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)
We sit in that for a beat. Rain drums on glass. Somewhere down on the street a siren flares and fades.
“So,” she says finally, brightening, shifting the subject without pretending she isn’t. “Since we’re pretending to date… what’s our first fake date in Seattle?”
“First order of business,” I say, grateful for the pivot, “is food you can eat without giving a tabloid a gif to dine on. Second order is checking in with your schedule. You’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning. I’ll stage the route. We can do dinner tonight if you’re up for it—hotel restaurant, corner booth, in and out. We’ll give them a picture and make sure it’s the one we like.”
She grins, surprised. “You’re kind of devious.”
“It’s a living,” I say.
She stands, crosses to me with her bare feet whispering on the carpet. She stops within reach and, for a second, neither of us moves. I can smell rain in her hair and something warmer underneath it, something that makes it a little harder to breathe.
“Okay, Mr. Devious,” she says. “Let’s make a plan.”
“We’ve got one,” I tell her. “We’ll make it better.”
Her smile softens. “And the rules?”
“We’ll keep them,” I say, and I mean it even if a part of me already hates that I do.
“Even if you have to…” She lifts a brow, teasing again.
“Even then,” I say, and because it’s both cover and truth, I reach and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It’s nothing. It’s everything. Her breath catches, quick and quiet, and we stand there like a match held a millimeter from the striking surface.
The comm on the console chirps—Rae confirming our alias is registered, the hotel staff is briefed, the service elevator can be ours if we need it. The moment breaks into practical pieces.
“Time to work,” I say.
“Time to work,” she agrees.
But when we head downstairs later, my hand at the small of her back for anyone watching and for me, both, I know that what happened in the terminal wasn’t just a tactic. It was a line we stepped over and then drew behind us. And now my job is to make sure that line holds while we figure out what the hell to do with the heat we carried back with us in the rain.
4
Vanessa
Seattle does this thing where the rain is more of a whisper than a storm, like the sky is confiding in you. By the time we drop our bags in the room and regroup, the drizzle has turned the city lights into watercolor. The hotel lounge glows with amber lamps, velvet booths, a little stage with a trio tuning up, and a dance floor that looks like trouble for two people pretending to date.
Riggs does a slow scan before we even cross the threshold. It’s subtle: a shift of his shoulders, eyes taking in exits, sight lines, the couple necking in the corner booth, the bartender polishing a glass without looking down. He’s in a charcoal button-down now, sleeves rolled, beard trimmed to temptation, earpiece a small black dot that means he’s still working no matter how soft the lighting is.
I tug at the cuff of my blouse as if that will steady my pulse. “So.” I aim for light and land somewhere breathless. “We’re doing this?”
He tips his chin at the hostess, already moving me with a hand at the small of my back. “We’re doing this,” he says, voice low and calm.
Our table’s near the dance floor, far enough to see the room, close enough that the band’s stand-up bass thumps through my bones in a slow, confident heartbeat. The hostess leaves two menus; the bartender catches my eye and nearly drops a shaker. Recognition travels like a wave—subtle, then not.
I slide into the booth. Riggs takes the outside seat like he always does, body angled to keep the room in frame and me inside the curve of his arm. The move is practiced, protective…and it reads intimate. I feel heat climb my throat. We’re supposed to be the couple everyone’s whispering about. The internet already decided we are. All we have to do now is make it convincing.
“Ground rules,” he says, not looking away from the room.
“You and your rules,” I tease, grateful for the familiar script.
“Saved your life so far,” he says. Then the edge softens. “One: we sit with good sight lines. Two: if a fan approaches, I’m the boyfriend unless we need to pivot. Three: you eat real food.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You live on adrenaline and iced coffee. Not tonight.” He flips his menu without reading it. “Protein.”
“That’s bossy,” I say. It comes out warmer than it should.
“It’s protective.” He finally cuts me a side look. “I can be both.”
An ache curls low in my stomach. The server appears before I can answer, and I order a whiskey sour because it sounds like something a woman pretending not to be nervous would drink. Riggs orders coffee, black. Of course.