“I don’t know any other Janes,” he admits.
I nearly smile. “I always thought Jane was a common name. There were five in my grade in high school. But most people just referred to me by my full name anyway.” I rock forward on my feet. “I was the Jane Cobalt. Still am, I suppose.” I think of my family.
I think of my mom and dad, and a frown drops my lips.
My eyes burn.
Thatcher never breaks my gaze. “Look, it might not be my place to say something, but you should just know that you’ll get through this.”
I clutch the comfort in his eyes. Earlier today, Thatcher told most everyone here that he knows what these kinds of accusations feel like. So I say, “As a twin, you said you’ve received rude questions before?”
“Yeah. That and more.” He weaves his arms over his chest. “Guys in high school used to say that my brother and I did some…things together for fun.”
Things.
I assume it verges on incestuous things, which is why he can relate to me now. I do wonder if he’s censoring himself to remain professional or because the past is hard to talk about. Either way, I won’t pry.
I tilt my head. “Did it change your relationship with your brother?”
He’s nodding.
And my hands fall off my hips, and my heart plummets. It’s what I feared. That this rumor will forever destroy my relationship with Moffy.
“It made us closer,” Thatcher says. “We got stronger.”
Stronger.
I inhale. “I want that so terribly for Moffy and me.” I stare off at the burning fireplace logs. “I think our odds are 50-50.”
His brows draw together. It takes him a second to ask. “You’re that unsure?”
I smooth the wrinkles of my cat-chasing-yarn-balls pajama top. “I know that you know me and my family better than most ever will because you’re a bodyguard, and I might never fully know you—and that’s okay.” I speak quickly. “But I’m not my mom. I’m not always so sure of myself, even when I wish I were, and I’m not a warrior goddess, even when I wish to be. I have to take that into account when constructing probabilities.”
Thatcher stares at me in a way that causes my pulse to speed, heart to pound, and my lips part as I find more words to fill the quiet.
“Do you agree?” I wonder.
He almost shakes his head, but I see how he cuts the movement off. And he just says, “I think you’re really hard on yourself, Jane.”
I like how he says my name so softly at the end, and I wasn’t searching for reassurance, but I didn’t mind that at all—in fact, I think I liked that too.
“Not 50-50. 70-30 then,” I say. “Moffy and I come out stronger.”
“90-10.” His eyes almost drop to my neck, but again, he stops the movement mid-way—and then he nods to the couch. “You want to take a seat?”
Heat blazes my cheeks for some reason. “I can sit.” I return to the couch, splaying the papers on my lap. In the quiet, I steal a few glances at him.
Thatcher looks back at me before he pulls a leather ottoman over.
I have trouble focusing on the notes. Sitting pin straight, I fold my palms over my paper. “Were you sleeping before I texted?” I wonder if I woke him.
He takes a seat in front of me, his posture rigid, still quietly commanding. “Not that long.”
So he was in bed. “How come you didn’t come down in your pajamas?” I raise a hand. “I’m sorry if I’m being nosy. I’m disastrously curious, which you may already know.”
Bodyguards talk. Of course workplace gossip exists, and security’s workplace is me and my family. Plus, Thatcher knew the names of all my cats when he wasn’t even on my detail.
That fact alone is highly attractive. And it means that he’s paid attention to my life before being assigned to protect me.
Thatcher cups his hands together, elbows to his thighs. “You’re fine, Jane.” He takes a short beat. “It’s inappropriate for me to be around you in anything that I wouldn’t wear on-duty.”
Interesting. I lean forward some. “But you’ll be on a tour bus with SFO and my cousins and brothers soon, so the lines will inevitably blur?”
He never flinches. “SFO will maintain professionalism while we’re in close quarters with our clients. We’re having a security meeting before your parents arrive to discuss these details.” He’s not a buddy-guard. He’s not about to fist-bump me or lounge on the couch beside me.
I understand.
“Right,” I breathe, and I tie my hair back in a pony, warmer all of a sudden. “Professionalism is important to you?”
He runs a hand over his mouth, nodding.
I tense, unable to read him. The air thickens with a new sort of heat. “I respect that. Very much.”
“I appreciate it.” His husky voice might as well rake hot coals over my body.
I’ve been trying not to notice how physically handsome Thatcher is, but he exudes powerful masculinity just sitting. As though he could lift me up in his arms and carry me to heaven. Somewhere safe and beautiful.
I clear my throat. “If you’re tired, we can make this quick.”
“I’m awake,” Thatcher says. “And it doesn’t have to be quick. I want to make sure we’re squared away before we leave the lake house.” He starts to reach a hand towards me, and my shoulders arch. I eye him in curiosity.
What’s he about to do?
Thatcher suddenly goes still, his hand a couple inches from me. “Can I?” He nods to the purple paper.
“Oh…yes. Yes, of course.” I lift my hands off my lap, and he takes the stationery paper. He wants the notes, Jane. Not to touch you in carnal ways.
Which would be too orgasmically good to be anything other than a fantasy. And we’ve just solidified what we are to one another.
Professional.
Respectful.
Bodyguard and client.
I lace my fingers together. “My handwriting can be illegible, so I’d be happy to type out the list for you.”
He concentrates on the notes. “I can read your handwriting.”
I can’t help but smile. “You must be able to read all chicken scratch.”
“No,” he says, multitasking well by talking to me and doing his job. “It took practice to read yours.”
Fact: Thatcher Moretti taught himself to decipher my handwriting. He didn’t have to do that. My old retired bodyguard never did.
My pulse skips. “You know,” I say, thinking aloud, “I’ve known of you since I was seventeen.”
He looks up at me.
“Which you already know,” I add quickly, flush creeping up my neck. “Because that’s when we met. I was seventeen…” Oh my God, why am I repeating this fact? “And you were twenty-two. Now you’re twenty-seven.” I waft my pajama top away from my sweating breasts. “You look older, very much a strong…twenty-seven.”
Shut up, Jane.
He sees that I’ve stopped talking. “Jane—”
“How does this work exactly?” And there goes my big mouth cutting off my new bodyguard after I just word vomited all over him. “I’ve never had two 24/7 bodyguards before, though I know this is just temporary. You’re temporary, I mean.” I shake out my jumbled thoughts. “I mean, you and I—we’re temporary.”