Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
JAKE
The kiss was meant to be a smokescreen. That’s what I tell myself. Just part of the act to keep whoever-the-hell fedora-man-is off our trail. A bluff.
Except it didn’t feel like a bluff.
She kissed me back.
Not like a society girl playing along. Not like it was just for show. Evie melted into me and set me on fire.
And now I wonder if this is pretend.
We make it back to the sleeper without another glance from Fedora Man. I lock the door out of habit. It’s the bootlegger in me. I trust locks more than I trust people.
Evie stands in the middle of the room, a flush still blooming across her cheeks, lips still parted like she doesn’t quite know what hit her.
Truth is neither do I.
She’s not the first dame I’ve ever kissed, but it feels like it is.
She excuses herself and enters the bathroom. I nod, sitting on the lower berth and leaning my head against the window. My pulse hasn’t slowed since our lips met.
Why did I kiss her like that?
The man at the back of the train car.
She was sure he’d made her. Her instincts are good. He was definitely watching. The part I can’t shake is how his eyes skimmed me like someone confirming a bounty. Which means he might not be following her at all.
It might be me.
Damn it.
I’m on the verge of being out of the game.
I’ve got plans. Real ones this time. No more running hooch.
My uncle Danny’s setting me up in Hollywood.
Says they need guys like me. Men who know how to clean up messes without leaving a trace.
A fixer, they call it. Legit work, technically.
And just shady enough to need my particular skill set.
It’s my shot at going straight. Turning what I know into something that won’t get me locked up or buried in a pine box. All I have to do is make this last delivery for my boss, then my debt is paid.
And now there’s her. And the man in the coat. And a kiss that felt too real. A kiss that distracted me enough that my life could be in imminent danger.
Or maybe I’m just using it as an excuse.
Because if I’m honest, it’s not just the danger that’s got me rattled. It’s her.
Evie.
She shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be in my world. But every time she laughs at my bad jokes or beats me at cards or looks at me like I’m a tether that keeps her grounded, I forget all the reasons I’m supposed to keep my distance.
And that kiss?
God help me, I didn’t want it to end. I still don’t. I want to take her into my arms, lay her down in that narrow berth and show her, slow and sure, just what it means when a man wants a woman.
But I won’t. Not because I’m a gentleman. Not because I have a conscious. It’s because if I touch her like that, it won’t be a game. And she’s standing on unfamiliar ground. Like me, she’s forging a new path, and I can’t get in the way of that.
The door opens and she steps out in her large coat wrapped around her like a robe. All I can imagine is that she’s back in her slip. The thought leaves me hard and aching.
She meets my eyes, and for a second, I forget the man in the coat, the delivery in my suitcase, the whole damn world outside this train.
Just her.
“Everything alright?” she asks.
I lie. Like I always do. “Peachy, wife.”
Evie’s asleep when I wake, curled like a cat in the top berth, her mouth slightly open, one hand draped over the edge.
For a minute, I just watch her.
Which is a problem.
Last night’s kiss come back to me. Hell, it never left. My dreams were filled with her beating me at strip poker but eventually, I win and take care of the ache in my groin by showing her how good it could between us. I woke in a state no decent man would admit to.
But this isn’t just lust. If only it was. No. That kiss meant something and that’s not something I do.
I meant it, and I liked it, and now I can’t stop thinking about doing it again.
Which makes me a fool.
Because whatever this is, it’s not real. We’re playing pretend until we hit San Francisco. After that, she goes her way, and I go mine.
I dress quickly, wash up, and slide out for a smoke and coffee. Lang nods at me in the corridor. I ask him if there’s anyone suspicious on the train, not just feds but Pinkertons or other private dicks. He reports that he hasn’t seen anything but will let me know if he does.
When I return with breakfast, Evie’s up, sitting by the window, in the blue dress, her hair pinned neatly. She looks too pretty. Like someone I have no business wanting.
“Morning,” I say, tossing the bag on the table.
She turns, lips quirking. “You brought food. Are you always so domestic?”
“I’m versatile.” I sit opposite her, keeping my eyes on the bag, not her mouth. “Did you sleep okay?”
Her eyes glint. “You kissed me.”
I freeze mid–coffee sip. “You kissed me back.” What does that have to do with sleep? Unless she dreamt about strip poker too.
Her smile softens. “Yes. I did.”
We eat in silence after that. I keep waiting for her to ask what the kiss meant. I keep waiting for me to know.
We finish the meal and I watch her dab the corner of her mouth and it feels like a tease even though I know it’s not. This is pretend runs like a mantra through my mind.
“So,” she says at last, setting the napkin down. “Do you think that man believed our act last night?”
An act. This is pretend.
I nod, matching her tone. “We’re naturals. Should take this act on the road.”
She gives a small laugh. “Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, professional liars.”
I raise my coffee in salute. “To the happy frauds.”
We clink cups. Inside, I’m wonder what is wrong with me? Why do I hate calling this…whatever this is, an act?
“I’m looking forward to San Francisco,” she says, gaze sliding back to the window. “A new city. A fresh start.”
“That’s the plan.” My stomach tightens.
“I’ve always liked the idea of California,” she goes on. “End of the line. Feels symbolic, doesn’t it?”
“Clean slates.” I nod. “No more pretending to be someone you’re not.”
She glances at me then, her expression unreadable. “Exactly.”
I sip my coffee and pretend it doesn’t taste bitter. “And once we get there, we go our separate ways. No strings.”
“No strings,” she echoes. Her voice is steady, but she doesn’t meet my eyes.
I force a grin. “Just a quickie train marriage. Something to tell your grandkids about.” I feel sick thinking about her marrying another man.
“Might be too scandalous for grandkids.” She looks out the window again.
I look too, just to keep from blurting something like I don’t want this to end.
I’ve never considered myself a coward, but if I were brave, I’d tell her that it doesn’t have to end in San Francisco. We could take this fake marriage all the way to Hollywood. I bet the moving picture business has jobs for spunky dames with wicked jaws.
But I keep my mouth shut.