Page 44 of The Pretenders of Copper County
But then, Chris seemed to be takingeverythingabout this situation in stride. Living in a drafty cabin so tiny you could reach over and turn on the kitchen faucet without leaving the love seat? “So cozy!” Renovating little shacks in the woods? “These are going to be so pretty! Let’s make a supply list!” Meeting a dozen inquisitive strangers during our quick (read: long as fuck) supply trip to town because fucking Watt had either failed to get my message about “privacy” or chosen to ignore it, and now everyonewanted to meet the “honeymooners of Copper County”? “Hi! I’m Chris Sunday”—one small but strong arm around my waist—“and this is my, um, h-husband, Reed.”
Hell, Chris was even taking the situation with his uncle well.
He steadfastly refused to believe Dante was guilty of anything until he saw the proof, of course, but that didn’t seem unreasonable to me. In his shoes, I’d have wanted the same. And Chris had been patient about getting it, too. Though he reminded me daily—at a minimum—that I hadn’t yet fulfilled my promise, he hadn’t given me any ultimatums… yet.
And in the meantime, he talked about Dante constantly when we were alone, telling me stories from his childhood. Some were normal stories, like Dante teaching Chris the cheese business and the intricacies of wine pairings. Others were silly stories, like his uncle’s commitment to composting but his squeamishness about worms. The rest were seriously WTF stories Chris somehow thought were cute, like when he’d informed Dante he was gay, only for Dante to nod, stroke his mustache, and suggest an arranged marriage with a nice boy.
I figured Chris was hoping to convince me that Dante was way too good an uncle to possibly be guilty of any crimes, like the two things were mutually exclusive, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t working.
And the stories were definitely helping me understand Chris better.
So when he said things like, “I trust you, Reed, I do… I just can’t make it make sense, you know?” with an anxious little frown on his forehead, like he wanted to make sureIwasn’t upset or taking his mistrust personally… I believed him. And though it shouldn’t have meant a damn to me, it did.
All in all, it felt like Chris had accepted the reality of our situation over the past two days and was trying to make the best of it, adapting and settling in to our cover story like he was the professional of the two of us.
I… wasn’t doing as well.
I still hadn’t heard a single word from the Division—not a callback, not an answer to my request to send me something I could show Chris proving his uncle’s involvement, not even a “Hey, we got your message about the safe house fuckery, and we sure are glad you and your protectee are okay, Sunday.” The situation was unprecedented in my entire career at the Division, and ordinarily, I’d have lost my shit at everyone from Margot right on up to the Oval Office… but I hadn’t.
I was also struggling with our location. Under any other circumstances, the newlywed story—while not my first or even twelfth choice of cover, thank you so much, Oak Bartlett—would have granted us a little privacy, but nothing trumped a small town’s need to ferret out a story. And while Chris seemed happy enough here, and his big brown eyes went all soft and gooey every time a handsome local man (and Jesus fuck, there were a statistically unlikely number of them) invited us to a barbecue, or to join the Pumpkin Brigade, or to have aJohn Ruffian: Pretendermarathon next Tuesday (this from Watt Bartlett, who was determined to be Chris’s new BFF, and his “oh, and you can come too, Reed… if you want” did not fool me for one second), with every invitation, I felt my muscles tense and my blood pressure rise.
I should have put a stop to it. But I didn’t do that either.
And why, one might ask, was I putting asideeverything I’d learned through years of training, experience, and common sense?
I blamed my husband.
Fake husband.
Protectee.
Whatever.
Because there were still many things I didn’t understand about Chris, no matter how many stories he told. Like, why was he so chill that he’d gotten into my car without question yet he was willing to throw down when I’d informed him that he wouldnotbe getting on a twenty-foot ladder to fix a cabin roof?
Why did he have zero fucks to give when a biker gang was throwing chairs past his head but zero tolerance for my “grumpiness” and “lack of communication” when I’d tried to put some much-needed distance between us the morning after our motel room kiss?
Why was he savvy enough to recognize the make and model of a gun, and the species of some big-ass flowers in Watt’s garden, and whether a shopper at Lyon’s Imperial was about to spend way too much on cheese (“It’s notagedParmesan, you see? I’m afraid this price is highway robbery, sir.”), but not enough to recognize that his family were a bunch of criminals who’d put him in the path of yet more criminals and hadn’t even bothered to warn him?
How had he grown up so damn innocent in a cesspool of corruption… and become the hottest person I’d ever met? Why did the idea of him wandering into danger make me insane? Why did I want to make him happy more than I wanted to keep my professional distance? And how was I supposed to do my job when every time I closed my eyes, I imagined him under me in the bed I wasn’t supposed to be sleeping in and replayed those sweet, stammery sounds he made when he came?
Last night, I’d waited until after Chris showered in the tiny bathroom off the living room, refilled his water bottle and, with one bare toe peeking out of yet another pair of my borrowed pants to trace across the wood floor, wished me good night and closed the bedroom door. Then I’d gotten up and stacked the empty cooler on top of the industrial-sized package of seltzer cans Chris had picked out at the market yesterday, forming a tidy wall in front of the door to protect myself from bad choices.
No doubt when I opened the door, the wall would be right where I’d left it before I’d somehow, against my will and in defiance of all common sense and professionalism, spirited myself into his bed last night.
And the worst part of all was that with Chris’s scent in my nose and his mouth inches from mine, I couldn’t even regret it.
I needed to stop this nonsense immediately. As innow. Right this second.
My arms tightened around him without my permission, and Chris let out a little moan that made my cock twitch. Eyes closed, he sighed and rolled more fully against me, dragging his slim fingers down my naked chest and bringing his own very excited cock—ah fuck—to rest against my hip.
This made it exponentially more difficult for me to sneak out without waking him… but that was the least of my problems.
I sucked in a breath and reminded myself I had been trained to resist torture. I could be questioned at length without giving up information. I’d been placed in high-stress simulations precisely so I could develop resistance and be strong under pressure.
But when his hand snuck down to the edge of the quilt where it sat at my waist, andlower, my breath left me in a shudder. This was worse than anything I’d ever trained for. I was consumed by want, and the way Chris was biting his lip and holding his breath even in his sleep meant he wanted it just as much?—
Wait a minute.Who held their breath in their sleep?
