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)
I smile at the mention of his twin brother. He speaks more about Banks than anyone else in his life.
It reminds me of Charlie and Beckett. My twin brothers are extraordinarily close, but they’re not identical and they didn’t choose the same career path like Thatcher and Banks did.
“It’s sweet,” I tell him.
His brows pull hard together. One would think he’s never heard that word before.
I flick my blinker and take 19th . “Does your mom live alone?” Last month, I asked if he was close to his parents. We didn’t have long to chat at the time, and all he could get out was that his parents divorced when he was twelve.
Thatcher studies the traffic ahead of us. “My grandma still lives with her.”
Reading into his voice is difficult. Everything sounds cut and dry and simple, and possibly that’s just how it is for Thatcher. I’m used to a family that speaks in riddles and confounding subtext. If a Cobalt is blunt, usually we’re blunt with added flair.
He adjusts his seat again. “My mom remarried, so her wife is with her too.” He hawk-eyes the paparazzi behind us. “She’s openly bi. Been that way since she was a teenager. She dated girls before she met my dad—take a right on Porter up ahead.”
I nod, and my eyes flit to him. “Your dad isn’t still here then?”
“No.” Thatcher shakes his head. “He hasn’t been in Philly for a while. He trains SEAL recruits in Coronado.”
I do remember Thatcher said his dad isn’t an active Navy SEAL at the moment, but he used to be.
I crane my neck to check the rearview mirror. The Toyota is encroaching my bumper. “I have to go a little faster.” I press the gas and then rotate the wheel. Turning a sharp corner onto Porter.
I watch the Toyota mimic me and then slink right on up to my exhaust pipes. “Really?” I crinkle my nose at the mirror. “You’re still going to ride my ass?”
Paparazzi are either about to force me to push twenty-over the speed limit or to endure a minor collision with their car.
Thatcher is already rolling down the passenger window. He sticks his head and muscular arm a little bit outside, and the more he leans, the more he lifts his ass off the seat.
My eyes dart down to his black slacks that mold his butt like perfectly rounded fruit.
“Oh my God,” I breathe underneath my breath. I just checked out my bodyguard’s ass. It wouldn’t be the first time. “You’re most surely going to hell, Jane,” I whisper more softly to myself.
Two out of my five brothers will certainly be there, so at least I won’t be alone. But knowing Tom and Eliot, those two menaces will destroy all eternal pits of fiery damnation the second they enter.
There will be no hell left for me to even occupy.
“Back up!” Thatcher waves for the car to move.
The Toyota hardly budges, and I tighten my grip on the wheel.
“BACK THE FUCK UP!” Thatcher yells in a deep, threatening voice that I’ve heard before. Life-or-death seriousness coats each word, and I can only imagine his features are as caustic.
The car drifts back from my Beetle, paparazzi finally granting me some breathing room.
Precisely why I prefer having a bodyguard as a co-pilot. And Thatcher, in particular. He intimidates cameramen far easier than me. Most of the paparazzi in Philly have seen me in diapers.
“You follow Jane Cobalt on Instagram, don’t you, Cathy?”
My ears perk up at my name on the radio. At the same moment, Thatcher rests his ass on the seat and begins to roll up the window.
I should switch stations, but my curiosity outweighs rationality sometimes.
“You bet I do,” Cathy answers. “Jane Cobalt. Oldest daughter of Rose and Connor Cobalt.”
My lips rise. My mom is a brilliant, ball-busting woman who takes no shit from anyone, especially not from her husband. My dad acts like her rival, but they’re equals in every way, shape, and form.
I love them dearly.
“Get this, Cath,” Jackie says on air. “Just last night, Jane Cobalt posted on Instagram. Did you see it?”
“Let me pop it up.”
Thatcher crosses his arms. Eyes narrowed on the street before veering to me. “You want me to change the channel?”
“It’s okay.” I frown a little. I’m perplexed, really. “I posted nothing terrible last night. Just a picture of my mom and me and a book…” Jane Eyre , my namesake. My voice fades as the radio host, Jackie, describes the photo.
“…and listen to this caption. Jane wrote, spending time with these beauties. ”
I gape at the car speakers. “And what’s so wrong with that?”
Jackie continues, “Jane Cobalt clearly isn’t spending enough time with her mother because she’s nowhere near the same caliber of woman as Rose Calloway.”
My jaw drops further.
Thatcher is glaring at the row houses that pass us by.