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494 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 17, 2019



Thatcher is like a sacred text. I’m tempted to rush through the pages, but something has compelled me to draw out each line, each word. Reading so slowly and carefully so as to never miss a syllable. So a single book, a single person, could last me forever.
“It seems we are dreadfully tangled, you and I.”

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⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱*Not So Bad*⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱
He scrutinizes me. “I’ve never seen you like a guy this much.”
I send him a furtive look. “It’s just physical attraction.”
Maximoff gestures towards our bodyguards while he speaks. “Gawking at Thatcher, who looks like a six-foot-seven version of Jon Snow after he killed White Walkers and made friends with wildlings—that’s physical attraction. Liking when a guy calls you honey is…” He scrunches his face. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not physical .”



She begins to smile more brightly. “It seems we are dreadfully tangled, you and I.”
1) Raisy
2) Gillow
3) Cobaretti
“Jane,” Thatcher says, nearly cradling the one syllable like he’s protecting all four letters from harm.
Thatcher.
Thatcher.
Thatcher.
His name is a heartbeat in my head.
“You’re prettier without it,” I say without thinking. Goddammit. It’s too late, and I’m not about to retract what I believe and form a fucking lie. I glance down at her.
Shock slowly breaks apart her lips.
Because I rarely word vomit anything.



I think I’m a pretty plain person. Too quiet, too serious, I’ve been told. But she appreciates even the simplest things I say.

“One more,” Thatcher says huskily. Our hands are still on each other, and his other palm has found a home on my hip. Mine are woven in his hair.
“One more,” I agree.
“Just in case they didn’t catch the photo.” His gaze already engulfs me.
“Yes.”
Yes.
This girl is heaven-sent, and I’m fucking an angel. And gripping a one-way ticket to hell.


“You’re meant to be in my arms, Jane.”
“It seems we are dreadfully tangled, you and I.”
“We’re selling this well.” Another small smile tugs my cheeks. “It’s like we’re partners in crime, you and I.”
"Confidence should be engrained in my DNA, but to reach into the well, I have to constantly remind myself that I am good enough.
I won’t devalue her achievements just to find value in myself. My mom is brilliant and beautiful. And so am I. Just in my own way.”
. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ❦ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .


My mom started her fashion company when she was only fifteen. Ladies and gentlemen, let all of that sink in.
Fifteen.
I’m twenty-three and I can hardly decide which brand of toothpaste to use.
It’s becoming shamefully easier to say, I am not worthy to be a Cobalt.
Confidence should be engrained in my DNA, but to reach into the well, I have to constantly remind myself that I am good enough.
I won’t devalue her achievements just to find value in myself.
My mom is brilliant and beautiful.
And so I am. Just in my own way.
He’s safety, the forceful gravity that grounds me, that helps stop me from ratting sideways inside a world that tries and tries to shake me.
There is only one of Jane, no other person can be all of what she is, and anyone who harasses this girl might as well be tearing the wings off an angel.
I’m honoured that I get to be the one to keep her safe.
She’s my duty.
I also shouldn’t want to fuck an angel.
In another life, I’d wrap myself up in the powerful heavenliness of Thatcher Moretti, like he’s my warrior archangel prepared to blanket me with his twelve-foot wingspan. All before he hoists me around—
Thatcher turns slightly. And he catches my ogling gaze.
Flush reaches my cheeks. Merde. “Thatcher.” I’ve greeted him five times today already.
He crosses his arms. “Jane.” His deep tone is never scolding towards me.
She stares at me, entranced. Like my silent authority is a slow-burning fuck.
My blood heats, muscles on fucking fire.
I clasp her face, my large hand enveloping her flushed cheek. “You’re meant to be in my arms, Jane.”
We’re kerosene together. And we’ve finally lit the match.
In my head, there’s no going back.
“It seems we are dreadfully tangled, you and I.”