I take a seat on the edge of my bed and open my phone’s notes app. Thatcher remains standing, reading my list, and his brows pull together. “Jane.” He says my name with intensity.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your number three.” His shoulder muscles pull taut. “You wrote: do not touch me under any circumstance.”
I sit pin straight. “It’s called a preference list. I prefer that Tony doesn’t touch me.” I cringe picturing his hands even hovering near my body.
“He’s your bodyguard, honey.”
“I don’t know him.”
Thatcher seizes my gaze, much harder to read. “You didn’t know me, and you still trusted me to touch you.”
My eyes burn, hearing Thatcher relate himself to Tony.
Thatcher might be all stoic, hard lines, but I know he wouldn’t push me into another man’s arms. I can’t let fear or insecurity distort his intentions. I can’t. He’s just trying to rebuild trust between me and my new bodyguard—someone he can’t stand. It slices a knife through my lungs.
Very quietly, I ask, “Is this as hard for you as it is me?”
His nose flares. “I’d rather be chugging battery acid.”
“Pass the jug,” I quip.
His lip almost rises, but seriousness darkens his features. “Under certain circumstances, your bodyguard will need to put their hands on you.”
I wince.
He squats so he’s eye-level with me. “He won’t hurt you. All seven of us on Omega are triple-checking Tony when it comes to you and your family.”
“I’m not afraid of Tony. The things he says just make my skin crawl, which is my number six.” I point to the notebook.
Thatcher glances at the page. “Six, do not converse with me.”
“I’m covering my bases,” I tell him.
“You need to uncover number three.”
“Is it so terribly necessary that Tony touches me?”
“He can’t protect you if you don’t let him.” Thatcher cups my cheek, and I can practically hear my heavy heartbeat. He tells me, “There’ll be times where you have to rely on Tony. I can’t be with you when I’m on-duty protecting Xander, and you’re not always going to be around Banks, Maximoff, and Farrow.” He trusts them to look out for me when he can’t. “Your safety is what matters. Above everything.”
I loosen my grip on my phone. “What if I request minimal touch? Only when absolutely necessary?”
Thatcher nods once. “That works.” He stands up, his hand never leaving my cheek, and he places a knee on the mattress.
My phone lights up next to his knee and buzzes on the duvet. A text message blinks on the screen, but it isn’t from Tony.
Your mom and I are on our way. We need to talk. – Dad
2
THATCHER MORETTI
This is a weird position to be in. Days ago, Connor Cobalt and Rose Calloway knew me as a professional, stringent bodyguard. Nothing more.
Today, I’m the man that’s been dating their daughter.
Flipping that switch isn’t just turning on and off the lights. It’s going from pitch-black darkness to a neon-fluorescent disco.
I’ve been mentally preparing to face two pissed-off parents just looking out for their kid. Hell, if I had a daughter, I’d probably lay into the fuckbag who secretly hid their relationship from me. Sneaking around—not a great look to impress the parents.
I just want to make it right.
Unfuck this fucked situation and start on solid ground.
But I’m standing in front of Connor Cobalt—a man who literally was on the cover of Forbes this month—and I realize that anything I say could bury me deeper.
The fridge hums, ice machine gurgling in tense silence. The cramped kitchen feels more compact with another man over six-feet here. But I have three-inches on Connor.
And still, I don’t think a single person could walk in this room and tell.
Jane’s dad stands like he owns the world. Expensive slacks and navy-blue button-down, a Cartier watch on his wrist that probably costs more than my uncle’s row house. He has billion-dollar energy that screams I’m better than you.
Arrogant.
Poised. All the way down to the look in his eyes and posture. How he leans back against the cabinets, hands casually careened on the counter.
In the past, in a professional setting—conversing over security matters—Connor has been approachable and easy-going. But I understand he’s no less deadly than the woman he married. The only difference is that Rose shows you her dagger, and he keeps his behind his back.
Silence mounts.
I’m in foreign territory, but it wouldn’t be the first time. I check on Jane. On instinct. I glance through the kitchen archway and see her on the pink loveseat, talking quietly to her mom. Jane catches my eyes and gives me an encouraging nod.
“Do you want to offer me a drink?” Connor asks, pulling my attention. “Water, lemonade, bourbon? You live here now, so I’m to assume you can act as a host.”
Fuck all things to hell. I nod towards the fridge. “Would you like a drink?” I ask. “I can get whatever you want.”
“Not right now. But I appreciate the offer, even delayed and obviously coerced.”
He’s not going to make this easy.
That’s fine. I can shovel myself out of the grave I’m in, and I add, because I think it’s an important detail, “I’ve only been living here for less than an hour, sir.”
Connor doesn’t even pause. “You’ve been sleeping with her for much longer than an hour.”
Holy fuck.
My features harden to stone.
I knew he’d run me over the fucking coals, but I didn’t think he’d do the job so bluntly and without hesitation. “Yeah,” I say, not denying that fact. “It’s been consensual.”
“I know,” Connor says. “You’d already be in jail if it weren’t.” He says the words casually, like this is everyday conversation. Somehow, his calm tone sounds more threatening than if he were screaming in my face.
“And I would want the same thing,” I say and then shake my head. “That’s not true, actually.”
Connor tilts his head, but his stare is blank. “You wouldn’t want someone who forced themselves on Jane to be put in jail?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” My voice is deep and assured. “I’d want them dead.” I’d also like to be the one to carry out the murder, but I don’t add that fact. I’m not sure Connor would appreciate how easily I could kill someone, even if it’d be for Jane.
Connor sizes me up for a second. “Coffee?” He’s the one who moves to the pot and starts pouring liquid in a pastel pink mug.
He hands me a cup.
“I can get yours,” I tell him, but he’s already filling up another one.
My grandma is at home clucking her tongue in disapproval. I should be feeding a guest, not making them do all the fucking work.
I’m an assertive man, but something about Connor is slowing my reflexes.
He raises his cup to his mouth. “Jane is many things, but I would never call her irrational nor spontaneous. So when she told us that her boyfriend of—” he gives me a look “—how long have you two been together?”