I’m rarely this flustered, and I’m breathing heavily.
Too heavily.
Thatcher stays quiet for another second, which helps ease me a little. I take a few more breaths.
He keeps his eyes on mine. “I’m working alongside Quinn, so if you need anything, you can come to either him or me.”
Thankfully he skipped over my extraneous ramblings. “Merci.” I pause. “Do you know French?”
He returns to the notes. “I’m trying to learn, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to pick up more than simple phrases.”
“It’s okay if you aren’t fluent. I don’t mind translating whatever you need.”
He nods, scanning the notes again. “Do you have a preference on who drives?”
I scoot forward a little. “That depends. Would you consider yourself a good driver?”
I swear he almost smiles. “Yeah.”
My lips rise. His one word answer carries so much confidence. “Then I’d prefer we switch off on driving.”
Thatcher nods. “Copy that.” We discuss several more of the preferences I listed out. Mostly how I react towards fans, crowds, and security at home—which is really the bus.
“I might grab onto your back in large crowds,” I warn him.
“That’s what I’m there for.” Thatcher looks over at me. “If there are hostile threats, I’ll need to touch you. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes.” I’m more than okay with that. I swallow a knot in my throat, trying not to pulse between my legs. I cross my ankles instead. “So…I think that’s it?”
He pockets the paper.
I rise.
He stands so much taller.
I look up, and I just realize something…I realize it out loud. “This is actually the very first time we’ve been alone together.” The air pulls deathly taut.
Thatcher hardly blinks.
My breath shallows. “I’m…” I shake my head, scrambling for more words.
“Are you alright being alone with me?” Lines crease his forehead.
I whisper, “I am.” I know it’ll happen ten times as much now that he’s on my detail. “You…make me feel very comfortable.” I open my mouth to say more, but a yawn fights its way forward, and I cough into my palm.
He nods, arms crossed, then he uncrosses them to click his mic. “Keep your eyes on the weather.” One pause. “Roger.” He stares down at me. “You should get some sleep. I think we’re good for when we push out.”
I take a few steps back towards the staircase. He watches me go, and once I reach the banister, I mime a tip of a top hat. “À la prochaine,” I tell him. “It means until next time.”
His face is all hard, professional lines. Caged of emotion, but he doesn’t look away either. He nods and says, “Goodnight, Jane.”
Until next time. With our boundaries cemented and solidified and permanently set.
1
JANE COBALT
PRESENT DAY
“You’re giving me too much, honey,” Thatcher tells me, completely serious like I’ve bought him a Rolls-Royce and diamond-encrusted watch.
I have the means to gift both to my new boyfriend, who is also my ex-bodyguard, but I actually haven’t purchased anything extravagant for Thatcher yet. That’s not what’s happening here.
I stand absolutely confused in my bedroom, and his quiet, bold dominance bears down on me. Reminding me that he’s a former Marine, he’s twenty-eight to my twenty-three, and he carries the severity and focus of an experienced leader. Despite not being on my detail anymore, Thatcher Moretti still looks at me like his sole mission is to shield me and ground me and build a fortress of peace around me.
It’s one of the greatest feelings I’ve ever felt. His love is raw, bottomless safety that deserves as much as I can give in return.
But he’s already rejecting the little, infinitesimal, bitty nothing I’ve offered.
I frown at the closet, then at him. “You think this is too much?”
“Yeah, it is.” His strong arms are crossed, not in defense. It’s just his usual sturdy posture.
My flannel pajamas heat up my body, along with the growing pile of pastel blouses, cheetah vests, and tulle skirts I’m hugging.
Hangers still attached to the clothes.
“I’ve only cleared out 30% of the closet,” I tell him, “and you’re allowed 50% now that we’re living together.”
Thatcher rubs a hand across his mouth, and we seem to glance at his duffel bag at the same time. His packed belongings are propped against my nightstand. Ophelia, my white cat, sniffs the bag while my two hyperactive calicos scamper around our heels.
It’s sinking in, for us both. How my room is now our room.
We’ve only been an official couple for two days. Just two, and he’s already moving in with me. But if I calculate our time spent fake-dating in public, we’ve been together for much longer.
Yesterday was Thatcher’s last night in security’s townhouse, and only a half hour ago, he came into my room and threw his duffel bag down.
Our gazes return to each other, and he says, “I don’t even need 20% of the closet.”
My face falls at that microscopic number. “I’m most surely giving you more than 20%. I don’t have a dresser for you to put anything in.” I only have room for my vanity, and when I offered to donate the vanity and buy a dresser, he also said no.
“That’s fine. I don’t need a dresser.” Thatcher takes a few of my blouses from my arms and places them back into the disorderly closet.
“Wait, Thatcher,” I say before he grabs more clothes out of my hold.
His hard gaze fixes on me. “I grew up with one drawer, then I lived out of a fucking rucksack. I don’t even have enough shit for 15% of that closet.”
My eyes widen. “Stop decreasing your percentage.”
His lips almost lift. “Jane—”
“The fact that you’ve lived out of a single drawer, then a bag for most of your life is precisely why you deserve the whole closet. At least let me give you 50%.”
Thatcher is about to shake his head.
“It’s imperative,” I add.
He brushes a hand across his unshaven jaw. Carpenter swats at a hanging tassel near my hips, cutting into our talk. Thatcher picks him up under his furry belly and places him on the nearby vanity.
I notice how Thatcher eyes the zebra-print notebook on my pink bedspread. He’s been far more interested in that notebook than unpacking.
Protecting me is still a priority of his, even if he’s not allowed to be my bodyguard.
From a few feet away, my gaze traces the beautiful gold horns of his cornic’, the necklace resting against his shirtless chest. Natural hair tracks down his muscles and draws my eyes lower.
To his sculpted abs and V-line, even lower—to his gray drawstring pants and the outline of his…large cock. I linger on his bulge, and an awkward amount of silence passes.
“Um…” I look up, his attention already on me, but he’s relatively stoic.
My cheeks blaze. Thatcher catching me staring shouldn’t cause any sort of red-hot flush (he’s already been inside of me) but I’m set to broil.