Page 19 of Tangled Like Us

At the last Wednesday family dinner, I vehemently expressed that I have no one-true-passion in life. I’ve searched while I could, and my self-indulgent hunt is nowover.

I’m committed to using my time wisely, and helping my family seems like the most sensible avenue. I used to work as a temporary CFO for H.M.C. Philanthropies, but ever since Moffy was ousted from the charity he built, I’ve refused to step through those doors.

Starting at the bottom of the fashion ladder at Calloway Couture—wherever my mom needs me—that was the plan. Instead, she’s pole-vaulted me to a position I am so drastically unqualified for and one that I donotdeserve.

I push a frizzed strand of hair out of my eyes. “Are you positive you wouldn’t rather have me run errands? I could spend the day helping you—”

“No, four fabrics, cut enough for a maxi dress.” She speeds through more directions and terminology that’s only vaguely familiar.

Oh God.

In a brief pause, I cut in, “Vanessa—”

“Fashion is in your blood, Jane. As your mom always says,do or die.” She struts past me like a strong gust of wind and puts the phone back to her ear. “Lance, look again.” The doorbell dings and she’s gone.

In this scenario, my mom would like me to die.

To perish an ugly death on the musty carpet and then revive into the version of myself that is so hopelesslyme.

I know who I am, but sometimes, I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

On instinct, I unzip my acorn-squash purse. Itching to call Maximoff and ask him for advice. Two brains are better than one.

But I hesitate…

He’s teaching a swim class at the aquatic center, and then he has a lunch date with Farrow. Moffy was beyond giddy about the date this morning. Even as he said Farrow was “fucking aggravating” him, he couldn’t restrain a smile.

I catch myself smiling up at the fabrics. His happiness makes me extraordinarily happy.

Maximoff and Farrow have been on numerous dates before, but we all endure so many interruptions. If I can help it, I’d rather not interrupt them at all.

My best friend will be a last-resort phone call.

Do or die.

“My mom wants me to quit,” I say aloud, more so to my bodyguard.

His domineering presence is my shadow. Always with me. Usually silent.

Longish hair tucked behind his ears, Thatcher is uncapping a water bottle while he blocks the entrance of the aisle. He hydrates often, and until Thatcher, I never knew the act of drinking water could look that unbelievably sexy.

His unwavering gaze stays fixed on me, and I watch him take a strong swig of water.

Ask him something.

But unearthing a question among thethousandsof questions I have for my bodyguard will just heighten this sort of all-consuming pull. Just being alone with Thatcher is a perfect breeding ground for tension. I don’t even need to plant a seed for attraction to sprout.

Ask him, Jane.

No.

I shouldn’t torture myself. Not today.

So I take a breath, about to face the copious fabric rolls. Back to the task at hand. Just as I begin to turn, he speaks.

“If your mom wants you to quit, why hire you in the first place?” He slowly screws the cap onto the water bottle.

He’s asking me a question.Surprise inches up my brows.