Page 2 of Sinful Like Us
I write:keep me safe.
Once I pick my pen off the paper, I look around. Half expecting one of my cats to keep me company. They’re not here at the lake house in the Smoky Mountains.
I really don’t love being alone, and these rumors have wedged something between me and Moffy. Pushing him further out to sea while I’m standing on a lonely island.
I take an umpteenth breath and pull out my phone. Without second thought, I text my new bodyguard:I have the list you asked for. We can go over it now if you’re still awake. I’m in the living room.
It’s late and it’s highly likely he’s fast asleep. But as I lower my phone to my lap, a message lights up the screen.
I’ll be down in a minute.– Thatcher
A small smile tries to tug my lips. Thatcher coming at my call is new to me. Lately, and very slowly, it’s been dawning on me that he’s been transferred to my detail.
Just temporarily.
He’s considered my secondary bodyguard, you see. Quinn Oliveira, the youngest SFO bodyguard, is still on my detail. I’ll have two men protecting me during the charity FanCon.
I look up as floorboards creak.
Thatcher walks across the third-floor balcony towards the stairs, moving with grave authority. A sort of domineering confidence. Like he’s on a single life-or-death mission. It lures me in for a much longer moment, an even longer minute, reminding me that he’s aleaderamong security, and this is the first time I’ve ever been protected by a lead.
His shoulders are bound strictly, a radio in his fist, and his serious gaze sweeps the living room—he sweepsme.
He zones in on my eyes, which must be red and bloodshot I’m guessing. Mostly because he lingers on my gaze for quite a while. At the same time, he’s hiking down the steps.
And he nears me.
I leave my notes on the couch and rise to my feet. I plan to extend a hand in greeting, but his sheer imposingheightseizes my attention.
Oh…
My eyes slowly widen.
He’s an archangel. Sent to protect me. And I doubt it’ll be the first time I think it—because, dear God, the analogy fits.
I lift my chin to meet his gaze, my hands naturally perching on my wide hips. “We’ve obviously met many times before,” I say aloud.
He nods. “Yeah. We have.” The corner of his lip almost lifts, I think, but then he rubs his mouth. Not much else passes through his stoic features. He attaches his radio to the waistband of his black slacks, also dressed in a black button-down while I’m in pajamas. “But this is different.”
My brows jump. “How so?”
He rakes a firm hand through his brown disheveled hair, longer pieces curled under his ears. “I’m here to protect you, Jane. You’re my first priority now.”
“Even though you’re a lead?”
“Even though I’m a lead,” he confirms. “Your safety is what matters most to me.” He holds my gaze.
I don’t want to look away. I lean closer, even.
He asks, “Do you prefer I call you Jane?”
“I do,” I say softly, entranced by him. Thatcher might be hard to decipher, but I realize that I’m finding his strong presence extraordinarily comforting. His whole protective demeanor envelops the room and wraps around me—as though silently commanding:I am here for you.
Warmth spreads through my limbs, and I could bask in this safe feeling for eons of time. Maybe that’s why I keep my eyes on his eyes, even as my neck aches.
“And I should call you Thatcher?” I make sure since I’ve called himMr. Morettibefore (I was a little drunk) and he said,Thatcher is fine.
He nods. “Thatcherworks. Unless you feel more comfortable calling me something else.”
