Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Spouse was able to record the segment of conversation he overheard between ButtFace and the other bodyguard.
Besides learning that the loaned muscle are getting antsy and the timeline for the cocktail has been moved up, we don’t have anything else usable.
Charles was never specifically named, and the “it” they talked about was never identified as anything illicit.
My daily walks with The Spouse have resumed. Most nights, we make it back home after dark because we’re enjoying the time as ourselves too much. This has conveniently cut back on how often Colleen has been able to intercept us on our way back.
The Spouse has indeed become more openly communicative with me, verbally and physically. We haven’t crossed any lines with each other, but kissing him before and after work (okay, fine, and a lot of times after that) is a welcome change.
In related news, it has strangely gotten harder for me to repeat a variation of our nightly script for the listening device’s sake. The closer I get to falling in love with him, the harder it is to say “goodnight, love you,” and hear him say it in return knowing it’s for show.
We hosted Charles and Vivienne at our home for dinner.
ButtFace and the bodyguard with the tattoo on his neck, heretofore creatively dubbed NeckTat, eyed us suspiciously multiple times throughout the night.
Gavin caught on to this and watched us even more intently than normal. So that was fun. Not at all stressful.
Colleen has the most thoroughly weeded flower bed in the neighborhood.
I know this because she’s always outside weeding it whenever anything happens, like the Gauthiers and their entourage arriving.
She, more fearless than most, made her way over to introduce herself to each of them.
Two of them wouldn’t look her in the eye.
I suspect they were the ones on surveillance when she brought them a pound cake.
I have since considered bringing a pound cake as a gift for the Gauthiers to see if it could get me access to Charles’ lab.
The Spouse vetoed the idea immediately, saying, “remember what happened the last few times you tried cooking?” This was a bold assumption, as, one: I have elected to block those instances from memory; and two: I couldn’t care less how palatable the pound cake is, as long as it gets me in the door.
Maybe Charles could conduct experiments on it.
Vivienne and I have met for coffee four more times, no sadness required. Each time, Gavin and one of the other bodyguards have accompanied her.
Dark circles have developed under Charles’ eyes. He’s even more distant than normal when we see him at Lamaze, which is saying something considering he was as friendly as a starving cobra to start with.
When she thinks I’m not looking, Vivienne is more serious lately, too. Tense. Her smiles rarely reach all the way to her eyes anymore. When questioned about it, she blamed it on late pregnancy exhaustion and lack of sleep. Which is fair. But not the full truth, I suspect.
This week was our last Lamaze class. Postpartum, breastfeeding, and newborn parenting. Seeing The Spouse cradling a newborn—even if it was a plastic doll— and diapering it like his life depended on it was more than my heart could take.
The Gauthiers invited us to their house for a game night.
Vivienne was as subtly wary as the last time we’d been over.
Gavin hovered closer than last time, yet he looked outward for threats more frequently than at us.
I haven’t given up my theory about the nature of Charles’ involvement.
The Spouse still isn’t convinced without actual evidence to support it.
The new cocktail drug will hit the streets in a week and a half, and we have nothing to incriminate Charles. Nothing.
I CLUTCHED THE haphazardly wrapped box I’d hidden under my bed, nerves buzzing with excitement. Even though it was only our cover identities’ anniversary, I couldn’t resist. The gift was too perfect to pass up when I saw it.
When I reached Colt’s room, I knocked gently on the open door as I lingered in the doorway.
Colt sat on his bed, his hair now neatly styled, and his back propped against the headrest as he wrote in his little pocket notebook.
He wore his contemplative expression, his brow furrowed and lips pursed.
At my knock, he looked up and his face relaxed.
Not exactly a smile, but with the way his eyes burned into me, I’d happily take it.
“You got a minute?” I asked, unusually bashful. My cheeks flushed, and I pretended to inspect my wrapping job. Which, to be clear, was an eyesore no one should willingly subject themselves to.
“I always have time for my wife.”
My wife . There it was again. In fact, he’d started using that phrase more frequently lately. Up until now, it was only while out in public.
The thrill that came from those words leaving his lips spurred me forward, and I climbed my aching body onto the bed beside him. I’d scarcely settled against the headrest when Colt took one of my curls, still damp from my shower, in his fingers, intentionally brushing against my cheek as he did.
I shivered.
“Have I ever told you how much I love your hair?” he murmured, the faintest hint of a smile on his face. “Even when it’s shiny and styled, it’s still wild. Never truly tamed or controlled.” He met my eyes and let the curl go so it bounced back into its coil. “And it’s beautiful .”
Warmth flooded me until I glowed like a firefly. And here I’d thought my hair drove him mad with how wild it was. But maybe it was the good kind of mad. The kind that made someone who craved control find beauty in uncontrollable things.
“Have I ever told you how much I love being the one you let behind your walls?” I countered, placing a feather-light kiss on his cheek. “This more open version of you? It’s my favorite. And a privilege I don’t take lightly.”
He smiled, the freckles around his eyes softening. “I’m glad I let you in. Heaven knows you were breaking your way in already.”
I snorted. “Just not through the window. I’ve learned my lesson. Besides” —I bumped his shoulder with mine— “you choosing to let me in is a better prize.”
And it was. With enough time, maybe I could’ve worn him down or cracked through the walls he built around himself.
The walls that guarded the finished picture to the puzzle that was Colt Dixon.
But that victory would’ve been an empty one.
I’d much rather Trojan horse my way into his heart than lay siege to it.
I offered him the box in my hands. “I, uh, got you something. Happy anniversary.”
Instead of taking the box, he leaned over and grabbed a thinner, significantly neater wrapped gift from the drawer in the bedside table. He held it out for me, the juxtaposition of the two wrapping jobs jarring, yet an accurate representation of us.
“Happy anniversary,” he echoed.
My jaw dropped as I took his gift and he took mine. He’d gotten me a gift for our fake anniversary, too. My gift for him had been an impulse buy. Spontaneous. I saw it and thought of him. Colt had likely planned every detail about his gift for me.
Intention. That’s how he loved. He may not show his affection the same way as me, but it was every bit as valuable. He loved with intention.
He offered a slight smile. “Shall we open them at the same time?”
I nodded eagerly, already picking at the meticulous wrapping job. I tried to spare it. I really did. That lasted all of fifteen seconds before I gave up and ripped it apart.
I pulled out the first item, as gleeful as a child on Christmas morning. “No. Way. You didn’t!”
A pair of navy blue socks with white and pink llamas dotting them. Similar to my lucky cow socks, but without the coffee stains. These ones would go with my pajamas perfectly.
“I love them so much,” I breathed, holding them like a precious heirloom.
His smile widened into a genuine Colt grin, his eyes curved with happiness and white teeth on display. One corner of his mouth lifted higher than the other, the asymmetry giving him a roguish quality. “There’s another thing.”
I gingerly placed the precious socks on the bed beside me and grinned. A DVD with Sylvester Stallone in suspenders and a pinstripe suit, dangling off a clock on the cover. “ Oscar ?”
“I hoped it was a cult classic you don’t already own a hard copy of.” His smile faltered, his eyebrows pulling together uncertainly. “Do you?”
I shook my head, too gobsmacked to utter more than a breathless “thank you” as I tackled him in a hug. He instinctively stilled for a second before squeezing me back, his hand in my hair as he inhaled deeply.
“You smell amazing,” he groaned, his words muffled against my head. “Like pineapples and coconut. It’s always driven me nuts.”
That pina colada body wash in the shower just became my new favorite item in this house. Second only to my anniversary gift.
My blood buzzed with contentment. I loved being privy to his thoughts. That he felt safe enough with me to share them. “For what it’s worth, your cologne does the same for me.”
Including right now. His spicy, clean scent was one I was coming to associate with home .
When we pulled away, I frowned at the unopened gift by his side. “We were supposed to open ours at the same time.”
“I tried” —he smirked— “but you wrapped it in a foot of tape.”
I cuffed him playfully on the arm. “I had to make sure it would stay put, okay?”
“With this amount of tape, I’m afraid there’s a live animal inside that you had to restrain.” He ineffectually picked at the wrapping paper.
In the end, I put us all out of our misery and helped him rip it open.
He pulled the first item out, cocking his head to the side as he surveyed it. “A notebook?”
“A pocket-sized notebook. For when you fill up the one you’ve got. And ,” I tapped the book, “I’ve included Dekker’s secret buttercream recipe in the back.” I sobered. “Don’t tell her I gave you that, actually. It’s like a family heirloom.”
He nodded, a smile threatening on his lips. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Good.” I gestured impatiently at the box. “Now open the rest.”
“Pushy, pushy,” he muttered, though he grabbed the next item out anyway. His eyes widened, another delicious smile pulling the corner of his mouth up. “How did you get this?”
I shrugged, trying to pretend I wasn’t glowing like a Christmas tree from his reaction.
It had taken a while to find the perfect book to add to his collection, but I was confident I’d nailed it.
The newest thriller from his favorite author, which had only come out this week. “The last gift is the ironic one.”
His attention lingered on my face, features soft and eyes smoldering, before pulling the last gift out of the box. “‘It’s accrual world,’” he read, holding the white mug aloft. His lips twitched. “An accounting pun, huh?”
“To go with your coaster.” I beamed, supremely proud of myself for this one, and lowered my voice. “It memorializes our time… here , and it’ll convince everyone you have a sense of humor.”
He sent me a flat look.
“Everyone who only sees what they want to see when it comes to you,” I specified, the unspoken like I used to hanging in the air between us.
I scooted closer and spoke even softer. “And it’s ironic because it’s a coffee cup, but you only drink apple juice.
You know, an accounting mug for someone who looks like an accountant but is…
so much more , that looks like it’s holding coffee, but it isn’t.
It’s a metaphor for the past month, don’t you think? ”
“I’m not entirely convinced you know what a metaphor is.”
This earned him another playful thwack to the arm.
He laughed, unfazed. “Thank you. Really. I love it.”
I basked in this moment, this sunbeam amidst the storm clouds of life, reserved solely for us.
For a moment, all the stress about the assignment melted away.
It was just Colt and me in the haven we’d created together.
One I hoped to keep forever, no matter what shape or form it would take after we returned to the “real world.”
And then someone knocked at the door.
We exchanged a look, brows furrowing. Realistically, it was most likely Colleen dropping by. Maybe a door-to-door salesman. I was prepared to ignore it completely, but the chance that it wasn’t either of those two options spurred me forward and out of Colt’s room.
I whipped the door open, bracing myself to strike up another twenty-minute chat riddled with nosy questions when I froze in place. The blood drained from my face. My sore legs nearly buckled, taking the illusion of our safe haven with them.
There on our doorstep, broad shoulders hulking and dark eyes peering into my soul, stood Gavin. The Gauthiers’ hired bodyguard.
Alone.