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)
“Bits and pieces.” He hasn’t acknowledged the storeowner yet. His hand brushes against my hip, and his muscles contract. Accidental. That was an accidental touch. “It has nothing to do with your family.”
Yet, his squared shoulders never loosen, and his lethal glare grows darker.
“It’s about me,” I realize.
He barely nods, not too elated, but I’m relaxing for the first time.
“I can handle a me crisis,” I say confidently. “This is good news.”
His grip strengthens on my gaze, looking dreadfully more protective of me than before. “We need to find a magazine.”
I must be in the tabloids.
What gossip column has spread rumors about me this time? Nothing can be worse than the HaleCocest rumor that is now buried and gone, but it rocked and rattled my friendship with Moffy more than anything ever had before.
Nearly a year later since that awful day, we’re at a much better place.
“So it’s just tabloid gossip?” I ask Thatcher.
“No. I don’t think it is.”
I frown.
What could it be then?
If he knew the details, I think he’d share them, but he said he’s only receiving fragments over comms. He must be piecing the information together.
Maybe this mysterious news has reached the internet. We both check our phones for cell service.
None for me.
Thatcher shakes his head and slips his phone in his pocket.
“Ms. Ramella.” I spin toward the cluttered desk. “You wouldn’t happen to have an entertainment magazine with you? Like Star, Us Weekly, Celebrity Crush ?”
“I don’t read any of that.” She’s still drilling a ginormous crater into Thatcher’s forehead.
Thatcher finally settles his gaze on Ms. Ramella. “Michelina—”
“You come into my store and you don’t even say a hello?” She throws up her frail, age-spotted hands at Thatcher. “And then you bring all this…” She spouts off another Italian word, her pointer finger jabbing toward the glass entrance where cameramen scream my name. “What’s wrong with youse? Ha? ”
Thatcher hardly bats an eye. He stays behind me, but with his height, he’s able to stretch over to the elderly storeowner. “I’ll make sure they clear out when we leave. It’s nice to see you.” He cups her face tenderly and kisses her cheek in greeting. “You look good.”
I glance keenly from her to him, him to her. I’m seeing much more of Thatcher today than I would’ve ever expected.
She huffs but simmers down a great deal, and then she taps his jaw twice in affection. “Don’t be a…” The Italian word may as well be redacted for me.
I can’t be sure what she called him.
Ms. Ramella tries to lower her voice, but she’s still very audible. “You take care of that famous girl, you hear? What’s her name?”
“Jane,” Thatcher says, nearly cradling the one syllable like he’s protecting all four letters from harm.
My lips ache to rise. Why do I love that so much?
Ms. Ramella seems to know more about Thatcher working in security than she knows about my famous family. Which is terribly sweet.
“Are you related?” I ask while she’s eyeing me.
“No.” She points to him. “I play pinochle and Canasta with his grandma on Thursdays, and my grandson is the boys’ age.”
The boys. She must be referring to Banks, too.
Thatcher talks more urgently to Ms. Ramella, and after a short exchange, she hands him this morning’s paper.
He eagle-eyes the rowdy paparazzi and then looks down at me. “Let’s go in the back. It’ll be more private.”
“Why the newspaper?” I ask before we move a foot.
“The team is now telling me it’s in The Philadelphia Chronicle .”
I used to read that newspaper when I was a little girl. My mom would pass me the business and finance section whenever I asked for them.
But I’m at a loss now. Why would I be mentioned in a reputable newspaper that rarely prints salacious gossip about my family?
“You don’t know what it is?” I ask my bodyguard.
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
5
THATCHER MORETTI
Fucking comms.
Bad signal—it’s frustrating, but after I get word that this situation revolves around Jane, most of my irritation goes up in flames. Leaving my purpose clear.
Focused.
Protecting her is all that fucking matters.
At the back of Michelina’s store, I lead Jane to a small, enclosed area where fabric swatches are staple-gunned in chaotic array to the wall. Supplies like scissors and rulers are packed in cardboard boxes on utility shelves—shelves that Banks and I helped put together for Michelina years ago.
It’s not every week or even every year that my childhood collides with work. On the ride here, I’d been hoping that Michelina would be absent. Home picking parsley from her pots or stuck watching morning game shows.
Not because I wouldn’t want Jane to meet my grandma’s friend (I shouldn’t want that)—but because when I’m on-duty, I need to be on-duty.
Family and family friends—they’d rather I switch that off and act like I’m on a fucking weekend stroll sipping boxed Chardonnay.