Page 26 of A Very Addicted Christmas

I’m trying to be as respectful of him as he’s been of me. I perspire beneath my reindeer onesie. It’s too late to be embarrassed. Perhaps he didn’t even notice.

I need air outside my bunk. Everything feels hot and confined all of a sudden, and as quietly as I can, I slip out of the small enclosure. My feet meet the floor and I make my way down the hall and into the first-lounge.

Empty. Everyone seems to be fast asleep, but I hear soft holiday music coming from the very front of the bus.

My rampant curiosity piques. Someone is driving, of course, so I can’t be the only one awake, and I wonder whose turn out of SFO it is to sit behind the wheel.

I drop my hood and lower the zipper. Wafting the fabric off my chest, my feet carry me towards the source of my curiosity.

I reach the door that encloses the driver and passenger seat. I knock softly. Doing my best not to jolt the driver before I openthe door, and when I do, I peek my head in and lay my eyes on my stern bodyguard.

He rarely ever slouches. He drives like he’s well aware of every life aboard the tour bus, but confidence seems to lift his carriage. His muscles and eyes are tensed in readiness. Exuding safety and regimented composure that makes me want to draw nearer.

My intrigue intensifies, and I can’t seem to skulk backwards. “Thatcher,” I greet when he glances over at me. He has two hands on the steering wheel. Very safe.

“Jane.” He gives me a quick sweep, then eyes the road again. “Do you need something?”

“No,” I tell him, but I don’t want to leave just yet. “Would I be a bother if I sat next to you—you can sayno, really.” I want to give him an out and not feel obligated to agree with me or even spend time with me while he’s off-duty.

“You won’t bother me.” He tilts his head to the passenger seat. “Go ahead.”

I gently shut the door behind me and then sink into the seat next to Thatcher.

I catch the words to the melodic music. “Silent Night” is playing on the radio, and with the star-blanked sky and very few cars along the highway, the drive to Atlanta is peaceful.

I notice how my bodyguard zones in on my seatbelt, and before he asks, I already snap the buckle.

He looks at me for a longer beat. But it’d be a lie to say I could read him well. His hardened, unshaven jaw and strict lines above his brows give little away.

Thatcher Moretti is a mystery in many ways. A mystery that I know I’m not entirely allowed to uncover. Yet, I find myself here next to him.

And I can’t shut up. Even with the beautiful music, I have trouble sitting in silence. “Toodles loves Christmas,” I mentionaloud. “He’s very apathetic about most things. But he’s the only one of my cats who will let me dress him in holiday costumes.”

Thatcher nods. He glances over at me, maybe just to show me that he’s listening, even if he’s quiet. He hasn’t been around my cats all that often. We went straight from the lake house to the tour bus.

I watch the street. “Moffy named Toodles, which turned out to be ironic since he won’t let Moffy hold him very much. All my other cats adore my best friend.” I feel like I'm rambling, and I want to say more. To ask more.

Is this Christmas hard for you since you're away from Philly?

Do you miss your twin brother?

Being away from my cats and parents and other siblings is difficult for me, but I have family on tour with us. I wonder what he’s feeling, but I can’t broach personal questions with my bodyguard. Not ones that delve deeper into hispersonallife. I only know simple facts about Thatcher Moretti.

Our bodyguard-client relationship is achingly professional. It’s what we’ve established from the get-go, and he hasn’t been on my detail long. Really, he’s not evenofficiallymy bodyguard.

There’s a high probability that he’ll return to Xander once the tour ends.

And I feel a little pushy if I veer towards anything outside of his role as my protector. I don’t want to pressure him or force him to tell me things he wouldn’t want to.

I walk in safe territory. “Are you having a good time on tour so far, despite all the drama?” I wonder.

“I am,” he says huskily, “even with all the drama.”

My lips rise, but they fall as I remember my pot-induced, uninhibited self earlier. “If I made you uncomfortable at all tonight, I’m terribly sorry.”

He shakes his head immediately. “You didn’t.”

Our eyes meet in a sweltering second, as though acknowledging that I saw him in a jockstrap. He knows that I saw his bare ass, and then I stared at his dick—or theoutlineof his dick in his sweatpants.

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