Page 27 of Tangled Like Us

What gossip column has spread rumors about me this time? Nothing can be worse than the HaleCocest rumor that is now buried and gone, but it rocked and rattled my friendship with Moffy more than anything ever had before.

Nearly a year later since that awful day, we’re at a much better place.

“So it’s just tabloid gossip?” I ask Thatcher.

“No. I don’t think it is.”

I frown.

What could it be then?

If he knew the details, I think he’d share them, but he said he’s only receiving fragments over comms. He must be piecing the information together.

Maybe this mysterious news has reached the internet. We both check our phones for cell service.

None for me.

Thatcher shakes his head and slips his phone in his pocket.

“Ms. Ramella.” I spin toward the cluttered desk. “You wouldn’t happen to have an entertainment magazine with you? LikeStar, Us Weekly, Celebrity Crush?”

“I don’t read any of that.” She’s still drilling a ginormous crater into Thatcher’s forehead.

Thatcher finally settles his gaze on Ms. Ramella. “Michelina—”

“You come into my store and you don’t even say a hello?” She throws up her frail, age-spotted hands at Thatcher. “And then you bring all this…” She spouts off another Italian word, her pointer finger jabbing toward the glass entrance where cameramen scream my name. “What’s wrong with youse?Ha?”

Thatcher hardly bats an eye. He stays behind me, but with his height, he’s able to stretch over to the elderly storeowner. “I’ll make sure they clear out when we leave. It’s nice to see you.” He cups her face tenderly and kisses her cheek in greeting. “You look good.”

I glance keenly from her to him, him to her. I’m seeing much more of Thatcher today than I would’ve ever expected.

She huffs but simmers down a great deal, and then she taps his jaw twice in affection. “Don’t be a…” The Italian word may as well be redacted for me.

I can’t be sure what she called him.

Ms. Ramella tries to lower her voice, but she’s still very audible. “You take care of that famous girl, you hear? What’s her name?”

“Jane,” Thatcher says, nearly cradling the one syllable like he’s protecting all four letters from harm.

My lips ache to rise.Why do I love that so much?

Ms. Ramella seems to know more about Thatcher working in security than she knows about my famous family. Which is terribly sweet.

“Are you related?” I ask while she’s eyeing me.

“No.” She points to him. “I play pinochle and Canasta with his grandma on Thursdays, and my grandson is the boys’ age.”

The boys.She must be referring to Banks, too.

Thatcher talks more urgently to Ms. Ramella, and after a short exchange, she hands him this morning’s paper.

He eagle-eyes the rowdy paparazzi and then looks down at me. “Let’s go in the back. It’ll be more private.”

“Why the newspaper?” I ask before we move a foot.

“The team is now telling me it’s inThe Philadelphia Chronicle.”

I used to read that newspaper when I was a little girl. My mom would pass me the business and finance section whenever I asked for them.