Page 119 of Sinful Like Us
I’m frozen, but somehow I thaw, just to glance over my shoulder. At him.
Thatcher looks anything but surprised.
He knew that my family would take a bulldozer to his history and excavate any dead, decaying skeletons he buried away.
Of course he did.He’s a bodyguard. He’s probably helped do the digging in the past.
I raise my phone again, my eyes locked on Thatcher. “I understand,” I tell my dad.
My world—it’s barricaded and protected by a thousand force fields. Us, Cobalts—we have traditions that my cousins don’t even share. Letting an outsider into our well-guarded fortress is frightening and new, and I wouldn’t want or trust anyone to enter except for Thatcher.
I emphasize, “Just,pleasewait until I come home.”
“Pour toi n’importe quoi.”For you, anything.
After a quick goodbye, we hang up, but relief doesn’t exactly strike. Not after the awkward “marriage” moment and me mentioningstatisticsand our low probability of lasting.
Maybe it’s not even on Thatcher’s mind.
Maybe he’s forgotten my word vomit already.
He scans our surroundings, then me. “I’m not trying to kill your dreams, Jane, but your probabilities seem off.”
“How so?” I hug my arms around my body.
“You said it’s statistically low that someone marries their first boyfriend or girlfriend. How does that work between you and me?”
I’m confused until he adds, “You’re not my first girlfriend.”
“Oh.” I flush.
He nears. “I’m not as good at math as you, but in my head, it doesn’t make sense that our odds are different when we’d be marrying each other.” He blinks back something raw. “Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically.” I nod in agreement. Emotion bubbles to the surface, and I’ve never experienced this strong swell surging and surging and breathing life and sentiments so unwieldy inside of me. I tuck my hair behind my ear. “I’ll have…have to recalculate.” I sound breathless.
Our hands toy with touching again, and then the sky cracks.
We look up. Dark clouds gather and rumble violently.
Maximoff and Farrow sprint over to us as rain suddenly descends in heavy sheets. Thatcher draws me to his chest to keep me semi-dry, and I spin to face him.
Rain soaks our hair and shoulders, and he fits my binder beneath his jacket. Protecting the pages and ink.
I love him.
Moffy shouts over the storm, “We need to leave before the weather gets worse!”
It’s already freezing, and we have a slippery, dangerous descent.
“Hold onto me,” Thatcher says with severity.
I ache and desire and want to say,always.But the word is stuck. And all I manage to get out is, “Okay.”
23
THATCHER MORETTI
It all happensin a fucking blink. As we descend the hill, Jane slips on the slick grass.
