Chapter 11
Lincoln
How long can a man be tempted without going completely insane? It’s a logical question. One that I wish I had the answer to, because being in close proximity to Isabel day-in and day-out is maddening.
Even the smell of her shampoo drives me batty.
I’m doing my best to focus on the laptop screen in front of me—trying to find any new information on Morris Rolfe, cross-referencing addresses, scanning old police reports—but if I’m honest, I’ve been stuck on the same paragraph for ten minutes.
My brain refuses to cooperate. All I can think about is Isabel, drifting around the house in that loose T-shirt and shorts, her hair tied back in a ponytail.
The safe house is quiet this morning, the only sounds the low hum of the HVAC and the soft clicks of our keyboards, but the tension in the air is anything but peaceful.
I shoot a glance her way. She’s sprawled on the other side of the couch, eyes narrowed at her own laptop.
She’s barefoot, one leg curled up under her, the other swinging idly back and forth.
The posture is casual—relaxed, even—but I know better.
I can see the set of her jaw, the restless bounce of her foot.
She hates waiting, and so do I, but that’s the nature of undercover work: long stretches of inactivity, punctuated by moments of high-risk action.
My phone buzzes on the couch cushion beside me, snapping me out of my thoughts. I grab it, half-hoping it’s Devereaux with some news. Sure enough, the text icon flashes.
Devereaux: “Party this Friday. 9 PM. Invitation-only. Looking forward to meeting you both again, Mr. and Mrs. Zane.”
I let out a slow breath. That’s it, then—our window into Rolfe’s world. Isabel must notice my reaction because she lifts her gaze, eyebrows raised. “That them?”
“Devereaux,” I say, tossing the phone onto my laptop. “He’s inviting us to some private event on Friday. 9 PM.” The adrenaline surges in my veins, along with a hint of relief. At least we have a plan now—no more sitting around waiting for the phone to ring.
She sets her laptop aside with a soft thunk. “So that gives us a few days to prep. Perfect.”
I nod, letting the tension of the unknown seep out of my shoulders, only to realize we have a whole new challenge: pulling off this husband-and-wife act convincingly enough to fool a bunch of criminals.
Our stunt at Club Greed gave us a foot in the door, but if Rolfe or Devereaux does even a shred of background checking, we need to ensure our stories line up.
“We better ramp up our ‘getting to know each other’ phase,” I say wryly. “We can’t pass as a married couple if we don’t even know each other’s favorite color.”
She laughs, swinging her legs off the couch. “I mean, we do know each other, but not the little stuff. Sure, we worked together for years, but I couldn’t tell you what your favorite breakfast cereal is.”
I rub my jaw, suppressing a grin. “Same. Well, about you, not about me.”
She wrinkles her nose in a playful way that makes my chest feel too tight. “If we’re going to fool them, we need every detail down pat. Middle names, favorite foods, how long we’ve been ‘married,’ all that.”
“Exactly.” I stand, stretching my arms overhead.
I catch her gaze flick to the sliver of skin where my T-shirt rides up—just for a second—but the quick surge of longing in her expression is unmistakable.
My stomach does a little flip, and I do my best to ignore the pull of attraction.
“We’ll handle that after we take a break,” I say.
“I need water or something. You want more coffee?”
She brightens, stepping around the coffee table. “I was just about to get some, actually. You read my mind.”
“Go ahead.” I wave her off. “I’ll be here, finishing up a quick check on something.”
She nods as she heads toward the kitchen. I watch her retreating form—can’t help it, really—then drag my gaze away. Focus, Lincoln. We’re here to do a job.
I return to my seat, picking up my phone again to reread Devereaux’s message. That private event is going to be a minefield. No doubt it’ll be more intense than the typical party we crashed before. Who knows what goes on at these private gatherings? The last thing I want is to be unprepared.
A half-formed idea from last night springs to mind.
It’s definitely pushing the boundaries, but if we’re going to sell the idea that we’re a couple who’s been married for a while—and especially if the party is more risqué—maybe we need a few “props.” My heart thuds at the thought.
I open up a shopping app, glancing nervously over my shoulder to confirm Isabel is still in the kitchen.
Sure enough, I hear the faint clink of a mug being set down on the counter.
Quickly, I type in a search, my pulse picking up.
This is… definitely crossing a line. But maybe it’ll help us blend in, especially if Club Greed’s crowd is the kind that indulges in adult amusements.
I find a discreet listing, scanning the product description, feeling my face grow hot at the explicit images.
Finally, I add the item to my cart and schedule an overnight delivery.
I lock my phone just as Isabel steps back into the living room, coffee mug in one hand. I smile—probably too brightly—and pretend to check the time on my phone.
She eyes me curiously. “What were you up to?”
“Just responding to an email,” I lie. My chest tightens with guilt, but I push it aside. “You ready for the Q&A session?”
She sets her mug down, dropping onto the couch next to me, close enough that her thigh brushes mine. It sends a ripple of awareness through me—awareness I’m not supposed to indulge. “Absolutely,” she says, curling one leg under her. “Bring it on.”
I drape an arm over the back of the couch, angling myself to face her.
She matches my posture, so we’re sort of mirrored, knees almost touching.
“All right,” I say, clearing my throat. “We’ve got a few days to learn all the details a married couple should know.
Let’s keep it simple first—favorite color, favorite food, that kind of thing. ”
She smirks. “Fine, but that’s boring. We’ll need more than that, right? Like… how did we meet? Where did we honeymoon? Who picks up the groceries, that kind of thing.”
“Exactly,” I agree. “But let’s start from the top. We can call it… twenty questions, though we’ll probably need more than twenty.”
“Deal.” She sips her coffee, pausing to savor it. “I’ll go first. Lincoln Zane, what’s your favorite color?”
I chuckle. “I guess we’ll keep it easy. gray. Mostly because it reminds me of stormy clouds. Your turn—favorite color?” I don’t dare tell her it’s because it reminds me of the color of her eyes.
She presses her lips together, thinking. “Royal blue. Something about it feels regal and calming at the same time.” She arches a brow. “Next question?”
I grin, tapping my chin like I’m considering something deeply profound. “All right. What was the name of your first pet?”
Her face lights up. “Oh, that’d be Ranger. Not our Ranger, obviously,” she adds quickly, referencing our coworker. “But a mutt I found outside my apartment building when I was twelve. Dean was allergic, but we kept him anyway for a few years until we moved.”
“Good to know,” I say, storing that little fact away. “If someone asks about your childhood pet, I can say ‘Ranger, a mutt.’ That’s very married of me.”
Her laugh is soft but genuine. “Your turn. Did you play any sports in high school?”
I shift, letting out a low chuckle. “Football, briefly. I was a decent running back, but I enlisted before I could go to college. You?”
She shakes her head, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “No sports. I was more into coding with Dean or reading mystery novels.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Makes sense. Explains the hacker genes in your family.”
She pokes my arm. “I’m not the hacker—Dean was the hacker. I was just the sidekick, handing him tools and cheering him on.”
We go back and forth for a while, covering all the usual get-to-know-you material.
I learn she hates pickles, loves thunderstorms, and once dyed her hair pink for a single day before freaking out and dying it back.
She learns I can’t stand olives, prefer early mornings to late nights, and once ran a half marathon on a dare.
We take turns peppering each other with random questions: “What’s your biggest fear?
” “If you could travel anywhere, where would it be?” “Do you have any weird habits?” Each answer feels like peeling back another layer, and there’s a strange intimacy in discovering these tiny details we’ve never talked about before.
Finally, she sets her empty coffee mug aside, tucking her feet underneath her. “Okay, new question,” she declares, eyes sparkling. “What’s your biggest guilty pleasure?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You mean, like, TV show, or…?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, or anything. Could be a show, a snack, a hobby.”
I think about it, trying to decide how honest to be. After a moment, I sigh. “Fine. Old Westerns. The cheesier, the better. I can quote half of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly in my sleep. Please don’t tell the guys.”
She laughs, covering her mouth. “That’s actually adorable. Lincoln, the tough ex-soldier, curled up watching Clint Eastwood. I won’t tell, promise.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling warmth spread through my chest. “Your turn.”
Her grin fades to a smaller smile. “Uh… baking competition shows. I used to watch them with my mom, before she passed. Now I watch them whenever I’m stressed. Something about dough rising and people frosting cakes is soothing.”
I nod slowly, wishing I could give her a comforting hand squeeze without crossing a line. “That’s nice. So, if anyone asks about your weird late-night TV habits, I’ll say you’re hooking up with cooking shows.”
She laughs lightly, a shadow in her eyes at the mention of her mom. “Yeah. That’s me, whipped cream fanatic.”