“Full-time?” Jane repeats. “Who exactly are you protecting?”
“Guy named Silvio is retiring,” Tony says. “I’m taking his spot.”
I unclamp my hand and rake my fingers through my hair. Silvio is Xander’s current bodyguard. I hadn’t heard about him retiring, and I doubt Xander knows. He would’ve mentioned something earlier today.
“You’re going to be Xander’s 24/7 bodyguard,” Jane realizes out loud.
Tony rests his hands on the back of his neck. “The best he’s ever had.” He grins smugly at me. Knowing that I was on Xander’s detail. “I always gotta come behind you, Moretti, and pick up your slack.”
Don’t sock him in the face.
It’s the only thing I can think right now.
Do not put your hands on him. My breath heavies in my burning lungs. I’m not hitting another bodyguard, and he’s about to be on the team.
Even if I’ve knocked him out before.
In middle school.
In high school.
Right before I deployed.
He’s tried to punch me, but he’s never landed a single one.
“Why don’t you go pick up my slack then?” I retort. “And stop talking to me.”
He lets out a drier laugh. “Glad to see you haven’t changed.” He flashes a smile to Jane. “Nice to finally meet the one and only Jane Cobalt. I’ll be seeing you around.”
“I suppose so,” she says cautiously.
We watch him leave the gym, and then Jane spins to me, her head tipped in deeper thought. “You two have greater history, don’t you?”
She suspects something.
I’m just going to say it. “Tony slept with my high school girlfriend.”
Her lips part. “You said she cheated on you with a guy you can’t stand.”
Yeah. “That’s the guy I can’t stand.”
Her face falls. “Merde.”
And now he’s on the security team. Being trusted to keep a secret from the world. Our secret. That I’m fake-dating Jane.
31
JANE COBALT
“Someone’s coming for you, I’m sure of it.” I scratch underneath a short-haired brown tabby’s chin. She purrs and turns her head into my knuckles.
Pumpkin is the only cat remaining in the local shelter, and my heart aches thinking she won’t be adopted today.
I’ve spent the last four hours here, trying my best to promote the shelter on social media. And since I’m still going dark on my socials, Maximoff let me log into his Instagram and do live stories on his account. I was able to find homes for the cats. Even some of the dogs were adopted too.
I’d like to think it’s a success.
But Pumpkin curls up on my lap, kneads my leg for a second and then closes her eyes.
Merde.
I sit on the floor in the front room, the owner and manager doing a stack of paperwork at their desks. Far enough away that the only real company I have right now is the handsome man leaning against a shelf of cat food.
Thatcher meets my eyes and then looks to the cat. He doesn’t say anything, but I’m sure he’s thinking Jane Cobalt, you have six cats already—seven is going over the edge.
In actuality, I have zero clue what he’s thinking.
But I’m having a hard time imagining leaving this tabby in the shelter. I’m not sure I physically can.
“How many cats is too many cats?” I ask Thatcher.
His brows knot the longer he looks at Pumpkin. “Before I met you,” he says. “I’d have said three.”
“And now?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t really know.” He looks me up and down and shifts his arms off the shelf and crosses them over his chest. “Are you thinking of bringing her home?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “I promised myself I’d stop at six because I live with Moffy and now Luna and Sulli. It feels selfish to bring another animal in the house, but it feels heartless leaving her here.” Conflicted, I take a tighter breath and glance to the clock.
I’ve already been at the shelter much longer than I previously planned.
I was supposed to be home and working on reading Wildfire Heart two hours ago. I have zero experience narrating audiobooks, and so I have to research and do more vocal work before I even start recording. I’ve failed at so many things already, I don’t want to add this on to the list.
But it’s just so easy to toss aside my obligations for other things. My family. Cats.
I do love cats.
And I don’t regret the amount of time I spend at the shelters and cat sanctuaries, dedicating one day a week to the local ones. I also try to donate as much money as I can to the shelters in other cities.
People often ask if cats are my passion.
I love them.
But I don’t want to run my own shelter. It’s a managerial headache, and charity work has always been a hobby but not something I crave to devote every waking minute to.
Like right now.
Holding Pumpkin is shattering my heart to a million pieces. I couldn’t do this every day. Go to sleep with the faces of each and every animal in my head. Knowing they haven’t found their forever home yet.
“Jane,” Sasha, the owner, rounds the corner with a clipboard and beaming smile. “We’re closing up in twenty. If there’s anything else you need, just let us know. It was a great day today.”
It was.
Truly great.
Except for this little one…
Sasha walks away, her sneakers squeaking on the tile.
Thatcher bends down closer and pets the sleeping tabby’s tiny head, which seems even tinier against Thatcher’s large palm. “I can take her and keep her in security’s townhouse,” he tells me. Our eyes meet, my mouth falling.
What…he’d do that?
“Is that even possible?” I ask, surprised. “There aren’t rules against having animals in security?”
“Not specifically,” Thatcher says. “It’s not really recommended, but there’s no rule against it either.”
I shake my head. Even if there’s a part of him that might want her himself. I know it’s also for me. And I can’t let him do that.
The door jingles open. We both perk up. The only people allowed in the shelter have been potential adopters. Otherwise, the curb is home to cameramen and fans waiting for Thatcher and me to exit.
A girl with French braids and burgundy overalls enters. “Hi, I’m looking to adopt a cat.” I hear her say to the employee at the front. “Jane Cobalt, she…um had an Instagram video of her. Her name is Pumpkin.
Is she still here?”
Relief wells inside me. Thatcher touches my shoulder, and I smile while he nods like it worked out, Jane. It did.
“Ready to push out?” he asks me. Already knowing I’m beyond behind schedule. I’m about to reply but he suddenly frowns deeply. I’ve come to recognize that look. Someone is talking to him in his comms. And it’s not good news.
He touches his ear—his mic. Confirming this.
Something isn’t right.
32
JANE COBALT
There was a break-in.
At our townhouse. The security alarms were triggered, and thank God no one was home at the time. It’s the saving grace that I cling on to.
Police and our bodyguards have canvassed every inch of the townhouse.
Secure , they decreed.
Whoever broke in has fled. I’m not sure of the details yet. So many missing links unnerve me and unsettle my stomach.
How did they break in?
How many intruders were there?
Do we know the intruders or are they merely strangers?
How did they slip past security guards who watch the townhouse?
What did they even want?
At the moment, the police and our bodyguards are trying to answer those questions. They’re reviewing security cam footage in the living room while Moffy and I head upstairs to take inventory of anything that may’ve been stolen or destroyed.
So we can file a police report.
I carry old and wise Lady Macbeth up the creaking staircase, my black cat snuggled against my chest. “What happened here, my love?” I whisper.
She meows contently. Not so frightened or skittish—she rarely is. Yet Lady Macbeth saw who crept into the empty house.
Only my six cats were here, and I’ve triple-checked each one and hugged them to death. They’re all accounted for. None are hurt.
None escaped.
But an eerie feeling pricks my arms and the back of my neck. Just picturing an intruder touching my cats.
Imagining one or two or even three pairs of feet ascending these stairs without our permission. Entering our bedrooms. Hands skating over our belongings. Maybe with malicious intent.