Page 118 of Sinful Like Us

“How’s everything back home?” I hope I sound 0% fretful. Thatcher edges nearer, nodding in encouragement. His towering build is like a stone wall, shielding the raucous wind from me.

“We’re all doing well here.” His voice is smooth and untroubled. “I’m just wondering why your boyfriend is screening my calls.”

Thatcher fixates on the phone like I’m clutching a weapon, and if he blinks, it’ll detonate in my palm.

I lift the speakers closer to my lips. “Do you have the right number?”

I picture my dad arching a single brow. “Phone numbers aren’t that difficult to memorize, especially ones that matter.”

I touch my smile with my fingertips.Thatcher matters to him.I take a breath and turn the tables. “Why are you trying to reach him?”

“I wanted to invite him to lunch tomorrow.”

My eyes bug.Oh my God.This is very,verybad. He can’t have a face-to-face with Banks.

Thatcher’s biceps look like they’re going to explode in his cross-armed state. He nods to me and mouths,deflect.

Right.

Deflection. “Are you rescinding the invitation?”

“No. But the more he avoids my calls, the more he reminds me of the only person who consistently hangs up on me—and I never imagined my firstborn daughter would date a man like Ryke Meadows.” He sounds a little bothered by this fact, though I know he cares deeply for Uncle Ryke.

“Date is a weak word,” I correct. “What we are to each other is very serious, him and I.” I’m less nervous to admit this to my dad, strangely. I’m more nervous when I meet Thatcher’s strong eyes.

My stomach backflips.

“Have you two talked about marriage?”

“No,” I squeak out. “No,no.” My face is red-hot. “Dad, that’s far too soon.” I step around Thatcher to welcome the aggressive breeze, hitting me in a cold wave.

Thatcher uncrosses his arms, his gaze tracking my movement. The lack of holster on his waistband reminds me that security has no firearms on this trip, due to gun laws. All are armed with legal tactical knives.

Facts.

Facts are easy. Simple. Emotionless at times. And distracting.

“And you’ll be happy to know,” I tell him, “that the probability of someone marrying their first boyfriend or girlfriend is statistically low.” My pulse skips. “Maximoff is an outlier.”Stop talking. “So there’s that piece of helpful data.”

Thatcher is staring at my back.

I hang my head, my heart in my throat with a looming sadness that I push aside. I’m not sad.I’m not sad.I can live without him.

“Where are you pulling your data from?” my dad asks, voice calm.

“Places,” I say, being as cagey as him. I’m the first of his children in a serious relationship. Guessing his motives concerning my boyfriend will be as accurate as shaking a Magic 8 Ball. I have no idea what my dad is truly thinking. “Are you inviting Thatcher to lunch out of kindness or to interrogate him?”

“That depends if we agree on the definition of interrogate,” he says smoothly like he, himself, is the arbiter of definitions. I once believed he wrote the dictionary under the pseudonym Merriam-Webster. I was five. And clearly deluded.

“Dad,” I say in warning.

“It’ll be a civil conversation, I promise.” I can feel his billion-dollar grin.

“I think you should wait for me to be there. I’ll be back in three days.Please.”

“If that’s what you want.” He pauses. “But sooner or later, I’m going to get to know him on my own. You’re not just seriously dating him, Jane. You’re bringing him into our world, and there’s only so much a background check covers.”

All bodyguards go through background checks, but my dad makes it seem like he pried right after Thatcher and I became a couple.