Page 27 of Taking What's Mine

The tension thickens again, and I have to resist the sudden urge to close the gap between us and see what it feels like to kiss her for real. Instead, I clear my throat, leaning back against the couch. “I think we did good today,” I say softly, “learning about each other.”

She nods, dropping her gaze to her hands. “Yeah. Thank you. I feel better about… all this.” Her voice is quiet, a bit uncertain, and I know she’s talking about more than the cover story.

My phone buzzes again, startling us both. We exchange quick glances, and I snatch it off the couch cushion. Another text from Devereaux:

Devereaux:“Friday. Don’t be late. Dress to impress.”

My jaw sets. Dress to impress, huh? I guess that means the new suit’s coming back out. And maybe the, um, new purchase too. “Looks like our date is confirmed,” I say, turning the phone so she can see.

She sighs, tension flickering in her eyes. “We’ve got this, right? I’ll order another dress from online.”

I swallow, forcing confidence into my voice I only half-feel. “Yeah, good idea. We’ve got this.”

The irony of the situation—the two of us dancing around each other like we’re not seconds away from stepping off a cliff—doesn’t escape me. But as I stare at her, I realize that, for better or worse, we’re in this together. Pretending to be a married couple for a dangerous mission was not on my Bingo card, yet here we are.

And despite the risk, some part of me can’t help wanting to see what happens next.

Chapter 12

Isabel

The sun has dipped below the horizon, staining the sky with streaks of purple and crimson, by the time I give up on my search for anything new about Morris Rolfe. My eyes blur at the screen of my laptop, and a frustrated sigh escapes my lips. For the past couple of hours, I’ve been scouring every obscure forum, old database, and off-the-record contact I can think of, but I’ve found nothing. Lincoln’s doing the same on his end, stationed at the other side of the small dining table, laptop open, posture rigid.

He shuts his device with a decisive snap. “I think we’re hitting the wall,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve got two days until Devereaux’s party. We may just have to go in with what we’ve got.”

I push my hair away from my face and slump in my seat. “Yeah. We’re running in circles.”

It isn’t for lack of effort. We’ve barely taken breaks all day. Well, except for the occasional banter to brush up on our cover story as “Mr. and Mrs. Zane.” That part we’ve nailed down. I know Lincoln’s favorite movie, his morning routine, even the little habit he has of rearranging pens on a desk so they’re perfectly parallel. Obsessive much? I, however, find it endearing. He knows I hate when my coffee goes lukewarm, that I’ll reheat it five times before I let it go to waste, and that I get a weird kick out of reorganizing spice racks by alphabetical order whenever I’m stressed.

On paper, we’re rock-solid.

But in reality, we’re still two people who’ve never crossed the line between coworkers and…more. And the closer the event gets, the harder it feels to pretend. Especially when my heart still does a weird flip every time he calls me “Isabel” in that low rumble of his, and I remember that soon I’ll have to respond to “Mrs. Zane” like it’s second nature.

Lincoln stands, nudging his chair back from the table. “Maybe we should practice again,” he says quietly. “You know, run through how we’ll act at this private event.”

I arch an eyebrow. “We spent all day on the details. How much more ‘practice’ do we need?”

A knock at the front door answers for him. We both tense—nobody’s supposed to know we’re here. Lincoln holds a finger to his lips, then crosses the living room in two smooth strides, glancing through the peephole. His shoulders relax. “Delivery,” he says, shooting me a quick, cryptic look.

I lift my brows. “Delivery? The dress I ordered isn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

He unlocks and opens the door, murmuring a polite greeting to the courier. A brief exchange follows, and then Lincoln is closing the door, a small, nondescript box in his grip. He returns to me, every line of his body carrying a taut energy I can’t decipher. My pulse picks up.

“So…” I prompt, gesturing to the package. “What’s that?”

For a moment, he says nothing, his jaw working as if he’s deciding how to explain. Then he exhales, turning the box in his hands. “I ordered something that might help us, um, sell this whole marriage act.”

My stomach tightens, equal parts curiosity and dread. “What do you mean?”

He sets the box on the table, and with deliberate care, peels back the tape. When he finally tips it open, I catch a glimpse of bubble wrap and sleek packaging—until he lifts the item free and holds it up. My eyes go wide.

Oh my god.

It’s… an adult toy. A vibrator. A big one. There’s no mistaking it. I can’t even pretend I’m wrong. My cheeks flame hot enough to fry eggs, and I let out a strangled laugh. “Lincoln, what on earth?—?”

He clears his throat. “Look, hear me out.” A flicker of pink touches his own cheeks, and for once, he looks momentarily unsure of himself. “We’re supposed to be a married couple, right? Devereaux’s parties—especially private ones—are rumored to be… intense. Kinky. I figured if we’re going to convince people we’re used to that kind of scene, we should at least, uh, show that we’re not uncomfortable with each other’s… private preferences.”

My mouth is so dry, I can barely speak. “And you think this helps?”

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