Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(11)

Farrow and I are the only two standing. While he leans on a bookshelf—absentmindedly fiddling with a handheld wooden puzzle that he’s already solved twice—I grip my mug of tea. And listen to the conversation veer off into FanCon territory. Logistics.

How the fuck it’ll all work.

Thatcher motions to Jane on a rocking chair and to Beckett on the couch beside Donnelly, and he says, “If you have any acquaintances or friends or…” Thatcher pauses for the word.

“NSA,” Oscar clarifies.

“What?” Beckett looks to Donnelly, his 24/7 bodyguard.

“No strings attached,” I tell my cousin.

“A fuck buddy,” Donnelly explains.

Thatcher cringes a bit, obviously hoping to avoid that word. “If you want them on the bus,” he says to Jane more than Beckett. “I need a list. Names. We have to clear them before they’re allowed on tour.”

A cold draft wafts into the study, snow falling heavier outside.

Becket zips his leather jacket over a black The Carraways band T-shirt, half tucked into ripped jeans. His brown curly hair is artfully styled, and he’s lean and tall, built perfectly for dance. A warm smile toys at his pink lips. He looks older than when I last saw him.

Like he’s met more parts of the world, and he came out better. Tougher.

You know Beckett Joyce Cobalt as a principal dancer of an elite ballet company in New York City. His tattoos and extracurricular activities cause a stir for tabloids. But they also fill seats for shows. You call him the bad boy of ballet and he doesn’t bother proving you wrong.

I know him as my twenty-year-old hard-working, extraordinarily talented cousin, the most calm and the least dramatic of the Cobalt Empire. He has no room for bullshit, and he’ll be the first to say you smell full of it. If he weren’t Charlie’s fraternal twin, maybe we’d find common ground. But if there really are sides in my family, Beckett will never be on mine.

Fair Warning: if you fuck with Beckett, I won’t hesitate to team up with Charlie and rip you limb-from-limb.

Beckett extends an arm. “No fuck buddies for me.”

Donnelly rocks back. “You sure?”

You’ve definitely seen Beckett pick up random girls at NYC nightclubs. You don’t know that he sometimes goes to private sex parties—the only reason I know is because he once told Eliot, who then let it slip to Tom. Who told Jane. Who then told me.

Gotta love family.

“Positive,” Beckett says. “If I’m going to hookup, it’ll be with someone I meet on the road.”

I take a larger sip of tea, and I notice how everyone’s zeroed in on Jane.

She’s quiet and tucks a pink throw blanket around her body. Maybe she’s thinking about her options. I’m about to ask, but Thatcher beats me to the question.

“Do you want to bring Nate?” he asks.

Her blue eyes meet me. “I don’t know.”

Farrow messes with the puzzle. “You can’t smuggle him on the bus, Cobalt. If you want him, we’re all meeting him.”

“What do you think, Moffy?” she asks.

“I think it’s your choice.” I dunk a tea bag a couple times. “But if I have to share space with your Asshole With Benefits, there’s not a chance I’ll be able to hold my tongue.”

She could do light-years better than that fucking douchebag. He cares more about expensive things than about her. I swear he’s complained a million times that our townhouse lacks a pool, hot tub, six-car garage, private guesthouse, etc.—and he’s told Jane that she should move out ASAP.

Beckett eyes me. “He’s that bad?”

I see-saw my hand like so-so. “AWB #2 was definitely worse.”

Jane shoots me a strong look. “Je regrette d’avoir demandé ton avis.” I regret asking for your opinion.

I touch my chest. “Tu connais mes sentiments à propos de Nate.” You know my feelings about Nate.

Beckett turns to his sister. “Est-ce qu’il t’a frappé?” Did he hit you?

Oscar whispers in Donnelly’s ear. I quickly realize that I have no idea which bodyguards are fluent in French. Farrow definitely isn’t.

Jane shakes her head adamantly. “No. Never.”

“He’s just an asshole.” I finish off my tea in one gulp. Literally every bodyguard trains these narrowed, pinpointed eyes on me like I’m withholding security info. “That’s it.”

Farrow tilts his head from side-to-side, considering my words. “Okay, but there’s a range for assholes, and most of us want to know where Nate falls.”

Oscar spreads out two hands to demonstrate the range. “There’s the likable asshole over here.” He waves his left hand before lifting up his right. “Then there’s the abusive motherfucker that deserves to eat cow shit.”

“And die,” Donnelly adds.

“Painfully,” Farrow finishes.

“Funny,” I mutter and notice Jane and her pissed off face: brows pinched, lips pursed, not as terrifying as she wishes she could be. “Janie can tell you where he falls on the asshole range. She knows him better than me.”

“He’s a likable asshole,” Jane announces without a beat, fierce blue eyes pinging to everyone. “He’s only treated me with respect. For the sake of my future orgasms, leave him be.”