Page 11 of Tangled Like Us

I didn’t believe him.

Whenever you hear about a heckler railing on Jane, you look like you want to pop them between the eyes,Banks told me. And she’s not even your client. What do you think’ll happen if you actually join her detail?

I extend my arm to Jane first.

Eight months later, I know I’m in deep, but I can control myself and my nine-inch cock.

Hell, I’ve held her hand before where security is concerned. To draw her away from paparazzi. To protect her from crowds.

And now to solidify a promise of trust and devotion.

It’s for her safety.Parameters still intact.

“Bound to this oath, we shake,” Jane declares, and she clasps my hand and with one strong shake, we should let go.

She holds a beat longer

I hold an extra beat longer.Longer than I should.

My chest tightens with a hot breath, and we both loosen our grip.

2

JANE COBALT

Two Months Later

“If you’re just tuningin, this is 97.2The Fixwith Cathy and Jackie, bringing you the latest trending hits and news during your morning commute.”

I raise the volume of my car radio. Drowning out the honking paparazzi who are in a money-fueled cock-fight with each other behind my baby blue Volkswagen Beetle. Both sedans want to ride my bumper and snap pictures through my rear window, but only one can occupy the prime spot.

Pink cat pompoms hang from my rearview mirror and sway back and forth.

I take a quick peek at the mirror. “And the winner is a gray Toyota. Well done, sir, you have won a fabulous view of my scratched bumper.”

One paparazzi cock-fight—at the very minimum—is a constant variable in the fickle equation of my life.

My clammy palms dampen the steering wheel. I’m remarkablynervous.Today, my great and terrible life takes a drastic turn, and I’m trying my best not to be late.

I wipe my hand on the thigh of my pastel purple jeans, and then I grab my giant 32-oz thermos in the cup holder. “Stay on Juniper and take Morris to 13th?” I ask the twenty-eight-year-old stringent, scruffy bodyguard in the passenger seat.

“You’ll find more cover if you take Morris to 12thand McKean.” His deep, husky voice is like wood smoke after a fire is extinguished.

I risk a glance.

Six-feet-seven-inches of raw masculinity engulfs my car. Thatcher Moretti is stoic.

Stern.

The sort of professional broodiness one would expect from a man who dedicates his whole existence to serving and protecting others. Those others just happen to be the people I love most: my only sister, my five brothers, my many cousins—all of my notoriously famous family.

He’s shifted closer to the middle console for more room.

A swelter prickles my skin. There’s only one inch of tense space between his bulging bicep and my arm. He feels closer, even, and he makes my Beetle look absurdly tiny.

When he was assigned to my detail, I wanted to exchange my Volkswagen to accommodate his…size, and he adamantly opposed the idea.

Thatcher surveys the Toyota behind us. Warmth from his strong build radiates against the nape of my neck. Flush ascends my chest, and he’s not even touching me.