Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Call dropped.
My sisterly dread has now shot to the moon.
I lower my phone as it rings again.
Audrey is calling, but my little sister should be in class right now. 8th grade.
I try to accept the call—call dropped.
“No,” I breathe, clutching my phone like it’s my lifeline to my family.
The name Pippy shows up on the screen. My youngest brother is calling me. Ben Pirrip Cobalt—he should be in school too. 10th grade.
Call dropped.
Charlie is suddenly ringing. My nonconformist brother is often hard to reach, but it’s not uncommon for him to call during pandemonium.
My thumb taps the button. Call dropped.
A new name pops up on the Caller ID. Tom. He’s typically dead asleep this early in the morning. I tap—call dropped.
Now Beckett is dialing.
I stare wide-eyed at the phone. Beckett is usually the last of my brothers to reach out due to his rigorous ballet schedule. The fact that he’s calling now means this is a real catastrophe.
Who’s in trouble?
His call drops like all the others. Every single one of my siblings just called me. Sullivan Meadows and Luna Hale, my closest female cousins, are the next two calls that drop.
I have no new texts, and I can only assume none are going through.
I have to find better reception. Outside. Go outside, Jane. I start to sprint down the aisle. Thatcher is already ahead of me. Leading the way.
He knows where I want to go without any doubt. He always seems to understand where I crave to be and what I need.
As I sprint, my ballet flat slips off my heel.
I stumble a little and then tear my flats off my feet. Cramming them into my purse while I rush after my bodyguard, his stride long and strict.
Thatcher glances back at me, his expression grave as he clicks his mic. “No, you’re still coming in weak.” We round the narrow aisle, in sight of the glass door to exit, and mayhem erupts outside.
I screech to a halt, phone ringing incessantly in my frozen fist.
Thatcher stops and checks on me again.
“JANE! JANE!” paparazzi scream over each other.
At least twelve men swarm the store’s door. Lenses pressed to the glass since they’re not allowed inside. Flashes ignite in furious succession.
I can’t be surprised they’re here. I’ve exited buildings with more, but these cameramen seem particularly hostile.
This won’t be an easy getaway. I can’t simply step outside and take a call. I’ll have to rush to my car and possibly drive away first or else they’ll bang on my windows. It’ll be twenty minutes.
At the minimum.
Thatcher suddenly takes my hand in his, and with no hesitation or confusion, he’s leading me towards the messy register. Piles of plastic binders, papers, and receipt books are strewn across an antique desk. Ms. Ramella, the wispy gray-haired storeowner, stares thunderstruck at the gathering media outside.
Thatcher shifts his grip so we’re naturally clasping hands, and I feel hard calluses on his large palm. Too many conflicting emotions tumble through me.
My bodyguard has never held my hand for this long, side-by-side, and I look up at him questioningly. Curiously.
But he’s already drawing my body forward.
Oh.
He just wants me to walk in front of him. So he can block the paparazzi’s view of me with his build.
Right.
Once I’m out in front, he lets go of our hands. My pulse is in my throat, but I keep course, my bare feet squishing on the humid carpet. In my quick sprint, my jeans slid down a little, and I pull the waistband back up over my love handles.
Much more comfortable.
Thatcher Moretti is an iron shield behind me, and I sense his palm hovering beside my hip.
I breathe harder and check my phone. Moffy is calling again, but like the others, it drops within seconds.
I peek back at Thatcher while I approach the register. “Should we find a rear exit?”
He nods once, but then his eyes form lethal pinpoints. He speaks into comms. “Say again?” He listens.
“Youse twos.” Ms. Ramella is waving us over to the antique desk, her Philly lilt thick on top of a few Italian words.
I’m only fluent in English and French, but I’ve heard Thatcher speak some Italian, mostly words mixed with English, and I’m not so sure his dialect is formal or a language one would learn in Italy or through textbooks.
I reach the register with Thatcher. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Ramella,” I apologize for the noise outside. “The cameras and all the men will be gone as soon as I am.”
She’s stabbing a glare above me.
At Thatcher.
I crane my neck over my shoulder, and his serious eyes meet mine for half a second, almost softening in an apology.
He knows her.
Thatcher lifts the mic to his lips, tendons strained in his rigid shoulders. “Solid copy.”
I turn more into his chest and adjust my slipping purse strap, cross-body again. “You know what’s happened?” I whisper.