Page 95 of Tangled Like Us

She darts off to the study.

Thatcher hands a skeleton key to Oscar. “You or Donnelly need to be on night watch. So rack out as soon as you can.”

Donnelly surveys the ceiling, nooks, and corners of the old house.

“I’ll be on during night,” Oscar confirms.

Thatcher lowers his voice to a whisper. “I won’t be on comms, so text if you can’t hear us.”

Hear us.

I smooth my lips together to keep from smiling. Byus, he means me and him. Pretend fucking. That is precisely what we’re doing here. Making sex noises in our room so other guests can hear from the thin walls.

I am terribly thrilled to fake sex with Thatcher. Maybe it’s the Cobalt in me that thrives on strategic plans and deception. We’re playing 3D chess, and my teammate happens to be serious and brooding and currently pinning his stern eyes onto me.

“Ready?” Thatcher asks, deep and husky.

I grip the handle to my weekend suitcase, my palms perspiring. “Yes, I am.” I rub my clammy hand on the thigh of my pale yellow jeans.

The other bodyguards on SFO don’t draw attention to my shallow breath. They’re very mature about this whole ordeal.

Donnelly and Oscar say quick goodbyes to me.

“Stay frosty, boys,” Banks tells them, and those two leave to locate their bedroom on the first floor.

Thatcher slings his backpack over his shoulder. “I can get that.” He reaches for my suitcase, but he stops when he sees me shake my head.

“I can wheel it, really. I’d rather carry my fair share.”

He nods, and as we make our way to the carpeted staircase, his hand falls to the small of my back, lightly brushing against my body. His fingers might as well carry static electricity, my nerves humming. Trembling.

We sneak glances at each other.

Banks follows behind us, duffel slung on his shoulder.

And we all ascend the creaky stairs. Before I try to drag my luggage, Thatcher reaches over and I let him take the handle. He hoists the suitcase up like it weighs no more than an inflatable beach ball.

He is impossibly attractive.

I skim him more openly and start to smile. I love that my terrible version ofSay Anythingwith unnerving stalkers has now changed to something more enjoyable. More enthralling.

We reach the narrow hallway on the second-floor. Paintings hang off-kilter on dark wooden-paneled walls. I think we’ve been transported to aNancy Drewnovel, and so far, we haven’t run into any other guests.

It’s also possible that Gretchen could leak information. She hasn’t signed an NDA, so there are no legal ramifications if she spills details about our stay here.

We all walk down the hall.

“What’s the word on the Wi-Fi?” Banks asks his brother.

“None,” Thatcher answers.

I glance back at Banks. “Is it a security problem?”

“Nope,” Banks says.

Thatcher catches my gaze. “Queen of the Ring is on tonight.”

Sounds unfamiliar.“Queen of the Ring?”