Page 169 of Tangled Like Us
“Okay,” I say to Luna. “I won’t say anything to Moffy.”
Luna charges forward and wraps her gangly arms around my neck, clinging in a tight hug. “If the Thebulan gods were real, they’d anoint you with glitter and a lifetime supply of great sex in thanks for keeping my great sex a secret.”
I try not to blush. Little does she know, I’ve already been anointed with great sex. And I’m glad her “baseline” has fallen into that category, too.
We release and I look to Donnelly. “Don’t you dare hurt her.”
“I’d rather die.” Seriousness coats his voice. This is also the same person who hasCobalts Never Dietattooed on his kneecap and is incredibly close to Beckett—my most honest brother. I think there’s a reason for that.
* * *
I forgot the condom.
I return to my bedroom, wide-eyed and dazed. Like possibly I just imagined everything. I close the door behind me, and Thatcher is already on his feet.
Alert and vigilant, and as soon as he sees me, his concern bears down in a dark wave. “What happened?” He speaks hushed, nearing me. His hand slides along the small of my back, his arm wrapping around me. Pulling me closer to his chest.
He’s wearing pants now. And a gray crew-neck.
I crane my head to look up at him, and I start with, “I don’t have a condom.”
“I don’t fucking care about that.”
It swells inside of me a little. Because I failed today, as I typically somehow seem to do, and he doesn’t really care.
“Jane,” he says seriously. “I can tell something happened.”
I want to share this with him. More than I’ve ever wanted to tell someone anything.
I haven’t had that feeling with anyone but Moffy before.
“No one suspected me and you,” I whisper.
“You ran into someone?”
“Luna and another person.” I tread carefully because Thatcher is a loyal bodyguard to the entire team. “I’m trusting that what I tell you stays between you and me. A bodyguard is involved.”
His jaw sets sternly. “Did the bodyguard endanger your family?”
“No.”
“Was the bodyguard endangered in some way?”
“No.”
“I won’t say anything,” he promises.
I’ve never been good at brevity. I paint an uncomfortablyvividpicture of what I stepped into and all the happenings thereafter.
Thatcher has a strict hand over his mouth. When I finish, he drops his palm to my hip. Holding me again. “No one can know,” he reaffirms. “Alpha and Epsilon will have Omega by the ass. If they think more of our guys are fucking the clients, no one will be safe.” He’s lumping himself in with the “fucking” part.
Factually, it’s accurate.
“She said it was a one-time occasion,” I remind him. “So their risk of being caught again is zero.”
We stare more knowingly into each other. Our risk is catastrophically high.
But it will go back tozeroonce our fake dating ploy ends. And everything will return to the way it was. No more late-night visits from Thatcher Moretti.
