Page 24 of Taking What's Mine

Lincoln’s smile widens a fraction. “I remember. Dean used to say you’d run circles around him if you had half a chance.”

A bubble of laughter escapes me. “Yeah, well, growing up, we didn’t have much. I had to hustle for everything. Guess it’s still in my blood.”

His gaze flickers with empathy. “You did good, though. Maddox Security wouldn’t be the powerhouse it is without you.”

I swallow, surprised by the praise. “Well… thanks.”

We lapse into silence, a gentler kind than before. I glance at him, noticing the way his posture is still rigid despite the easy conversation—like he’s constantly ready for the next threat. Part of me aches to see him so on-edge. Another part of me appreciates that unwavering vigilance, knowing he’s here for me.

After a moment, I stand, dragging my fingers through my ponytail. “I’m gonna refill my coffee,” I say. “You want anything?”

“I’m good,” he answers, giving me a half-smile. “Thanks.”

I head into the kitchen, leaving him behind. It’s only a momentary reprieve, but it helps me clear my head. The emotional whiplash of the last few days is intense—fear for my safety, curiosity about Rolfe, and this overwhelming attraction to Lincoln that just won’t go away.

As I pour more coffee, I can’t help wondering what today might bring. Maybe we’ll find the clue we need to corner Rolfe. Maybe Devereaux will call with an invite to one of those infamous parties. Or maybe we’ll keep twiddling our thumbs, stuck in this safe house, dancing around each other’s barely contained desire.

I return to the living room with a steaming mug. Lincoln is perched on the couch, phone in hand, probably checking messages or scanning through more data. His eyes flick up when I enter, and for a second, our gazes lock. My heart trips over itself, and I can see the question there in his eyes—are we going to talk about the tension?

I exhale, crossing to the couch and sitting beside him again, coffee warming my hands. “So,” I say softly, “we wait.”

He nods, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Yeah. We wait.”

And in that moment, I realize that waiting might be the hardest part. Because as the day stretches ahead of us, the walls of this safe house feel like they’re closing in, and I’m not sure how long I can pretend that what’s happening between us is purely for show. But for now, it’s all we can do—brew coffee, click through leads, and try to pretend I don’t want to climb the man like a tree.

Chapter 11

Lincoln

How long can a man be tempted without going completely insane? It’s a logical question. One that I wish I had the answer to, because being in close proximity to Isabel day-in and day-out is maddening.

Even the smell of her shampoo drives me batty. I’m doing my best to focus on the laptop screen in front of me—trying to find any new information on Morris Rolfe, cross-referencing addresses, scanning old police reports—but if I’m honest, I’ve been stuck on the same paragraph for ten minutes. My brain refuses to cooperate. All I can think about is Isabel, drifting around the house in that loose T-shirt and shorts, her hair tied back in a ponytail. The safe house is quiet this morning, the only sounds the low hum of the HVAC and the soft clicks of our keyboards, but the tension in the air is anything but peaceful.

I shoot a glance her way. She’s sprawled on the other side of the couch, eyes narrowed at her own laptop. She’s barefoot, one leg curled up under her, the other swinging idly back and forth. The posture is casual—relaxed, even—but I know better. I can see the set of her jaw, the restless bounce of her foot. She hates waiting, and so do I, but that’s the nature of undercover work: long stretches of inactivity, punctuated by moments of high-risk action.

My phone buzzes on the couch cushion beside me, snapping me out of my thoughts. I grab it, half-hoping it’s Devereaux with some news. Sure enough, the text icon flashes.

Devereaux:“Party this Friday. 9 PM. Invitation-only. Looking forward to meeting you both again, Mr. and Mrs. Zane.”

I let out a slow breath.That’s it, then—our window into Rolfe’s world. Isabel must notice my reaction because she lifts her gaze, eyebrows raised. “That them?”

“Devereaux,” I say, tossing the phone onto my laptop. “He’s inviting us to some private event on Friday. 9 PM.” The adrenaline surges in my veins, along with a hint of relief. At least we have a plan now—no more sitting around waiting for the phone to ring.

She sets her laptop aside with a soft thunk. “So that gives us a few days to prep. Perfect.”

I nod, letting the tension of the unknown seep out of my shoulders, only to realize we have a whole new challenge: pulling off this husband-and-wife act convincingly enough to fool a bunch of criminals. Our stunt at Club Greed gave us a foot in thedoor, but if Rolfe or Devereaux does even a shred of background checking, we need to ensure our stories line up.

“We better ramp up our ‘getting to know each other’ phase,” I say wryly. “We can’t pass as a married couple if we don’t even know each other’s favorite color.”

She laughs, swinging her legs off the couch. “I mean, we do know each other, but not the little stuff. Sure, we worked together for years, but I couldn’t tell you what your favorite breakfast cereal is.”

I rub my jaw, suppressing a grin. “Same. Well, about you, not about me.”

She wrinkles her nose in a playful way that makes my chest feel too tight. “If we’re going to fool them, we need every detail down pat. Middle names, favorite foods, how long we’ve been ‘married,’ all that.”

“Exactly.” I stand, stretching my arms overhead. I catch her gaze flick to the sliver of skin where my T-shirt rides up—just for a second—but the quick surge of longing in her expression is unmistakable. My stomach does a little flip, and I do my best to ignore the pull of attraction. “We’ll handle that after we take a break,” I say. “I need water or something. You want more coffee?”

She brightens, stepping around the coffee table. “I was just about to get some, actually. You read my mind.”

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