Page 25 of Taking What's Mine

“Go ahead.” I wave her off. “I’ll be here, finishing up a quick check on something.”

She nods as she heads toward the kitchen. I watch her retreating form—can’t help it, really—then drag my gaze away. Focus, Lincoln. We’re here to do a job.

I return to my seat, picking up my phone again to reread Devereaux’s message. That private event is going to be a minefield. No doubt it’ll be more intense than the typical party we crashed before. Who knows what goes on at these private gatherings? The last thing I want is to be unprepared.

A half-formed idea from last night springs to mind. It’s definitely pushing the boundaries, but if we’re going to sell the idea that we’re a couple who’s been married for a while—and especially if the party is more risqué—maybe we need a few “props.” My heart thuds at the thought. I open up a shopping app, glancing nervously over my shoulder to confirm Isabel is still in the kitchen.

Sure enough, I hear the faint clink of a mug being set down on the counter. Quickly, I type in a search, my pulse picking up. This is… definitely crossing a line. But maybe it’ll help us blend in, especially if Club Greed’s crowd is the kind that indulges in adult amusements. I find a discreet listing, scanning the product description, feeling my face grow hot at the explicit images. Finally, I add the item to my cart and schedule an overnight delivery.

I lock my phone just as Isabel steps back into the living room, coffee mug in one hand. I smile—probably too brightly—and pretend to check the time on my phone.

She eyes me curiously. “What were you up to?”

“Just responding to an email,” I lie. My chest tightens with guilt, but I push it aside. “You ready for the Q&A session?”

She sets her mug down, dropping onto the couch next to me, close enough that her thigh brushes mine. It sends a ripple of awareness through me—awareness I’m not supposed to indulge. “Absolutely,” she says, curling one leg under her. “Bring it on.”

I drape an arm over the back of the couch, angling myself to face her. She matches my posture, so we’re sort of mirrored, knees almost touching. “All right,” I say, clearing my throat. “We’ve got a few days to learn all the details a married couple should know. Let’s keep it simple first—favorite color, favorite food, that kind of thing.”

She smirks. “Fine, but that’s boring. We’ll need more than that, right? Like… how did we meet? Where did we honeymoon? Who picks up the groceries, that kind of thing.”

“Exactly,” I agree. “But let’s start from the top. We can call it… twenty questions, though we’ll probably need more than twenty.”

“Deal.” She sips her coffee, pausing to savor it. “I’ll go first. Lincoln Zane, what’s your favorite color?”

I chuckle. “I guess we’ll keep it easy. gray. Mostly because it reminds me of stormy clouds. Your turn—favorite color?” I don’t dare tell her it’s because it reminds me of the color of her eyes.

She presses her lips together, thinking. “Royal blue. Something about it feels regal and calming at the same time.” She arches a brow. “Next question?”

I grin, tapping my chin like I’m considering something deeply profound. “All right. What was the name of your first pet?”

Her face lights up. “Oh, that’d be Ranger. Not our Ranger, obviously,” she adds quickly, referencing our coworker. “But amutt I found outside my apartment building when I was twelve. Dean was allergic, but we kept him anyway for a few years until we moved.”

“Good to know,” I say, storing that little fact away. “If someone asks about your childhood pet, I can say ‘Ranger, a mutt.’ That’s very married of me.”

Her laugh is soft but genuine. “Your turn. Did you play any sports in high school?”

I shift, letting out a low chuckle. “Football, briefly. I was a decent running back, but I enlisted before I could go to college. You?”

She shakes her head, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “No sports. I was more into coding with Dean or reading mystery novels.”

A smile tugs at my lips. “Makes sense. Explains the hacker genes in your family.”

She pokes my arm. “I’m not the hacker—Dean was the hacker. I was just the sidekick, handing him tools and cheering him on.”

We go back and forth for a while, covering all the usual get-to-know-you material. I learn she hates pickles, loves thunderstorms, and once dyed her hair pink for a single day before freaking out and dying it back. She learns I can’t stand olives, prefer early mornings to late nights, and once ran a half marathon on a dare.

We take turns peppering each other with random questions: “What’s your biggest fear?” “If you could travel anywhere, where would it be?” “Do you have any weird habits?” Each answer feels like peeling back another layer, and there’s a strange intimacy in discovering these tiny details we’ve never talked about before.

Finally, she sets her empty coffee mug aside, tucking her feet underneath her. “Okay, new question,” she declares, eyes sparkling. “What’s your biggest guilty pleasure?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You mean, like, TV show, or…?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, or anything. Could be a show, a snack, a hobby.”

I think about it, trying to decide how honest to be. After a moment, I sigh. “Fine. Old Westerns. The cheesier, the better. I can quote half ofThe Good, the Bad and the Uglyin my sleep. Please don’t tell the guys.”

She laughs, covering her mouth. “That’s actually adorable. Lincoln, the tough ex-soldier, curled up watching Clint Eastwood. I won’t tell, promise.”

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