of guys that all served in the Navy.
The Omega lead, Akara Kitsuwon, represents the mixed martial arts hires. The third wave. These are the ones who were mostly referred out of the gym.
Even though I came in with the third wave and most of the men thought my background was just boxing, I’m technically a military hire. I was referred by a Navy vet—not anyone at the gym. How I react. How I train. How I operate on a day-to-day basis lines up more with the guys like Sinclair.
He’s Navy through and fucking through. Mid-forties and Korean-American, he’s been in security for around a decade, spending most of his career protecting the Cobalts. He’s crude in private, like right now, but he’ll snap to a respectful disposition in an instant. He reminds me a lot of my dad—which is partly why nothing he says to me usually cuts deep.
We’ve gotten along fine until recently. Banks thinks he’s going on a power trip. Akara thinks it just has to do with Sinclair disliking SFO.
When you’ve been a bodyguard this long, there’s history, bad and good. He’s had an axe to grind with Oscar Oliveira for years, and he’s hated how Omega gained some fame through the Hot Santa Video.
Now he’s in charge.
“Thatcher isn’t stepping on your feet,” Akara retorts, his tone more authoritative. “He’s doing his job.”
“Good,” Sinclair says. “That’s what I want to hear.” Yeah, he sounds like my dad. Sternness wrapped in this quiet paternal concern.
Price chimes in, “This honeymoon phase will be over down the line, and when this all ends, we’ll be going back to a more appropriate routine. Remind him of that. His face isn’t going to be up against his client’s face forever.”
My muscles flex.
Loud and clear, sir.
I’m not thinking about a public breakup yet. Not when we’ve just started dating. It’s too soon to go there.
Akara stares at me as he answers Price. “Thatcher knows this isn’t forever.”
My expression hardens.
Banks unscrews the bottle of cachaça. Looking me over like he’s seeing how I feel. I’m fine. I know this is just an op.
I breathe out a hotter breath, and my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I take out my cell.
My brows pull together.
I called my mom a lot earlier. Right when I got back from the Acme, I told her about the photos that were about to leak. Told her to lock the fucking door and contact me if media contacted her.
Now she’s calling me.
I lift my phone to Akara. Silently saying, I have to take this.
He instantly puts his call with the leads off speaker. “Thatcher understands,” he tells them, phone to his ear.
I drift further towards the stove. Not worrying Banks yet. Rotating my back to my brother and Akara, I answer the call.
“Everything alright down there?” I ask first, my Philly accent making down there sound like down’air.
“Which headline is true? Should I be invitin’ her down soon?” my mom asks, humor in her voice. “She’s got Nicola’s approval already, but you know Nic would bake the devil a pie. It’s why I love her.” Nicola is her wife, my stepmom. “And your grandma is already crocheting Jane a scarf for Christmas.”
We’re months out from December. “Ma,” I say tightly, but I hear my grandma shout to be heard from the background.
“They’re saying youse two are an item!”
Severity tightens my eyes. “Who’s saying that?” I worry someone is at their house.