Banks throws the lime at me. “I thought you did.”
I catch the lime and chuck it back.
He grabs it easily.
“No,” I answer.
Akara shakes his head and then calls, “Hey, Quinn!”
Quinn pops in the archway. He’s rolling up the cuffs to his floral short-sleeve button-down. Recently he’s been wearing a lot of florals shirts. Today: green palm leaves with yellow flowers.
His brother already gave him shit for being LA trendy. Whatever that means.
All I know is that when Akara moved in, he and Quinn refused to let me and my brother bunk up. Banks and I offered. Of course. We’re twins. It’s the easiest shuffle.
But Akara said we shared a room most of our lives, and they both didn’t want us having to do it again. So like Luna and Sulli, Quinn and Akara now share a room.
It’s a big deal to me and my brother. Not many people would choose to have a roommate and sleep on a bunk bed for us.
In the kitchen, Quinn notices the empty pitcher. “You need help?” He wanted to make the Brazilian drink today because Luna said she’s never had one before.
Most of us in security have had them. Just never made them ourselves.
“Yes we do,” Akara says smoothly and shifts to let him in, and I give Quinn space, squeezing past everyone and leaving the kitchen.
Instinctively I scope out the living room for Jane. Finding her in mere seconds. She lounges on a stool next to Maximoff and Farrow, chip bags spread out over the high tabletop.
She pops one in her mouth. Smiling at something Farrow says to Maximoff.
“Twitter is going nuts,” Luna announces from the leather couch.
I see her in my peripheral. Laptop balancing on her knees, red marker underlines her eyes like she was in a flag football match. Knowing Luna, she probably just did it because she wanted to.
“Holy fuck.” Sulli reads from over her shoulder. “It’s trending. That’s what that means, right?” She points to the screen.
“Yep yep, definitely trending,” Luna says.
I shove off towards Jane.
Whispers and chatter from the table and couch seem to hush as I approach her. Until I’m right in front of Jane, and the room is awkwardly silent.
Here, among security and her family, we’re back to being bodyguard and client. No dating. Her face can’t be up against my face. Be professional.
I hand her the extra beer I grabbed.
Her lips rise. “Thank you.”
Maximoff and Farrow aren’t staking glares into me. They’re just eyeing me closely.
I focus on Jane. She runs her thumb over the rim of the bottle, and her eyes search mine. “About you being more in the public,” she says, “I wanted to let you know that whatever crops up on the internet about your life, I don’t plan to read it. I’d rather hear whatever you’re willing to share with me, but if you’d rather I just look, if that’s easier for you—”
“You don’t have to look,” I interject. “I don’t think the public will find much anyway.”
There is one thing…one thing that I’d rather she never find out through a fucking online search engine or internet troll.
One thing that I can’t figure out a good time to say. It’s so far gone. Over fifteen years ago, but once I drop it, the air usually snaps and the mood darkens.
I hate going there.
Hell, I don’t know how to go there most of the time.
“So it’s a plan then,” Jane notes.
I nod and remember what I needed to tell her. “The team wants us to wait to publicly confirm that we’re together.”
No posts.
No interviews.
No banners in the fucking sky.
Nothing.
We just have to appear like we’re getting sloppier about hiding our “secret” relationship. Media will do the heavy lifting.
“Sounds brilliant.” She sips her beer, then licks her lips. “Do we have our next objective as a couple?”
We do.
19
JANE COBALT
Security devises a plan that has tumbled my heart throughout my whole body like an erratic, too-eager-for-my-own-good pinball.
Thatcher and I are embarking on a weekend getaway at a local Bed & Breakfast. Our fake couple antics are starting strong. Just packing my travel suitcase, I felt like I was on an adrenaline high.
As I roll my luggage along the pretty floral carpet, I drink in the quaint Bed & Breakfast and cozy atmosphere, and I glance more than once at Thatcher.
He towers beside me like an archangel. His radio attached to his slacks, mic on the collar of his black long-sleeve tee, and I’m more aware this isn’t a real romantic vacation.
He’s still my bodyguard, and this is simply just a ruse. A strategy.
I have to keep my wits about me.
In the foyer, a brass chandelier hangs overhead and sunlight streams through stained-glass windows. A fifty-something innkeeper waits for us behind a polished mahogany desk.
I read her nametag as we approach. “Hi, Gretchen,” I greet with a smile.
She returns the smile with a warm one. “Welcome to the Concord B&B.”
“We have a reservation under…” I realize that I didn’t book the reservation. I might be terribly messy, but I’m very organized and can juggle more than what meets the eye. I usually plan travel details myself. Never leaving them up to assistants or family members.
But this weekend trip was different.
Thatcher steps forward, his large hand hovering near my hip. “It’s under Moretti.”
Why was that so very sexy? He put the reservation under his name. Possibly the Tri-Force told him to do so. I try to read his stern features, but he’s so vigilant at the moment. Constantly scanning the foyer, then glancing down at me.
Checking on me.
The back of my neck blazes, and I try to retrain my attention on the innkeeper.
“Let’s see here.” She plucks her reading glasses off her chest, a beaded chain linking them around her neck, and she perches them on her nose. Wispy blonde tendrils twist in a nest upon her head, and her honey brown eyes dart between me and the four bodyguards who flank my sides.
Thatcher, Banks, Oscar, and Donnelly.
This is a team mission, after all. Plus, SFO said there should be more security around, especially since a parade of paparazzi has been trailing our every move.
Now that Thatcher is gaining more fame, his job as a bodyguard is going to be harder, and Omega wants to protect him like they did Farrow.
I can still hear some of the fanatic shouting we left outside of the Bed & Breakfast.
“Jaaaaaane!”
“Thatcher!!”
I’m not sure how Oscar and Donnelly got off their details with my brothers. But I assume it might’ve been easiest to give Charlie and Beckett temp bodyguards this weekend.
Maximoff and Farrow would’ve come along. I wanted them here badly. There is a large absence that only they can fill in my life, and it’s a strange feeling not having them with me on such a huge endeavor.
But Moffy and I knew if we stayed overnight together at a B&B, it could potentially unbury the HaleCocest rumor. Regardless if he’s engaged to Farrow or not, it could happen, and that is the mother of all dumpster fires that we desperately do not want to reignite.
She types on a keyboard. “Breakfast starts at eight and ends at eleven.” She squints at her computer screen. “Ah yes, you’ve requested the Metropolis, Blue Ridge, and Victorian rooms.”
Skeleton keys are hung on wooden pegs behind the innkeeper, and there are only three out of six left. Meaning, strangers already occupy the other three rooms.
It’s purposeful. Security is hoping the guests will spot Thatcher and me together. We need strangers passing pictures and information to the press.
Paparazzi will question anyone who leaves the Concord.
Gretchen gingerly picks the remaining three keys. “The Blue Ridge is on the first floor, two twin beds. The Metropolis and Victorian are a short distance up the stairs, second floor on the right. If you need anything, you can find me in the study. Third door down the main hall.”
“Thank you,” I say, and she passes the keys to Thatcher.
She darts off to the study.
Thatcher hands a skeleton key to Oscar. “You or Donnelly need to be on night watch. So rack out as soon as you can.”