Page 102 of Sinful Like Us

“Because,” Maximoff says, “being a dick isn’t hereditary.”

We reach no real conclusion on the subject, and I’m not sure that Charlie or Beckett will ever accept Will, the older brother of someone who has wronged me. Maximoff is far more forgiving, and I see that in how he’s let Thatcher back into his life and my life and his fiancé’s life.

My brothers go to the bar for new drinks, and like the seas have parted, I have a clear and direct line to the sofa.

To Thatcher.

I sip my drink.

He tries to scout the pub, but his narrowed gaze returns to me in a flash. I’m drawn to him, and I practically float towards my boyfriend.

“Jane,” he greets deeply. I’m only a few feet away.

My bones ache for him. I want to feel him inside me. I want the emotion, and I barely see concern tighten his eyes.

Climb him, Jane.“I want you,” I whisper.

“Jane.”

“Thatcher.” I’m a drunken fool, but Flirty Jane doesn’t give a damn. I’m one second from straddling Thatcher when hands clasp my waist.

Farrow pulls me back, and Thatcher shoots to a stance, his concern still on me. But the world rotates and blurs, and I try to cling to all the voices that pitch around me.

“Did she just call you Thatcher?” O’Malley asks.

Tony laughs. “She’s just drunk. Aren’t you, Jane?” He thinks he’s beingcuteteasing me, but he’s nothing more than a patronizing prick.

And I hope I’m glaring at him, but the pub is a smear of multi-colored twinkling Christmas lights. Farrow is still behind me, I think.

Thatcher in front. Isn’t he?I hope.

Voices pile on each other. I blink for focus.

“How am I an asshole?” Tony rebuts. “I don’t care that she mixed ‘em up. It doesn’t even matter what anyone calls them. Banks responds to both names.”

I wish I could defend my boyfriend, but I’m fighting to grasp my bearings.

My cheeks roast, uncomfortable that I’m too uninhibited and not put-together among people who should meet my iron walls. I’m lost, but I feel hands on me and voices in my ear. “Thatcher?” I trip over my feet and try to right myself.

I touch something hard. A chest?

I haven’t been this drunk in a long, long while.

“Thatcher?” I’m scared. “Thatcher?”

“Jane—I’m right here.” He cups my cheeks.

It alarms me, more than anything, that I didn’t call for Maximoff.

I called for him.

For a man I…

I love him.

I hold onto his biceps, unsure of where my whiskey glass even went. “I’m fine.” I speak, not even sure what he asked me. I try to strong-arm my drunken-self and not slur. “I think it’s just hitting me…harder all of a sudden.”Because I moved.I walked and now I’m speeding rapidly through Sloppy Drunk Jane to Black-Out (SOS) territory.

God, help me.