Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I swallow oatmeal. “I wouldn’t have asked, if I didn’t give a shit.”
He switches off the air vents. “LJ is at the Meadows cottage. It’s not ideal having the cats separated, and it’s just another reason we need to unfuck this living situation.”
I nod and rest my boot on the seat. Elbow to my knee while I eat. Thatcher and I have been wearing the same battle colors these days. For most everything.
It’s strange as hell that we’re agreeing so often, but we’re engaged to two famous ones who are as close as twins. So whenever their safety is at risk, I’m finding myself falling in line beside Thatcher.
As for the move to New York, Maximoff would be cleaning up messes and pulling overtime dragging the Cobalt brothers out of deep shit. More than he already does.
I’m fine with Jane and Maximoff wanting to take care of their siblings and cousins. That’s who they are. That’s who Thatcher and I fell in love with, respectively, but that’s not why they want to go.
They’d be moving there for Charlie. Under the notion that he’ll actually stick around.
I’m Team Philly.
And I’m not being emotional about this shit. Because I’d love for Charlie to be missing in action if we moved to New York—I’m not his biggest fan right now. But my fiancé would be upset. Jane would be upset. And their belief in Charlie would crumble into dust.
Currently, we’re far behind the polling numbers for Philly vs. NYC. With Charlie leading Team New York, we have to be more proactive.
Which brings us to what Thatcher called a “covert op”—and I balance my bowl on a knee and scroll on my phone with my other hand.
Popping up apartment listings. Five meetings with real estate agents this afternoon. If we show Maximoff and Jane actual, viable living options, they might reconsider Philly.
Never in my life did I think Thatcher would be with me on this. But we’re the only ones who understand those two deeply enough to go to bat for them.
Thatcher brakes at a red light.
“How’s living at the Cobalt Estate?” I wonder.
We don’t talk much about his day-to-day over there. He’s quiet, and I don’t like to pry. It’s made for some miscommunication in the past, but we’re getting better at it.
Thatcher smiles, just a little. Barely noticeable, but it’s there. “Never boring.” He pauses, and I think that’s all he’s going to say. After a beat, he finally adds, “Only downside is still being around Tony.”
Tony Ramella.
Jane’s old bodyguard and motherfucking parasite. The dipshit was transferred to Connor Cobalt’s detail, so I imagine Thatcher’s been around him more than he cares to be.
“On the plus side,” Thatcher continues, “Connor has sniffed out Tony’s horseshit. The shitbag gets reamed about every fucking day. From what I hear, Connor told him he’s on thin ice for staring at his assistant’s ass.”
“Not surprised.” I scrape the bottom of my bowl, last scoop of oatmeal.
Thatcher pulls up to a fairly small apartment complex. “Only a matter of time until he’s gone for good.” He switches on his blinker for a right turn. “Praise the fucking Lord.”
Ripley coos in the back.
I smile. Cute noise.
Thatcher concentrates on finding the parking garage, and he tells me, “Jane is worried Maximoff is getting too attached to Ripley.”
I fill in the blanks: Jane is worried because she’s afraid Ripley will leave us. “He’s already too attached.” I swig my water. “Because the inverse is Maximoff being apathetic toward his kid, and that’s impossible and honestly, I don’t want to see that happen. Ever.”
Thatcher glances from me to the road. “Are you scared of getting attached?”
“No. I’m going to take the bad shit when the bad shit comes. Whatever happens now, I’m all-in.”
Thatcher switches off the ignition in the parking garage.
I strap Ripley into a chest-carrier, which resembles a black tactical vest. Akara bought it after I said I couldn’t promise not to carry Ripley while I’m on-duty.
The thing isn’t exactly bulletproof, but it conceals Ripley a lot better than an average carrier. He faces my chest and eyes my neck tattoos.
I wedge his parrot between my body and his, and he grabs hold.
And we’re off.
Riding up an elevator to the top floor. Thatcher adjusts his earpiece and watches the numbers climb.
The old apartment complex needs updated. Last built in the 80s. But it’s not as run-down as the townhouses.
I can do my motherfucking job anywhere, but I’d love to pick out some five-bedroom ritzy flat in the city. It’d have better security systems and a safety perimeter.
Small downside: Maximoff and Jane wouldn’t go for it.
They want simple. Nothing extravagant. And the options we pitch them have to align with their tastes. I’m okay with that.
We exit the elevator and walk down a long, carpeted hallway. Thatcher narrows his eyes on each apartment door and visible window. He’s mentally filing how much effort it’ll take to secure the area, I’m sure.