And I’m positive she’s not.
“What is this?” I glance back at Farrow.
He rests an elbow casually on the mantel. “The worst idea of the month.”
“Counter argument,” Jane says.
Our heads turn as she appears and blows on a steaming mug.
She continues without missing a beat. “This month’s worst idea goes to my grandmother who pimped me out in an ad.”
My brows draw together, concerned about Jane. But also, I’m narrowing a glare into the fucking corkboard.
Farrow refutes, “Except sex was never mentioned in the ad.”
“Romantic pimping,” Jane clarifies, placing her hot mug on a cat-shaped coaster, and I watch her sidle right…next to me.
I uncross my arms.
I don’t know why. Can’t touch her.
My nose flares, and I end up kneading my deltoid.
She places her hands on her hips and stares up at the photos. Like she’s mapped out her whole future and she’s reviewing the layout.
And then she sucks in a measured breath.
She’s stressed.
“What’s going on, Jane?” I ask for the details.
She’s quick to explain everything. I listen, breathing out coarser breaths further and further through. When she’s done talking, she tears a photo of an athlete off the wall. I recognize him as a fullback for the Eagles.
I was right.
I don’t fucking like this.
Maximoff stands nearby, cracking his knuckles. He seems on edge about the whole scenario, but the guy is always on edge.
Farrow leaves his spot on the loveseat to be beside his fiancé.
Jane passes me the photo and cranes her neck to meet my gaze. “He seems like the best so far.”
I haven’t even looked at the photo.
My steel gaze is on her. Don’t do this, Jane.
She searches my eyes and puts a few fingers to her cheek. “So…” She clears her throat and shakes her head, more to herself. “What do you think?”
This feels like that one time where I told Jane I’d help her find another guy to provide her “oral assistance”—when I was right there and she would’ve been willing. That was like running a 99-yard touchdown for the wrong team. Knowing I had to score for someone else.
Wanting to turn around every inch gained on the field.
Pretty much hell.
I swallow a jagged rock and drop my eyes to the photo. “I’ll need to vet him,” I remind her.
She nods. “I know.” Her voice is tighter than usual.
I’ve never had to vet a guy that she could potentially date or fuck or both. For the majority of my time on her detail, she’s been shut off to every intimate thing with men.
Fuck Nate, that fucking bastard.
Imagining Jane falling in love with other men punctures something hot in me and I need to think of brighter things before I pop a blood vessel.
Puppies.
Rainbows.
Pussy.
God, Jane is right in front of me. Maybe not pussy.
I scrutinize the photo. “Are you pursuing him?” I ask outright.
She tilts her head. “What do you mean by pursuing ?”
“Dating,” I clarify. Having sex.
“No dating.” She’s practically whispering. “Nothing else. It’s purely platonic.”
My expression closes up. What she intends as being platonic could become something more.
And then what?
And then nothing. My feelings don’t matter. I can’t just break rank and say, fuck it.
But something in my mind is saying, unfuck this.
Get rid of the fullback and the Wall of Suitors. “What about just calling your grandmother?” I ask Jane.
Farrow chimes in, “That’s what I said before these two started tacking dipshits up on the wall.”
Maximoff blinks slowly. “Thank you for illustrating how great of a friend I am.”
“The best,” Jane says in a warm smile.
Maximoff smiles back.
Jane turns to me. “And I have called our grandmother. Twenty times. She has to be screening the calls because I’m sent to voicemail every time. Watch.” She picks up her phone from the coffee table and dials a number. Hoisting it in the air, we wait.
It rings once before the line clicks.
Her eyes expand to saucers, and she brings the speaker to her lips. “Grandmother?”
“Jane, dear.” Grandmother Calloway sounds like she’s sucked on helium for half her fucking life. Uppity blue-blooded aristocrats were foreign territory to me until I became a bodyguard.
Her grandmother eats foie gras and Beluga caviar.
I grew up eating fried baloney three days a week.
Jane starts, “I—”
“I’m so glad you called,” she cuts her off.
She’s been calling.
I keep an eye on Jane more than anyone else. She’s worried about her cousin.
Maximoff is glaring at the phone, and Jane backs away from him like she can protect him from their grandmother at a distance.
Farrow has his hand on the back of Maximoff’s neck in comfort.
He’s lucky.
What I’d give to be able to—no, it can’t happen —for Jane. My thoughts are now a clusterfuck. I rake my hand across my jaw.
She starts again, “Grandmother—”
“I was disappointed that you put out a press release demeaning the advertisement. But I understand. Not everyone loves surprises.”
Farrow rolls his eyes.
“Grandmother. It was—”
“Better news is coming, dear.”
Jane sighs out in frustration from being cut off.
“I’ve scheduled an afternoon tea this Saturday,” her grandmother says.
“But—”
“And I’ve picked out the three best men from the resumes. You’ll find a winner in one of them.”
She takes a breath. “Grandmo—”
“I’ll send the details over. See you Saturday, and wear a dress.”
The line clicks.
“Shit,” Farrow curses.
Things are now fucking worse. I’ll have to vet three suitors. She’s gone from just entertaining the football player to now taking four men on a tea date.
Jane stares at the phone in a daze. “What just happened?”
Maximoff tries to unclench his fist. “You just got roped into afternoon tea.”
“I don’t even like tea and dresses,” she mutters. “And now she’s staging an episode of The Bachelorette. ”
I look down at her. “You don’t have to do this,” I remind Jane.
She shakes her head like she’s disoriented. “No, I can just…I’ll take the football player to afternoon tea. The plan is the same that way. He can just upstage whatever men my grandmother chooses—”
A fist bangs the door loudly.
Jane jolts.
I put a hand to the small of her back. “Hold on.” I pass her and head to the locked door. Farrow is right behind me in seconds.
Temp guards should be securing the perimeter outside.
The next sound is a whack. Sounds like an object.
I speak into my mic and try to communicate with the temps while Farrow checks the security cams on his phone.
We figure out the issue in less than a minute.
“Are they throwing eggs?” Jane asks. She’s not even surprised that people would.
I shake my head.
“It’s a drone,” Farrow explains.
“Goddamn drones,” Maximoff growls under his breath.
“One more thing,” Farrow adds. “The drone dropped off a package.”
11
JANE COBALT
My curiosity about the package is only half-full. Thatcher occupies the other half, and I catch myself looking backwards for him.
He’s not here.
He carried the luxury shoebox to security’s townhouse a few minutes ago, Farrow in tow. But only after they scanned the package for metal.
Our bodyguards have more tools to test the contents for anything hazardous. I know Moffy would prefer to be involved, but I don’t love hearing about all the ball gags and leather that stalkers send me.
Maximoff has stayed behind to keep me company, and our twenty-year-old cousin has finally arrived.