Page 3 of Sinful Like Us

“No,” I say quickly. “I like your name. It’s unique to you. I don’t know any other Thatchers.” We’re still staring intently at each other, and I can’t tell if he’s reading into my bloodshot eyes. Knowing that I’ve been crying.

“I don’t know any other Janes,” he admits.

I nearly smile. “I always thought Jane was a common name. There were five in my grade in high school. But most people just referred to me by my full name anyway.” I rock forward on my feet. “I wastheJane Cobalt.Still am, I suppose.” I think of my family.

I think of my mom and dad, and a frown drops my lips.

My eyes burn.

Thatcher never breaks my gaze. “Look, it might not be my place to say something, but you should just know that you’ll get through this.”

I clutch the comfort in his eyes. Earlier today, Thatcher told most everyone here that he knows what these kinds of accusations feel like. So I say, “As a twin, you said you’ve received rude questions before?”

“Yeah. That and more.” He weaves his arms over his chest. “Guys in high school used to say that my brother and I did some…thingstogether for fun.”

Things.

I assume it verges on incestuousthings, which is why he can relate to me now. I do wonder if he’s censoring himself to remain professional or because the past is hard to talk about. Either way, I won’t pry.

I tilt my head. “Did it change your relationship with your brother?”

He’s nodding.

And my hands fall off my hips, and my heart plummets. It’s what I feared. That this rumor will forever destroy my relationship with Moffy.

“It made us closer,” Thatcher says. “We got stronger.”

Stronger.

I inhale. “I want that so terribly for Moffy and me.” I stare off at the burning fireplace logs. “I think our odds are 50-50.”

His brows draw together. It takes him a second to ask. “You’re that unsure?”

I smooth the wrinkles of my cat-chasing-yarn-balls pajama top. “I know that you know me and my family better than most ever will because you’re a bodyguard, and I might never fully know you—and that’s okay.” I speak quickly. “But I’m not my mom. I’m not always so sure of myself, even when I wish I were, and I’m not a warriorgoddess, even when I wish to be. I have to take that into account when constructing probabilities.”

Thatcher stares at me in a way that causes my pulse to speed, heart to pound, and my lips part as I find more words to fill the quiet.

“Do you agree?” I wonder.

He almost shakes his head, but I see how he cuts the movement off. And he just says, “I think you’re really hard on yourself, Jane.”

I like how he says my name so softly at the end, and I wasn’t searching for reassurance, but I didn’t mind that at all—in fact, I think I liked that too.

“Not 50-50. 70-30 then,” I say. “Moffy and I come out stronger.”

“90-10.” His eyesalmostdrop to my neck, but again, he stops the movement mid-way—and then he nods to the couch. “You want to take a seat?”

Heat blazes my cheeks for some reason. “I can sit.” I return to the couch, splaying the papers on my lap. In the quiet, I steal a few glances at him.

Thatcher looks back at me before he pulls a leather ottoman over.

I have trouble focusing on the notes. Sitting pin straight, I fold my palms over my paper. “Were you sleeping before I texted?” I wonder if I woke him.

He takes a seat in front of me, his posture rigid, still quietly commanding. “Not that long.”

So he was in bed.“How come you didn’t come down in your pajamas?” I raise a hand. “I’m sorry if I’m being nosy. I’m disastrously curious, which you may already know.”

Bodyguards talk. Of course workplace gossip exists, and security’s workplace is me and my family. Plus, Thatcher knew the names of all my cats when he wasn’t evenonmy detail.