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?
I clear a ball in my throat. “Now you’re probably thinking about my limo birth.”
He takes the earpiece out of his ear. “No, I’m thinking you might regret that I moved in with you.”
My eyes widen. “No,” I say quickly. “No, not at all. That’s not what I feel.” I set my binder aside. “I’m glad that we’re living together.” Panic creeps into my bones. “Do you have regrets about it?”
“No.” He never pauses, so assured that I ease a little. Thatcher keeps his eyes on me while he unclips his radio and tries to dry the device. “Something happened?”
Yes.
I tuck a piece of frizzed hair behind my ear. “I tried to text you that I was on my way to the bar, but none were going through, and I thought I’d just tell you in person.”
His brows draw together. “Tell me what?”
Usually I bask inside the intensity of his gaze, but in this moment, I can’t meet him head-on. I blink and look down at my lap like a cowardly lion. “I’ve never been good at diffusing two sides of conflict—I never could with Moffy and Charlie, and I shouldn’t be surprised that I can’t now.” I speak in a rush. “This past week, I’ve just kept awful things Tony has said to myself, and I thought it’d make your job easier. I wanted to give that to you. I wanted to give you something. But I feel like I’m hoarding secrets from a ride-or-die, and it’s made me quiet around you, and I think you can tell.”
He nods, his muscles tensed.
I ramble on. “And whatever I tell you now could cause friction between you and Tony. It feels selfish to share. But maybe you don’t even want to know; and in that case, we can ignore this conversation and just go about our days—”
“No,” Thatcher cuts me off, which is rare. “Whatever Tony said or did, I need to know. You’re not dealing with that fucking tool alone.” His South Philly lilt fights through. “I hate that you already have been.” He clips his mic to his collar, like he’s seconds from reporting Tony to a lead.
I want to tell him absolutely everything. I want inside his head, and I know he wants inside mine, but in the same breath, what I have to say will just stoke his anger and aggravation towards Tony.
Tell him.
“Okay.” I try to take a readying breath. You can do this, Jane.
Nervous heat builds, and I slip off my leopard coat.
Thatcher stares so hard at my movements, I think he’s going to pop a blood vessel in his eye.
My heart races. “What is it?” I ask.
His gaze darkens on my coat. “Tony shouldn’t have been anywhere under your fucking clothes.” He grips his radio, about to kick into action.
I hold up a pointer finger. “I’m removing a coat. A single article of clothing that is nowhere near a shirt or a bra and has absolutely nothing to do with Tony other than I’m sweating… a lot.” I ungracefully tug and tug at my sleeves to free myself from this heat trap.