I snatch the shoe. And then I teeter to a stance and try to brush gravel off my foot. I wobble and instinctively reach for something to balance myself.
I grab on to Thatcher.
His muscular waist, specifically.
I look up at him while I slip on my shoe, and his hand hovers perilously close to my wide hips. He stares down at me, but his hard brown eyes never descend lower than my chin.
Shoe securely on, I set my foot on the ground, and I release my grip off Thatcher. “…thank you.” I pat his firm chest, not just once, but thrice.
Before flush ascends, I spin on my heels. I can’t be late. I walk hurriedly down the sidewalk and try to forget about patting my bodyguard.
“Jane,” Thatcher calls as I take off without him.
I glance back, and Thatcher sprints towards me.
He clicks his mic at his collar and mutters something into the speaker. Instead of stopping at my side like a friend would, he passes me right on by.
Thatcher slows down a few inches out in front and walks ahead. Per the rules of being a bodyguard. He must lead his client (i.e. me) and clear a path. So I’m not too surprised.
I keep up from behind.
His rigorous commanding stride is so familiar by now. I’m terribly used to this view of Thatcher’s peach-perfect ass, and I deeply, deeply wish I could regret how much I’ve stared at his butt.
I check the time on my phone.
Thirty seconds.
One block away, and we’ll reach the destination. We pass more brick row houses.
A young twenty-something guy smokes on the steps of one, a skateboard on his lap. We’re rapidly approaching his location.
I avoid direct eye contact, but I feel his penetrating gaze poke into me and into the trailing cameraman who snaps pictures.
“Hey!” Skateboard Smoker stands. “You’re Jane Cobalt, aren’t you?!”
My pulse spikes, more cautious.
Thatcher nails a warning glare at the pedestrian.
I attempt to mind my own business and keep pace.
Thatcher falls back and walks beside me, all six-feet seven-inches shielding my body completely from the onlooker. I’m a whole foot shorter than my bodyguard, and I find myself leaning closer to him than further away.
My heart rate eases, and I breathe normally.
“HEY!” Skateboard Smoker shouts while we trek past him. “HEY! Why are you walking away!! You fucking bitch! I hope your whole dumb fucking family dies!!”
From zero to one-hundred.
As expected.
I hardly flinch. Too used to these jeers and threats to take any stock in them.
Thatcher cements a narrowed eye on the Skateboard Smoker.
I’d rather not peek back and feed into the guy’s hand, but I’d like to know… “Is he following us?” I whisper to Thatcher.
That will unnerve me, and I start to unzip my purse. Thatcher gifted me a new bottle of pepper spray for my 23rd birthday when he read the expired date on my last one. I also have a switchblade.
“No,” Thatcher answers. “He hasn’t moved from his position.” He rotates a knob on his radio. “I can stay next to you until we reach the store.” He adds, “If you’d feel safer.”
A smile pulls at my cheeks. “I would.” I nod. “Merci.”
Having Thatcher this close brings a powerful comfort. A snaking tension. Even more temptation, and the greatest, most overwhelming curiosity.
My cross-body purse thunks my thigh as we round a corner, and I risk the umpteenth glance in his direction.
He simultaneously keeps track of our surroundings and looks down at me. As we drift nearer, his hand shifts towards the small of my back.
But his palm never makes contact, never touches or crosses that boundary unless safety decrees he must .
I wonder what his protective hands would feel like on my skin. Climbing up the slopes of my body.
Heat sears the nape of my neck again.
Come on, Jane.
No distractions. Not even of the panty-soaking hot bodyguard variety.
I have a bigger purpose today—and really, a purpose from now until forever.
Jackie and Cathy from 97.Kiss-My-Ass can delight in the fact that I am no longer aimless. I am floundering no more.
But I am two minutes late.
3
JANE COBALT
The cozy Philadelphia fabric shop is hidden behind an old bookstore. It seems as though only a couple shoppers are here perusing the disorderly store.
A bell dings when the door shuts softly behind Thatcher, and I peek down the sole three aisles for Vanessa.
Each shelf overflows with fabric rolls stacked upon more fabric rolls with no sense of color or texture coordination. Rolls that can’t fit are propped up against the shelves, crowding the narrow aisles.
At the end of the second aisle, a Molly Ringwald lookalike speaks hastily on the phone and taps the musty carpet with her nude heel. “It shouldn’t be that difficult. Look again .”
I recognize Vanessa instantly. We’ve met before, but not under the circumstance of me working for her.
“It’s not there? Are you certain?” Her grip tightens on her phone.
I worry about interrupting her call. September Fashion Week has descended upon the fashion enthusiasts of the world. Causing stress and mayhem, and it’s also why my mom is in London right now.
Hopefully Vanessa won’t realize I’m late for my first day on the job.
I head down the aisle. One ballet flat in front of the other.
Confidence.
I lift my chin.
Vanessa turns her head. Catching sight of me. “Hold on, Lance.” She struts quickly over to me. “Jane, Jane. I’m glad you’ve arrived.” She air-kisses both of my cheeks in a perfunctory rush. “I have to leave for the offices. Just pick out four fabrics for the new Calloway Couture line. Think everyday girl, functional and classic.”
Confusion parts my lips. “I was under the impression that I’d be running errands for you.” Vanessa is an Assistant Designer, and I’m supposed to be her assistant. “If you need to fax and file or a magnificent café au lait or macchiato, I’m your girl—”
“No, no.” Vanessa cups her hand over her phone’s speakers. “Rose specifically said if you want to work for Calloway Couture, you’re being placed above an entry-level position.”
I try to smile, my cheeks tightening with false confidence.
My mom has thrown me into shark-infested waters on purpose. This is not nepotism. She’s not trying to hand me a better job.
This is a slaughter. She’s hoping I’ll be chewed to pieces and quit when I can’t hack it.
It’s a clever move on her part, and I’d applaud if she were in the store.
My mom has always wanted me to choose a job that I’ll enjoy. I’m aware it’s far from a problem. I suspect not very many parents would push their children in the direction of “passion” over practicality, and even fewer have the billon-dollar cushion to fall back on.
I am grateful for them, for this life, and I’m trying not to take a moment for granted. And so I have to be realistic.
At the last Wednesday family dinner, I vehemently expressed that I have no one-true-passion in life. I’ve searched while I could, and my self-indulgent hunt is now over.
I’m committed to using my time wisely, and helping my family seems like the most sensible avenue. I used to work as a temporary CFO for H.M.C. Philanthropies, but ever since Moffy was ousted from the charity he built, I’ve refused to step through those doors.