My stance is stern. Hopefully this just blows in a more appropriate direction. Hopefully it doesn’t —yeah, that devil on my shoulder can take a fucking hike to hell.
Jane presses her lips together, suppressing a bright smile. “If you’re just trying to make me feel better, I’m okay, really. I don’t need reassurance.”
“I know you don’t,” I say seriously. She rarely ever looks for it. “I didn’t say it with any motive.” It just slipped.
Her smile dimples her cheeks, more flushed. She tries to focus on the ad. “Regardless of…that… these Photoshop alterations make me fit with media and societal standards of beauty, so whoever is behind the ad must’ve wanted me to look prettier to the public.”
I drop the newspaper back down to her height. “Could be created by a fan who wants to see you fall in love.” My harsh gaze scorches holes into those five requirements. This jackass wants Jane to be with someone in high society. A business mogul. A helicopter-riding, yacht-owning educated rich prick.
Someone so unlike me.
“It could be,” she says with a nod. “That seems most likely. I could exhaustively tell the world a million times that I’m perfectly fine on my own and I’m closed for dating and sex forever , and they’d still pull a stunt like this.”
I hear her emphasis on forever.
My bones are iron. I can’t help but think about Nate. That fucking bastard. His name makes me want a boxing bag. Searing a red-hot aggression in my veins.
She’s made a life-long vow of celibacy because of what happened with him. I’m aware. The entire security team is aware. It’s a hot topic among some bodyguards that I’m trying to turn cold.
Every time I walk in on men shooting the shit about Jane and sex, I shut it down.
“Is there a back?” she asks.
I turn the page, and we both read small print at the bottom: turn to page 23 for the accompanying article to the Cinderella ad.
We both flip pages of the newspaper together. With a lot more urgency.
“Here it is,” Jane breathes.
We stop on the article, the ink faded in some spots.
JANE COBALT IS READY FOR LOVE
A close source to America’s most famous families—the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts—has told the Chronicle that the 23-year-old American princess is “over” being single. Jane is seeking a Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet.
This comes after the announcement that her best friend & cousin, Maximoff Hale, is now engaged to his boyfriend & bodyguard, Farrow Keene. Their impending nuptials has sparked a desire in Jane to find a “special someone” to spend the rest of her life with.
It’s been hard for Jane to find true companionship, and avoiding men who want her for fame or money has been difficult in the past. Our source, Jane’s grandmother, confirms.
Now things are about to change as she searches for love the royal way. (See page 52 for the Cinderella ad.)
“Oh my God,” Jane says in one breath, unblinking. “My grandmother has officially lost all sense of reality.”
Her rich grandmother contacted the press, her rich grandmother paid for the ad, and I’ve been mentally calling her rich grandmother a fucking jackass.
Still applies. Maybe even more. She’s about to cause her own granddaughter bad publicity and a dangerous amount of unwanted attention.
I let go of the newspaper to touch my earpiece. Static cracking. But I’m only eyeing Jane and her surroundings.
She clutches the paper and drifts away from me while rereading the article. Hurt pinching her brows. This is a familial betrayal. It would’ve been better if this came from a stranger.
“Jane,” I say, my voice deep. I want to do more for her, comfort her, but I’m fucking limited to the boundaries and rules of my job.
Jane meets my gaze and takes a seat on a cardboard box. “This was a calculated move on my grandmother’s part.” She splays the newspaper on her thighs.
“Why do you think that?” I step nearer to her spot. I’ve met Grandmother Calloway before, and family is family, but after Greece this summer, I think she’s the worst part of the famous ones. SFO would agree.
What she said to Farrow and Maximoff on the yacht reached some ears in security. Which then reached me.
“The timing,” Jane explains. “Moffy is newly engaged, and our grandmother is most likely hoping I’ll marry a man before him. Just so I’ll be the first down the aisle. It’s a heinous power-move that deserves booing and tomato-throwing.” She exhales a harsher breath, frustrated and upset. Her eyes are tightened in anger.
She almost buries her face in the newspaper.
Pained for Maximoff, mostly. I understand Jane well enough to know that this would hurt her the most. Their grandmother is stealing this once-in-a-lifetime moment from Maximoff. He’s supposed to enjoy his engagement, and she’s shining a spotlight on Jane instead.
I check some movement outside of this enclosure. An elderly man meanders around the aisles. Not a threat.
So I approach Jane in another step. I tower above my client, and then I squat down. Eye-level, I grip the paper. Gently pulling it off her face.
Her breath comes out deeper, and she searches my hard gaze.
Words aren’t my strong suit, but I’m here.
Jane seems to find comfort in my eyes, her shoulders relaxing. “The scariest thing in all of this is that my grandmother truly believes she has the best intentions. Most everything she ever does is selfish, but she thinks she’s altruistic. In her mind, this ad must be a way to help me open my heart.”
My brows pull together. “That’s dangerous.” She didn’t even ask her granddaughter for permission to run the public ad.
“Oui.” Jane folds up the newspaper. “It’s good that this is about me and not my brothers or sister. I don’t have a life-long career that can be destroyed because of bad press. I don’t have a passion at stake.”
My expression darkens. I respect her longing to protect her family—I understand that soul-deep need. But Jane doesn’t deserve to be a dartboard just because she has less going on in her life. Less to lose. She has to combat more horseshit than most already.
Her mind must be reeling. She blinks a few times. “The phone number—my grandmother must’ve had her assistant set up a new number and email for the ad.” She frowns. “How many men do you think will respond?”
“I can’t know for sure, but I’ll take care of it.” I straighten up to a towering stance. “I’ve got your six, always.”
She begins to smile, inhaling a lung full, and then rises to her feet. The top of her head reaching my collarbones.
Radiating confidence, Jane pulls back her shoulders and ties her hair into a low pony. She adjusts her purse and prepares for the chaos outside of this quiet sanctuary.
I’ve seen her do it a million-and-one times. This isn’t the first fallout. Probably won’t be the last. She’s living inside some type of modern age battlefield. Which is the only reason she needs a soldier.
The only reason she needs me.
“Ready?” I ask, fixing the settings on my radio.
Another breath, she nods. “Let’s go.”
6
THATCHER MORETTI
Dawn.
Fog hangs low outside the two brick townhouses in Philly’s Rittenhouse-Fitler Historic District, windows shrouded with mist. It’s where Jane, Maximoff, and Luna live, and by extension, their bodyguards. Left is their house.
Right is ours.
Exception being Farrow Keene, who lives with his client. Security makes a lot of exceptions for Farrow, and back when I was a lead and a third of the Tri-Force, I even helped pave that path for him.
Probably more than he realizes.
I step out onto the curb of the old narrow street. Tying drawstring pants tighter on my muscular waist. I didn’t have time to grab a fucking shirt.
Cover of darkness vanishes with daybreak, and the early-morning September chill bites my bare chest.
I used to always wake up at first light. Before the Marine Corps, before my parent’s divorce—our dad would tell us to get our asses up and finish our chores, all before breakfast.
I didn’t really mind it, and to let Banks sleep longer, I’d do some of his tasks. Folding his clothes for him. Placing shirts and pants neatly in one dresser drawer that we had to share.