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)
Akara speaks in my ear. “Thatcher, is Quinn still asleep?”
I crossed paths with Quinn Oliveira in the kitchen. We were both eating breakfast, and I’m not someone who will cover his ass for the Omega lead. Akara needs to know.
I click my mic. “No.”
Akara enters the line with two curt words. “Not good.”
It means Quinn is silencing his radio. Ever since the twenty-one-year-old joined security, Akara has been concerned that Quinn is copying Farrow’s maverick style of guarding.
I am too.
He’s a lot younger than Farrow, and realistically, he’s more hotheaded.
I move back to the corkboard. Crossing my arms. Instinct says this is a Wall of Suitors. But that’d mean Jane is interested in her grandmother’s ploy.
And I’m positive she’s not.
“What is this?” I glance back at Farrow.
He rests an elbow casually on the mantel. “The worst idea of the month.”
“Counter argument,” Jane says.
Our heads turn as she appears and blows on a steaming mug.
She continues without missing a beat. “This month’s worst idea goes to my grandmother who pimped me out in an ad.”
My brows draw together, concerned about Jane. But also, I’m narrowing a glare into the fucking corkboard.
Farrow refutes, “Except sex was never mentioned in the ad.”
“Romantic pimping,” Jane clarifies, placing her hot mug on a cat-shaped coaster, and I watch her sidle right…next to me.
I uncross my arms.
I don’t know why. Can’t touch her.
My nose flares, and I end up kneading my deltoid.
She places her hands on her hips and stares up at the photos. Like she’s mapped out her whole future and she’s reviewing the layout.
And then she sucks in a measured breath.
She’s stressed.
“What’s going on, Jane?” I ask for the details.
She’s quick to explain everything. I listen, breathing out coarser breaths further and further through. When she’s done talking, she tears a photo of an athlete off the wall. I recognize him as a fullback for the Eagles.
I was right.
I don’t fucking like this.
Maximoff stands nearby, cracking his knuckles. He seems on edge about the whole scenario, but the guy is always on edge.
Farrow leaves his spot on the loveseat to be beside his fiancé.
Jane passes me the photo and cranes her neck to meet my gaze. “He seems like the best so far.”
I haven’t even looked at the photo.
My steel gaze is on her. Don’t do this, Jane.
She searches my eyes and puts a few fingers to her cheek. “So…” She clears her throat and shakes her head, more to herself. “What do you think?”
This feels like that one time where I told Jane I’d help her find another guy to provide her “oral assistance”—when I was right there and she would’ve been willing. That was like running a 99-yard touchdown for the wrong team. Knowing I had to score for someone else.
Wanting to turn around every inch gained on the field.
Pretty much hell.
I swallow a jagged rock and drop my eyes to the photo. “I’ll need to vet him,” I remind her.
She nods. “I know.” Her voice is tighter than usual.
I’ve never had to vet a guy that she could potentially date or fuck or both. For the majority of my time on her detail, she’s been shut off to every intimate thing with men.
Fuck Nate, that fucking bastard.
Imagining Jane falling in love with other men punctures something hot in me and I need to think of brighter things before I pop a blood vessel.
Puppies.
Rainbows.
Pussy.
God, Jane is right in front of me. Maybe not pussy.
I scrutinize the photo. “Are you pursuing him?” I ask outright.
She tilts her head. “What do you mean by pursuing ?”
“Dating,” I clarify. Having sex.
“No dating.” She’s practically whispering. “Nothing else. It’s purely platonic.”
My expression closes up. What she intends as being platonic could become something more.
And then what?
And then nothing. My feelings don’t matter. I can’t just break rank and say, fuck it.
But something in my mind is saying, unfuck this.
Get rid of the fullback and the Wall of Suitors. “What about just calling your grandmother?” I ask Jane.
Farrow chimes in, “That’s what I said before these two started tacking dipshits up on the wall.”
Maximoff blinks slowly. “Thank you for illustrating how great of a friend I am.”
“The best,” Jane says in a warm smile.
Maximoff smiles back.
Jane turns to me. “And I have called our grandmother. Twenty times. She has to be screening the calls because I’m sent to voicemail every time. Watch.” She picks up her phone from the coffee table and dials a number. Hoisting it in the air, we wait.
It rings once before the line clicks.
Her eyes expand to saucers, and she brings the speaker to her lips. “Grandmother?”
“Jane, dear.” Grandmother Calloway sounds like she’s sucked on helium for half her fucking life. Uppity blue-blooded aristocrats were foreign territory to me until I became a bodyguard.
Her grandmother eats foie gras and Beluga caviar.
I grew up eating fried baloney three days a week.