Page 113 of Sinful Like Us

Chilly wind whips my wavy hair as I try to catch my breath. We just completed a climb to the top of a beautiful plateau, the flat grassland stretching left and right while sheep roam leisurely around us.

“Yeah?” Thatcher takes a quick glance down the steep rock-littered grass: what we just trekked up, where we left Tony at the bottom, my bodyguard a speck in the distance as he waits with the cars.

I was surprised when Tony listened to my request to stay there.

Even more shocked that he didn’t argue about “Banks” accompanying me. Though he madecomments.

He said, “Take the killjoy. See how much fun you’ll have without me.” He leaned on the car like he was the smoothest sex god worthy of my lust, and then he flashed a flirty smile that made my ovaries shrivel.

“I don’t love being around you,” I snapped. “And if you believe you’ll be my bodyguard for long, you’re mistaken.”

His smile fell. “Come on.” He sounded hurt. “Whatever Moretti has said about me, it’s not true.”

“I can make up my own mind,” I rebutted, just as Thatcher approached us.

He assessed the uneasiness and the tension that wound between me and my bodyguard. His gaze narrowed on Tony. “What’d you say to her?”

“Nothing that everyone doesn’t know already.” Tony tried to raise his chin to appear taller than Thatcher. “I was just telling Jane that I’m more fun than you.”

To which I snapped back, “And your unsolicited opinion on Banks or Thatcher or a combination of the two is deeplyunwelcome.” I glared.

Hotly.

I caught Thatcher smiling down at me. Maybe just the corner of his lip slightly rose, but that means more coming from a man who’s stern exterior rarely crumbles. And I could practically see the light pooling inside him.

Now that we’ve left Tony behind and it’s just my boyfriend and me, nerves flap in my stomach. Butterfly-nerves—I have them tenfold around Thatcher and his commanding presence and his hard-to-read features that I canvass eagerly.

He has his arms crossed, radio mic attached to a blue outdoorsy jacket that reminds me of Banks. And his eyes have returned to me with such raw intensity.

I squish my binder tighter against my puffy jacket.

Last night, Jane.We’re discussing last night, and I shake the cobwebs from my head. “…I appreciate, more than anything, you taking care of me when I was…”

Sloppy drunk.

A sloshed fool.

Just plain messy Jane.

“Indisposed,” I say aloud.

He almost smiles again. “You were cuteindisposed.”

I brighten. “You mean I was a hot mess?”

Thatcher looks me over. “I’ve seen hot messes before, and you’re your own thing.”

“Cute indisposed,” I muse.

“Cute indisposed,” he confirms with a nod.

We stare deeper, and emotion tries to burrow further into me. I try to stay on track. “I meant to say more.”

He nods me on.

“About last night…” I add again.

I feel and see Thatcher hanging onto my every word. Like I’m building towards a climax and it could be disastrous or the most glorious extreme we’ve ever reached.