Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Thatcher assesses me. “You feel responsible for your family’s well-being too.” It’s not a question, yet I feel the need to explain.
I shrug, tensed. “In a lot of ways, yes. But Maximoff feels more responsible since he invited everyone to Scotland, and they all believe he’ll fix this more than they think I will.”
His frown is a dark scowl. “You help out just as much as him.”
“He’s the leader. I’m just the second-in-command, and really, I’m lucky. I don’t envy his position, and I definitely don’t want that pressure.” I quickly add, “How’s SFO doing?” I don’t know why I’m so uncomfortable talking about myself right now.
He skims me, the scrutiny scalding me in the chilly laundry room. It’s the second coldest place in the house, the first being the cellar. “Most of the team hasn’t racked out in over 24-hours either.”
Our bodyguards bear a great responsibility for my family’s welfare too. And there’s strange comfort in knowing it isn’t just Moffy and me holding down the fort.
Two men who we desperately love and trust are helping us. Plus, the rest of Omega.
I try to take a breath.
Skin pleats between his focused eyes. “You look scared.”
I attempt to swallow fear, but it fists me. And I realize he captured the emotion that has me deflecting. How smart he is—this man of mine.
I inhale. “I am.”
He starts to stand—and quickly, I hold out a hand. “Please, don’t. You’re busy.” He has a laptop on his muscular legs, and the laundry room had the best reception before we lost all signal from the storm.
Thatcher’s been tasked with pressing refresh on a webpage. SFO has taken turns trying to send an email to our families. A futile effort really, considering we don’t have internet. But he’s not a man who’d disobey these kind of orders, and I don’t want him to start for me.
Thatcher reluctantly stays seated. “Talk to me then.”
I blow out a loud breath, puffing my cheeks. “I’m afraid what happens after.”
“After?”
“After my brothers and cousins realize that we’re most likely going to be stuck in Scotland for Christmas. After we actually are. Because it means this is the second Christmas we’re not in Philly.”
Last year, we were all on a tour bus.
I continue, “The second Christmas we miss Xander’s birthday, the second Christmas I’ve taken from you.”
Thatcher sends me a stern look. “You’ve taken nothing from me, Jane.”
“Christmas Eve is your grandma’s favorite holiday, and who knows how many you’ll have left with her—and yes, I didn’t know how she fawns over Christmas while we were on tour.” I speak hastily. “But I know that now, and I know how much she wants you there, and now you won’t be. Not alone or with me.” I do the best I can to keep eye-contact.
His intense gaze isn’t defeating me.
It wraps me.
Tightly.
Protectively, and oh God, I wish I never told him to sit back down. Because I also love that he’s willing to break orders for me.
Constantly.
Even now.
He nods a few times. “I won’t lie to you.”
“Good,” I say pointedly.
“Good,” he repeats, “because you need to hear that you’re right. We’re probably not making it home for Christmas, but you didn’t take time away from me or anyone else. We’re just spending a holiday with other people. And if my grandma doesn’t make the next Christmas…” He pauses, his jaw muscle twitching. “I have enough memories of us together to last a lifetime.” He softens his gaze. “I could just as likely die tomorrow. And I’d want to spend my final moments next to you.”
My body caves, then rises. His declaration pricks tears, but the thought of him dying nearly doubles me over. I straighten up. “If I were to die, I’d want you beside me too. And also Banks.”
“Banks?” His furrow-browed confusion is cute.
“You’d need your brother after I died, and I’d want someone there for you.”
His affection for me flows out so apparently. He padlocks nothing, and his love, so powerful and frightening, begins to eliminate the anxious toxins around us.
Thatcher glances briefly at the laptop, then me. “I’m revising what I said.”
A smile spreads across my face. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“If I were to die tomorrow, I’d also want Maximoff there.”
For me.
If a heart could sigh happily, mine just did. The pressure that’s taken residence on my body begins to gradually subside.
I smile more and quirk a brow. “Are you copying me, Mr. Moretti?”
He is all masculinity and confidence. “Just following your lead, honey.”
My boyfriend has never been sexier. His gray sweatpants draw my eyes downward, molding his muscles and well-endowed assets. And ladies and gentlemen, he’s not wearing underwear.
Evidence: the defined outline of his incredibly large cock.
Carnal desire flames my skin, but I banish any and all want from my face. I respect his job, and I’d rather not tempt him.