Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(17)

She’s patented one-of-a-kind, and I’m not letting go of her. Not anytime or day or year. I love her too damn much.

Approaching fast, I steal her gaze and watch her own smile take shape.

In seamless French, I say, “Bonsoir, ma moitié.” Good evening, my other half. I kiss both of her freckled cheeks.

Her long lashes shade poised, blistering blue eyes. “It’s just you and me, old chap.”

Nearly at the same time, her arms wrap around my waist and mine slide around her shoulders. I draw her into a warm hug.

My muscles start to loosen like I’m home.

You know Jane Eleanor Cobalt as the oldest Cobalt child out of seven. The twenty-two-year-old pastel-loving, cat-hoarding girl who invites you into her life like a friend. You’ve seen Instagram videos of her burning French toast, trying on a new pair of pants, and reading passages of old literature.

You also pressure her to become a math professor and to advocate for women in STEM. And you pry about who she’s dating or not dating—but you’re not sure if it’s “serious” between them.

I know her as Janie.

My best friend, ma moitié. One month apart in age, but she’s a million light-years smarter. A girl who breathes loyalty like it’s a third lung. Who will sacrifice every day, minute, and second for the people she loves.

Fair warning: I’ll break both of your kneecaps and stake your head on a pitchfork if you fuck with her. Glad we have that covered.

Jane rests her chin on my chest. And she looks up. “Just us. Except for the two very strapping bodyguards, the bakery employees, and your three siblings that’ll arrive at seven.”

I invited my two sisters and my brother to join us later. “Thanks for calling the bakery in advance,” I say seriously. No sarcasm. When I asked Jane if my little brother could join, her first response: I’ll buy-out the bakery for a couple hours.

The two of us—Jane and me—we don’t typically shutdown stores for ourselves. We can handle media and public attention. But Jane knew that Xander wouldn’t come if people were around. Instead of saying, just leave him back, she was the first to help include him.

“Avec plaisir,” she says silkily. With pleasure.

So I’m fluent in two foreign languages for very different reasons. I’m not going into the rabbit hole of the second one, but the first, French—Jane and I taught ourselves more than we learned in prep school. We picked it up quickly since her parents are fluent.

My arm stays around her shoulders while we face the menu. Sketches of different shaped cakes are scrawled in pink chalk.

Boom.

My head whips to the storefront. Hoards of young excitable girls push against the glass door. I’m talking enough bodies to flood the sidewalk and trickle into street parking.

I stand up, muscles constricted. “Our location got leaked.” Already. Jane and I don’t draw crowds like we’re a band at Coachella unless people post about us.

Janie starts scrolling through a Twitter feed. “…it looks like a fan tweeted that they saw the paparazzi outside the bakery.”

“Did they post the address?”

“Oui.” Yes.

“Great,” I say dryly, and I take my phone out of my pocket. A few cameramen flocked the area when I first parked my car. I don’t mention them every time I see one. It’s like pointing out the grass, cement, or the damn sky. They’re scenery to my world. Always there. Always present.

And sometimes fucking up my day.

“Back up!” Farrow shouts through the glass. Girls keep trying to yank open the locked door. Some pound on the windows. For as severe as his voice sounds, Farrow looks unconcerned by the growing masses. He grips the handle to keep the door from jerking against the lock.

Quinn yells at the fans to leave too. But my gaze is tethered to Farrow. I sweep his relaxed six-foot-three build, his supreme composure—all in the face of a high-stress situation.

Farrow turns slightly, keeping his hand on the door. And with one quick glance, his eyes touch my eyes.

Before he reads my expression, I rotate completely. I rub my sharpened jaw.

My phone vibrates in my palm. I see the names Luna and Kinney, my two sisters, and I read the incoming texts.

Moffy!!!!!! Xander won’t leave the house :’((( – Luna





I told him nothin’ bad will happen, but he saw his name trending on Twitter – Kinney





And #PhillyBakery – Luna





I text: it’s not that crowded here.





Don’t lie. – Xander





I rapidly text: I’ll be by your side when you walk in. I promise. I won’t let anyone touch you.

No response yet.

I look up. Farrow is watching me. I follow his precise fingers that touch a small, slender mic attached to his black V-neck collar. The microphone’s wire runs up to his earpiece and then down to a radio that’s clipped on his waistband.

All security wear coms, but if he’s touching the mic, it means he’s actively talking to other bodyguards right now.

“Are they bailing?” Jane asks as she sidles next to me.

“Probably.” If Xander stays at home, it means his anxiety is through the roof. Luna and Kinney will want to keep him company.