Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(12)

Donnelly smirks. “Farrow knows a little something about protecting and serving orgas—”

“No.” Thatcher shuts that down.

Christ, my neck is burning. I’m not embarrassed. No—that’s not a feeling I feel often, and I’m not letting it creep into me.

Farrow studies my reaction, and I try to recover with a sip of nonexistent tea.

Yeah, my mug is empty.

He’s near-laughter.

I’d combat him, but Thatcher speaks. “Back to the main issues.” He focuses on Jane. “About your cats—”

“I’ve taken care of them,” Jane begins with urgency. No emotion attached. Like she’s discussing bus mileage and the trip route. “My sister already agreed to watch all six while I’m gone. My oldest cats and youngest kittens love Audrey, and she loves them fiercely. It all works out well.”

My brows scrunch. “It’s four months, Janie.” She’s never been away from her cats for that long.

“They’re in good hands.”

Thatcher types on his phone. Taking notes. “How’s Licorice doing?”

Jane almost blushes. “Um,” she says, frazzled by the question. “Still skittish from being stuck in the crawl space, but I’m glad you found him.”

“Me too.” Thatcher checks notes on his phone. “The tour should help with the incest rumor.”

Jane clears her throat. “I propose we ban that word.” She means incest.

I grimace. “I second that.”

Heavy silence falls, and Thatcher pockets his phone before looking to Jane, then me. “I don’t know if it’ll mean anything to you two,” he tells us, “but I understand what you’re going through. Years ago, when I was in high school, Banks and I got the gamut of twin questions. Most were harmless but others…” He trails off, and we can easily fill in the blanks.

Banks Moretti is his identical twin, and also the 24/7 bodyguard to Xander.

Beckett nods strongly, also a twin. Also understanding.

Jane and I don’t have to ask for examples or specifics. I stare off for a second—for Christ’s sake, I should’ve realized sooner why Charlie would be at the lake house in support.

Why he’d understand like Thatcher and Banks. Like Beckett.

With zero evidence, the media tried to twist my close friendship with Jane into something perverse. But Charlie dealt with that all the time too.

I was there in high school. I heard guys ask Charlie harmless questions like can you read your twin’s mind and then they’d veer into shitty things like do you sleep with your twin? They’d snicker as they prodded how many three-ways have you had with Beckett? And weird shit like if you’re naked, are you confused about who’s who? Have you touched each other’s…?

Charlie would wear his annoyance. I remember that and how he’d just walk away. Move on. That’s all he could do.

And I know that’s all we can do now.

“Merci,” Jane says to Thatcher.

I nod, appreciative of the support. The rumor will die sooner or later. It has no merit or validity, so I think we’ll be fine.

Jane rests her chin on her fists. “I couldn’t care less what the media or public thinks of me anyway.” Her gaze lowers though. Clearly caring about something.

I know she’s still upset that our parents doubted us for a split-second. I’ve been trying to understand their perspective so it’ll make more sense, but it’s not that easy. For either of us.

“Mom was crying,” Beckett tells his sister, “and you know, Mom. She says she only sheds tears for the ones she loves. She really felt like shit for not believing you.”

“Good,” Jane snaps.

Beckett continues, “She also told Dad they needed to cut out their hearts for the betrayal and gift each to you in a glass jar.”

Jane tries not to smile. “Encore mieux.” Even better.

Farrow glances at me. “Did your parents say anything?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “Just that they’ll be here tomorrow.”





4





FARROW KEENE





“Weather reports a white-out blizzard at zero-nine-hundred hours.” Thatcher’s voice resounds through comms.

I pull out my earpiece while I ascend wooden stairs to the second floor. It’s pushing 5 a.m. after a never-ending Omega meeting where we all planned security for the tour. I thought I left Thatcher in the fucking kitchen.

Now he’s in my eardrum. With the volume high, I still hear him. “Be alert if you’re driving to the lake house—”

I swivel my radio’s knob, and his voice cuts off. Security agreed to spend the night at the main house and not security’s cabin a mile out. There are plenty of vacant rooms, but I choose the one with Maximoff.

Quietly, I slip inside the bedroom and expect to find him sound asleep. He’s upright, leaning against the log headboard. Maximoff types relentlessly on his laptop. Dark crescent moons shadow his eyes.

He looks spent, but he’s still forcing himself awake.

I frown and slam the door shut behind me.

“Hey,” he greets, not flinching. Not looking up. He props his phone beneath his ear. Listening to a voicemail or something equivalent since he doesn’t speak.