Page 94 of Tangled Like Us
Thatcher and I are embarking on a weekend getaway at a local Bed & Breakfast. Our fake couple antics are starting strong. Just packing my travel suitcase, I felt like I was on an adrenaline high.
As I roll my luggage along the pretty floral carpet, I drink in the quaint Bed & Breakfast and cozy atmosphere, and I glance more than once at Thatcher.
He towers beside me like an archangel. His radio attached to his slacks, mic on the collar of his black long-sleeve tee, and I’m more aware this isn’t arealromantic vacation.
He’s still my bodyguard, and this is simply just a ruse. A strategy.
I have to keep my wits about me.
In the foyer, a brass chandelier hangs overhead and sunlight streams through stained-glass windows. A fifty-something innkeeper waits for us behind a polished mahogany desk.
I read her nametag as we approach. “Hi, Gretchen,” I greet with a smile.
She returns the smile with a warm one. “Welcome to the Concord B&B.”
“We have a reservation under…” I realize that I didn’t book the reservation. I might be terribly messy, but I’m very organized and can juggle more than what meets the eye. I usually plan travel details myself. Never leaving them up to assistants or family members.
But this weekend trip was different.
Thatcher steps forward, his large hand hovering near my hip. “It’s under Moretti.”
Why was that so very sexy?He put the reservation under his name.Possibly the Tri-Force told him to do so. I try to read his stern features, but he’s so vigilant at the moment. Constantly scanning the foyer, then glancing down at me.
Checking on me.
The back of my neck blazes, and I try to retrain my attention on the innkeeper.
“Let’s see here.” She plucks her reading glasses off her chest, a beaded chain linking them around her neck, and she perches them on her nose. Wispy blonde tendrils twist in a nest upon her head, and her honey brown eyes dart between me and the four bodyguards who flank my sides.
Thatcher, Banks, Oscar, and Donnelly.
This is ateammission, after all. Plus, SFO said there should be more security around, especially since a parade of paparazzi has been trailing our every move.
Now that Thatcher is gaining more fame, his job as a bodyguard is going to be harder, and Omega wants to protect him like they did Farrow.
I can still hear some of the fanatic shouting we left outside of the Bed & Breakfast.
“Jaaaaaane!”
“Thatcher!!”
I’m not sure how Oscar and Donnelly got off their details with my brothers. But I assume it might’ve been easiest to give Charlie and Beckett temp bodyguards this weekend.
Maximoff and Farrow would’ve come along. I wanted them here badly. There is a large absence that only they can fill in my life, and it’s a strange feeling not having them with me on such a huge endeavor.
But Moffy and I knew if we stayed overnight together at a B&B, it could potentially unbury the HaleCocest rumor. Regardless if he’s engaged to Farrow or not, it could happen, and that is the mother of all dumpster fires that we desperately donotwant to reignite.
She types on a keyboard. “Breakfast starts at eight and ends at eleven.” She squints at her computer screen. “Ah yes, you’ve requested the Metropolis, Blue Ridge, and Victorian rooms.”
Skeleton keys are hung on wooden pegs behind the innkeeper, and there are only three out of six left. Meaning, strangers already occupy the other three rooms.
It’s purposeful. Security is hoping the guests will spot Thatcher and me together. We need strangers passing pictures and information to the press.
Paparazzi will question anyone who leaves the Concord.
Gretchen gingerly picks the remaining three keys. “The Blue Ridge is on the first floor, two twin beds. The Metropolis and Victorian are a short distance up the stairs, second floor on the right. If you need anything, you can find me in the study. Third door down the main hall.”
“Thank you,” I say, and she passes the keys to Thatcher.
