Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
“And privately?” she asks.
“Privately,” I say carefully, “we remember what this is.”
A silence settles, but it isn’t uncomfortable. The Suburban hums along the freeway, downtown a smear of glass and steel ahead, the wheel spokes of the giant ferris off to the right through the rain. I run the route in my head—exit, loop, check our six, approach the garage from the west so we don’t telegraph our entry. A mundane ballet is what keeps people breathing.
“You’re good at this,” she says suddenly.
“The job?”
“The way you make it feel like I’m not drowning,” she says, softer. “Like there’s air even when it’s noisy.”
Something in my back loosens a notch. “That’s the whole point.”
Her hand moves, just a hair, on the seat between us. I could put mine over it and it would be the most natural thing in the world, a continuation of the cover we’re apparently married to now. I don’t. Not yet. Not when I can still taste her and my head hasn’t caught up.
“Ground rules,” I say, because structure is a handhold. “We’re going to need a few if we’re pulling this off without you hating me by Thursday.”
She huffs a laugh. “Okay. Lay them on me.”
“In public, I decide routes, entries, exits. If I say we go, we go. If I say we smile, we smile. If I say we’re making a scene, we’re making a scene.”
“Even if that scene involves…” She waggles her eyebrows. She’s teasing me and I deserve it.
“Even then,” I say. My ears are warm. “Second, you tell me when you’ve had enough. No stoic hero acts. I can’t mitigate for what I don’t know.”
“Deal,” she says.
“Third…” I hesitate. “Third, we keep a line between the cover and everything else.”
The tease fades. She studies me, and I feel like I’m under a microscope and she’s extremely good at science. “Okay,” she says finally, voice gentle. “We can do that.”
I nod once, a little too sharply, and pivot. “We’ll take the underground access to the hotel. Nolan will pull into the private garage. We go straight to the elevator. No lobby time. Once we’re in the room, I’ll do a sweep. You call your mother.”
Her mouth twists. “So she can tell me I’m irresponsible for dating someone I met this year?”
“So she can hear it from you and not a gossip site,” I say. “We’re going to choose what we can choose.”
She looks at me as if I’ve set something heavy down for her and she hadn’t realized she was holding it. “Okay,” she says again, and this time it sounds like relief.
We do the loop. I watch our mirrors. A sedan lingers too long a lane over, then peels off when it’s clear we aren’t interesting. The drizzle graduates to rain and then back again, like Seattle is exhaling in stutters. Nolan peels us into the hotel’s garage—concrete, painted numbers, the empty echo sound that always throws off a tail. We roll into our slot, engine ticking, and I’m out first, scanning—the stairwell door, the elevator bank, the valet’s private entry. No stray bodies, no trash can that moved since yesterday, no license plates I don’t like.
“Clear,” I say. I help her out because that’s the cover now and because I want to. My palm finds hers. It’s warm. We step into the elevator and it dings like a polite robot.
On the fifteenth floor, the hallway is thick carpet and tasteful art that looks expensive and means nothing. I key us in, shoulder the door with the habit I can’t unlearn, and we enter the suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows glow gray with rain, the skyline smudged like a watercolor left out in a storm. There are two rooms—living area and bedroom—plus a bathroom big enough to do yoga in.
“Take five,” I tell her. “Shoes off, breathe. I’ll sweep.”
She abandons my hoodie like it’s too warm and pads into the living room, fingers pressed to her mouth. I start with the obvious—door jams, peephole, the safe. Then the less obvious—HVAC vents, behind the TV, baseboards, under the bed with the flashlight. My hands work, my brain hums, and under it all that damn kiss keeps replaying, an unhelpful greatest hit.
When I finish, I wedge the door with the portable lock, set the alarm on the balcony slider, and finally allow myself to look at her properly. She’s on the sofa, knees tucked under, phone dark now. Watching me.
“All clear,” I say. “We’re good.”
“Good,” she echoes, and then: “Riggs?”
“Yeah.”
“That thing you did back there.” Her voice is soft but steady. “I know you did it to keep me safe. I’m grateful. And I also… liked it. Both things can be true.”
I’m not a guy who stumbles, but I feel it, the internal misstep. “Yeah,” I say honestly, because lying now is a bad precedent. “Me too.”