Page 114 of Tangled Like Us

I’m taking a very keen interest in Thatcher Moretti at the moment too.

As he nears, he’s only staring at me.

“Thatcher,” I greet, a smile playing at my lips.

“Jane,” he says huskily, looking into me with open-booked desire. In public.

It’s not only allowed, it’sencouraged.

My heartbeat accelerates to unknown, unquantifiable speeds, and as soon as I take one step closer to Thatcher, he’s already here.

His large hands clasp the back of my thighs, and my arms take flight around his broad shoulders. All in one seamless movement. He hoists me up and my legs wrap around him. Breath abandoning my body.

His hand travels in a boiling trail up my spine, and he pulls me into his muscular build with a deep, full kiss that I reciprocate in kind.

I run my fingers across his scruffy jaw, and as I catch my breath, my lips stinging, we both seem to register the onslaught of passionate squealing.

“JANE! THATCHER!!”

We’re not glancing in that direction just yet, and I whisper, “We’re selling this well.” Another small smile tugs my cheeks. “It’s like we’re partners in crime, you and I.”

Light touches his vigilant eyes, and his gaze drifts at the next wave of shrieking. More so to double-check the safety of the perimeter.

His attention returns to me, his seriousness never waning. He’s safety, the forceful gravity that grounds me, that helps stop me from rattling sideways inside a world that tries and tries to shake me.

Thatcher drops his voice to a deep whisper. “The team will love this.” He cups my cheek in affection before setting me on my feet, his hand pressed to the small of my back. “But not more than me.”

I go to speak, but flush has overtaken my face and my tongue is tied.

My eyes glimmer with so many questions and curiosities. I want to know every miniscule detail about Thatcher. I feel as though we’ve just started this exploration. We’ve just pressedplay, and we keep hittingpauseto draw this out longer.

As we near Maximoff and Farrow, Thatcher’s hand falls into mine like second-nature, having no hesitation at treating me like a real girlfriend for our fake relationship.

All of our heads turn as a girl outside shrieks bloody-murder, “MAKE LOVE TO ME, THATCHER MORETTI!”

It’s not so humorous. She can’t be older than a very young thirteen.

Thatcher is unflinching. He’s used to these impassioned declarations, but not directed his way. Yet, this hardly seems to bother him.

I frown a little—there is guilt knowing that I’ve traded the suitors who were only interested inmefor crowds that are now obsessed withhimandus.

We all look back at each other, and they spot my unease.

“They’re harmless.” Farrow lifts his aviators to his head, pushing back his platinum hair. “That girl isn’t going to force herself on Moretti. But the sick dipshits who think they have a shot with you…” He raises his brows.

“They’re threats,” Thatcher says curtly.

“True.” I tip my head towards Thatcher.

“And those potential stalkers aregone,” Maximoff emphasizes to me, his strong arm across Farrow’s shoulders.

I want to mention that 35% still remain. Just to be more specific. None of these threats concern me because stalkers will always exist, and I trust our security team to handle them. But I can see that Maximoff wants me to feel safe. And I do, especially with Thatcher so close.

So I don’t mention the statistics.

Thatcher looks down at me, and as added reassurance, he says, “It’s better this way, Jane.”

“Maybe not for you,” I point out.