Page 26 of Tangled Like Us

At the minimum.

Thatcher suddenly takes my hand in his, and with no hesitation or confusion, he’s leading me towards the messy register. Piles of plastic binders, papers, and receipt books are strewn across an antique desk. Ms. Ramella, the wispy gray-haired storeowner, stares thunderstruck at the gathering media outside.

Thatcher shifts his grip so we’re naturally clasping hands, and I feel hard calluses on his large palm. Too many conflicting emotions tumble through me.

My bodyguard has never held my hand for this long, side-by-side, and I look up at him questioningly. Curiously.

But he’s already drawing my body forward.

Oh.

He just wants me to walk in front of him. So he can block the paparazzi’s view of me with his build.

Right.

Once I’m out in front, he lets go of our hands. My pulse is in my throat, but I keep course, my bare feet squishing on the humid carpet. In my quick sprint, my jeans slid down a little, and I pull the waistband back up over my love handles.

Much more comfortable.

Thatcher Moretti is an iron shield behind me, and I sense his palm hovering beside my hip.

I breathe harder and check my phone. Moffy is calling again, but like the others, it drops within seconds.

I peek back at Thatcher while I approach the register. “Should we find a rear exit?”

He nods once, but then his eyes form lethal pinpoints. He speaks into comms. “Say again?” He listens.

“Youse twos.” Ms. Ramella is waving us over to the antique desk, her Philly lilt thick on top of a few Italian words.

I’m only fluent in English and French, but I’ve heard Thatcher speak some Italian, mostly words mixed with English, and I’m not so sure his dialect is formal or a language one would learn in Italy or through textbooks.

I reach the register with Thatcher. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Ramella,” I apologize for the noise outside. “The cameras and all the men will be gone as soon as I am.”

She’s stabbing a glare above me.

At Thatcher.

I crane my neck over my shoulder, and his serious eyes meet mine for half a second, almost softening in an apology.

He knows her.

Thatcher lifts the mic to his lips, tendons strained in his rigid shoulders. “Solid copy.”

I turn more into his chest and adjust my slipping purse strap, cross-body again. “You know what’s happened?” I whisper.

“Bits and pieces.” He hasn’t acknowledged the storeowner yet. His hand brushes against my hip, and his muscles contract.Accidental.That was an accidental touch. “It has nothing to do with your family.”

Yet, his squared shoulders never loosen, and his lethal glare grows darker.

“It’s about me,” I realize.

He barely nods, not too elated, but I’m relaxing for the first time.

“I can handle amecrisis,” I say confidently. “This is good news.”

His grip strengthens on my gaze, looking dreadfully more protective of me than before. “We need to find a magazine.”

I must be in the tabloids.