Chapter 9 #2
And now we’re married—pretend married, anyway.
That’s going to complicate an already complicated situation.
I draw in a long breath, then exhale slowly.
I need a plan—a real one, not just reacting to each new twist. But right now, my brain is so wired from the evening’s events that I can’t think straight.
I lean back, closing my eyes, trying to slow my racing thoughts.
Knock, Knock.
A soft knock on my door jolts me upright.
My heart thumps. Isabel. For a moment, I consider ignoring it, not sure I have the mental fortitude for whatever tension might unfold if we talk face to face.
But my sense of duty—or maybe curiosity—wins out.
I push myself to my feet, crossing the room in a few strides to open the door.
She stands there in an oversized T-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts, hair brushed out so it falls around her shoulders in a loose wave.
The makeup she wore is mostly washed off, leaving her face softer, more vulnerable.
Yet she’s still breathtaking, especially with a faint flush coloring her cheeks.
Probably from scrubbing off all that club glitter.
“Hey,” she says quietly, glancing up at me. “Everything okay?”
I lean against the doorframe, trying to project calm when I’m anything but. “Fine. Dean just called.”
She winces a little. “He worried?”
“Yeah,” I admit, stepping aside. “You wanna come in?”
She hesitates for a moment, then slips past me, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet.
I catch a trace of her usual scent—something subtle, like vanilla—and it tugs at a corner of my heart.
Shutting the door, I turn to see her standing in the center of the room, gazing at the neat bed and the single chair.
“So,” she says, lifting her gaze to meet mine. “You tell him what we did tonight?”
I shake my head, slipping my hands into my pockets. “No way. He’d lose it. I just said we’ve been lying low. Didn’t want him interfering before we get the real story on whoever’s behind these threats.”
She nods, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. “Makes sense. Dean’s always been… overprotective. It’s why he hired you in the first place.” A wry smile lifts one corner of her mouth. “But, you’re lying to him for me now. That’s new.”
My chest tightens. “I don’t like lying to him,” I say carefully, “but yeah. If it keeps you safe, I’ll do it.”
She looks away, tension in her shoulders. “I never asked you to lie for me.”
I close the distance between us, stopping just a foot or two away. “You didn’t have to. We’re in this together, remember?”
Her gaze snaps back to mine, and the crackle of awareness flares between us.
I can almost hear the unspoken question: Are we really in this together, or am I just doing my job?
My pulse quickens. For a moment, I consider telling her exactly how I feel—how I’ve fought these emotions for months, maybe longer, but they only intensified once I was assigned to protect her.
But that would be a mistake. I can’t risk letting my personal feelings compromise the mission.
She exhales, rubbing her arms as though cold. “It’s been a long night. I just… couldn’t sleep without making sure you were okay.”
Something about the concern in her eyes undoes me. She’s worried about me, the man who’s supposed to be looking after her. “I’m fine,” I say softly. “A little wound up, maybe, but fine.”
She gives a quiet laugh. “Wound up is an understatement. I still feel like I’m vibrating from that club. I’ve never been anywhere like that before.” Her cheeks pinken. “It was surprisingly fun, and different.”
I nod, forcing a half-smile. “Yeah, it was.”
Her gaze drops to my chest, where the top few buttons of my dress shirt remain undone, exposing a bit of skin. She swallows. “And dancing with you…”
I hold my breath, not sure if I can handle whatever she’s about to say. My mind replays the scene in strobe-lit flashes: her body aligned with mine, the hot press of her curves, the sound of her gasp when I trailed my hand up her thigh. Every muscle in my body tenses with the memory.
Finally, she looks up, eyes shining with vulnerability. “I guess it just felt real for a minute. Like we were actually—”
“Don’t,” I cut in gently, stepping back half a pace. If she finishes that sentence, I might do something I can’t take back. “It was part of the cover, right?” The words taste bitter, even as I say them.
Her expression falters. “Right. Part of the cover.” She forces a short laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes. “That’s all.”
We stand in loaded silence, the unspoken tension swirling between us.
I can see the flicker of disappointment on her face, and it kills me more than I care to admit.
I want to bridge that distance, cup her cheek, tell her it wasn’t just an act for me.
But that’s not fair—to her, to Dean, or to the mission.
I clear my throat. “We should probably get some rest. Tomorrow we can figure out our next move. Maybe reach out to Devereaux again, or wait for him to contact us.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, voice soft. “Sleep sounds good.” She hesitates, then turns toward the door. Before she leaves, she glances over her shoulder. “Night, Lincoln.”
“Night,” I echo, my voice husky with everything I’m not saying.
When the door clicks shut behind her, I stand there, staring at the worn wood grain, a thousand conflicting emotions tearing me apart.
If it were anyone else—any other case—I wouldn’t let it get this personal.
But Isabel isn’t just anyone. She’s strong, clever, and heartbreakingly beautiful in a way that breaks down all my defenses.
And because of that, I’m lying to Dean, risking my career, and flirting with the possibility of something that could blow up in both our faces.
I rake a hand through my hair and let out a shaky breath.
The tension in my body is coiled, like a tight spring ready to snap.
Part of me is tempted to knock on her door, start a conversation we can’t finish.
But I know better. If we cross that line, there’s no going back.
And I still have a job to do—protect her at all costs, figure out who’s threatening her, and stop them before it’s too late.
I flip off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.
My eyes adjust slowly, the shadows of the furniture turning to muted silhouettes.
I kick off my shoes and peel away the rest of my clothes, muscles aching from the tension of the night.
The sheets are cool when I slip between them, and I stare at the ceiling, trying to force my mind to slow down.
But I can’t stop thinking about how she pressed against me at the club, how she looked up at me with those wide, gray eyes.
I can’t stop replaying the way she said my name—like she meant more than just “Lincoln, the bodyguard.” I shift, shutting my eyes tight.
No, I can’t go there. Not when there’s so much at stake.
For a long time, I lie awake, listening to the hush of the air conditioning kicking on and off, the faint creaks of an old house settling in the night.
It’s almost worse than the pounding music at Club Greed—at least there, the noise distracted me.
Here, in the silent dark, I have no choice but to face the truth.
I’m in deeper than I should be, and we still don’t have concrete answers about who’s after Isabel.
Eventually, exhaustion tugs me under, my mind drifting in a restless haze of neon lights, the swirl of her dress, and the taste of whiskey on my tongue.
And just before I slip into real sleep, the final, traitorous thought that filters through is how right it felt, holding her in my arms, even if it was just pretend.