1. Oliver
BANGKOK, THAILAND – VALENTINE’S DAY 2025
1
“You’re going to break it. Do you know what you’re doing with that?” I held out my hand as Mya fumbled with the buttons on the Nikon D6 on loan to me by our employer, FYVM Media.
Whirling around to face me in front of our hotel, she shoved the camera against my chest. “You took photos of me.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” I did my best not to laugh as Mya whipped her hands to her hips, trying to stare me down. Well, more like up. I had at least six inches on the woman.
One of the friendlier valets peered our way, grinning, and I politely nodded. He didn’t need to understand English to spot the universal signs of a pissed-off woman. And my Thai only consisted of about four or five phrases, which I’d only learned to frustrate the fireball currently shooting eye-daggers at me.
Dirty phrases, full of naughty fucking words, too. Lines she blushed at whenever I whispered them into her ear. Spoken as often as possible, and only to get a rise out of her, ever since we’d arrived last week, flying in from FYVM’s Swiss headquarters. Of course, I did the same in French in Paris, in Arabic while in Yemen, and so on.
“You told me to take pictures.” I powered off the Nikon and looped the leather strap around my neck, probably looking more like a rich-dick tourist with a camera that cost over 6K than the professional photographer I was supposed to be.
She wrinkled her nose (looking far too cute), then opened her arms, playing slice-and-dice with her hands through the hot, late afternoon air.
“Did you just growl at me?” I laughed that time, then stepped aside as the same valet opened the door for us.
And yeah, we were arguing in public outside our hotel. Not ideal, but I supposed this unexpected moment wouldn’t blow our covers considering Mya was technically my boss in this undercover assignment. It made sense an uptight reporter might lecture her photographer if he was doing a shit job. Not that I’d done that. Not even close.
“I don’t growl,” she sputtered.
“Sure you don’t, butter—” I cut myself off, forgetting for a minute I wasn’t Oliver Lucas.
Removing her sunglasses, she shook her head and thanked the valet in English, then proceeded to walk ahead of me, sashaying her hips with purposeful intent (because she also liked to get a rise out of me, like below the belt).
Her sundress molded to her frame under the local humidity, clinging to her curves.
Sundresses were both a gift and a curse. Whenever Mya wore one of the three she’d packed for our undercover assignment, I always developed an unhealthy case of blue balls, and always at the worst times. Like three days earlier, when we’d been interviewing a high-profile diplomat for the story we were currently working on in Thailand.
This was our fourth major long-term assignment with FYVM, and we’d been flown all over the globe to cover their stories. Thankfully, always together, as Mya had demanded before she’d accepted the job. Not that I’d have let her go anywhere without me anyway.
“Why?” she whispered over her shoulder as we headed for the elevators. “Why’d you take photos of me? I wasn’t the subject. Those need to be deleted. No one can see them, or they might think you?—”
“Have good taste?” I waited for her to look at my face before offering her one of my silly, wolfish grins that usually made her crack a smile.
No smile that time. Damn.
Instead, she pointed at my camera, frowning. Except her index finger was actually directed south of where the camera hung, and my lips twitched in reaction to the fact she was gesturing toward my crotch as she said, “That thing shouldn’t ever be pointed at me.” She waved me off before I had a chance to tease her. “We were there to get other pictures.”
“It was you or the birds.” I shrugged. “I found you much more interesting.”
“I wasn’t expecting pigeons. These anonymous tips aren’t usually this big of a bust.” She smoothed her hand from her collarbone to her shoulder as if trying to brush away the few dark freckles that’d appeared from our time outside. Her naturally golden-tan skin, credited to her Italian ancestry, had deepened in color from the recent sun exposure. One thing she’d forgotten to pack, and I now made a mental note to buy, was sunscreen.
It took all my restraint not to lean forward and set my lips to the dusting of freckles there, then work my mouth up the side of her neck to her earlobe, making her laugh since she was ticklish in those spots. “Unless those birds require a rectal exam because someone stuffed pills in?—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” She rolled her eyes.
“Who has pigeons delivered by way of a private jet, then transferred by boat. It’s kind of bizarre now that I’m thinking about it. Maybe it’s even Pulitzer-worthy.”
Nope, not amused at all by my joke. “They weren’t just any pigeons, they’re racing ones. It’s a sport. They’re specially trained homing pigeons and people bet on them like they would a horse race. That’s the only story, and it’s not going to help our case.” She mouthed at the end of her mini-lecture, “The real one, either.”
“Wait, pigeon racing? That’s a thing? For real?”
The second the elevator doors opened, she hurried inside, not bothering to answer my lame attempt to help change her mood with a little humor.
She was empty-handed, like almost every other day we went out chasing leads and also our tails. Or feathers, in today’s case.
I joined her inside, feeling the heavy weight of her stuff in my pockets. A copy of her passport and ID, iPhone, hotel keycard, and the lipstick color of the day: cherry-blossom pink. More like pain-in-my-ass pink.
Mya flung her arms across her chest in dramatic fashion, appearing to wilt against the mirrored glass wall as if defeated now instead of mad.
At the sight of her confidence waning, which probably had more to do with frustration in our lack of leads than with me, I hurried in and joined her. I parked a hand over her shoulder, waiting for her eyes to land on me.
“No more photos of me. You’re just lucky those don’t upload directly to FYVM’s servers.”
And my feisty girl is back. I’d take angry over sad, though. “They’re just a few photos.” Of you looking gorgeous standing beneath the sun, and it made me physically hurt not to reach out and touch you.
There was beautiful, and then there was Mya-beautiful.
Five-six, the perfect fit to rest my chin on top of her head. Light brown, almond-shaped eyes with long, dark lashes that were constantly narrowed on me like she either wanted to fuck me or kill me. Silky hair that fell just shy of her breasts, and damn did I miss tangling it around my hand while we kissed. Then there was her heart-shaped face, and that one dimple that only made rare appearances when she was truly excited about something. I hadn’t seen that dimple since November.
There were no tattoos on her golden skin. Not yet, at least. I was tempted to drag her along with me to get a tattoo, since I was a fan, but there was that nagging part of my brain that worried searing ink into one’s skin might be a bad idea. I refused to have her do anything dangerous for her health. Ironically, our jobs were much more dangerous than a tattoo ever would be.
“That’s not why you’re really upset,” I said as the doors chimed open on floor eleven. My room was on the next floor up, and I had no plans to go there yet. We had a conversation to finish. Or a fight. I wasn’t sure which way the wind was about to blow with her.
Pushing away from the wall, I stepped aside to free her from the small space, then followed her to her suite.
Down the hall, and outside her door, she opened her hand. “Please.”
“Since you asked nicely.” I handed her the key, and the second we were both inside, I followed protocol and swept the living room and bedroom for bugs, ensuring no one could hear or see us in there. “All clear,” I said while setting aside the device our teammate, Sydney Archer-Hawkins, had provided us courtesy of her father’s company. “So, spill it. What’s really going on?”
Inside the living room, which was modern and luxurious without an exorbitant price tag, she walked over to the wall of windows that overlooked the cityscape.
After emptying the contents of my pockets, I set the Nikon on the table and joined her at the window.
Sighing, she faced me, resting her shoulder against the glass, arms locking over her chest, an unspoken barrier between us. For both our benefits, more than likely.
Barbed wire. Rusty nails poking from rotted wood. An electric fence. None of those would be an obstacle if this woman gave me any signal to hold or kiss her. So, her crossed arms were a lousy defense to stop this thing that was still raging between us, even after two-plus months of undercover work.
Despite how long this mission was taking, we truly had stepped into our roles as journalist and photographer. We’d dug in so deep that I was starting to forget it wasn’t real. Unfortunately, we’d yet to have any private meetings with Hugo Soren. Mya hadn’t been asked to compromise her morals and write a story we hoped would be secretly at The Collective’s request either.
So far, at least from what we could tell, our covers were managing to hold up, which was more than I could say about my willpower. Nope, that was crumbling. Straight through all the reasons we were supposed to stay apart while undercover.
What are those reasons again?
Teeth sinking into her bottom lip, her eyes flying over my shirt, as her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, had me remembering why we did our best never to be alone together in private.
Is today really Valentine’s Day? I went to reach for my brother’s dog tags around my neck, then lowered my arm. I couldn’t bring them with me since I wasn’t there as Oliver Lucas, but as Joseph James Jendell. What a name Mya had come up with. I was only surprised she hadn’t added a Junior at the end just to fuck with me.
“You know, Julia did a hell of a job teaching you to become a photographer.”
That was not what had been on her mind. Not even close. “I feel like there was a compliment somewhere in there for me.” I smiled, but my fingers itched at my sides to reach for her. To curve my hand around her waist and draw her against me.
“How much longer are we going to do this?”
There was that sad tone of hers again. The one that crushed me. As one of the strongest women I’d ever met, whenever her confidence slipped, it gutted me. But we were all human, and moments of doubt could infil the toughest of us all, even Mya. I just planned to always be there to tip her chin up and remind her she was Mya-Never-Surrender-Vanzetti.
“Which part? The cover story? Or the not touching each other?” My heart skipped right up into my throat as I waited for her answer.
“Both?”
The little break in her voice had me taking a few steps away so I was out of reach. If she wanted us to behave, even in private, I’d respect that. It just hurt. Like a motherfucker. Emotionally and physically.
“Oliver?” She wet her lips, and the way she said my name sent the blood rushing straight to my dick, leaving none left in my other head.
“Huh?” I blinked, my gaze riveted on her lips, which were the same tone of pink as the blush dusting her cheekbones.
“We’ve made it two months without misbehaving?” She’d somehow turned her statement into a question, but what was she asking me?
Seventy-six days since we’d been together. Not that I’d been counting. I mean, clearly, that’s a lie. I’m counting. Right down to the painful minute.
“Mya?” My turn to say her name back to her, and hope it’d have the same impact. That she’d be ready to say screw it and, at the very least, let me hold her in my arms. I’d take anything from her. Call me a golden retriever, I didn’t care.
“What if I was wrong, and the tension between us will be what blows our cover?” She closed her eyes, bringing her hand to her forehead, pushing at the skin there as if she had a headache. “Maybe we should get it out of our systems before we snap in public. Hopefully afterward we can behave again until the?—”
“Tension mounts?” I swallowed, doing my best not to breathe too hard, say too much, to not scare her off.
“Right.” Light, nearly mahogany-colored eyes landed back on mine.
My attention slipped down, right along with the bead of sweat rolling between the valley of her breasts, disappearing beneath the dress.
“You don’t have condoms, right?”
Her words redirected my eyes up. “You said we shouldn’t carry them to reduce temptation.”
“You never listen to me.” She gave me a hesitant smile and a little shoulder lift. “I’m hoping that’s the case now.”
I contemplated my next moves. None of which involved leaving this suite without having this woman come at least three times. But first . . .
I extended my hand. “Come here.”
She slowly accepted my touch, and in contrast, I quickly, but gently tugged her against me.
“We’re going to get through this,” I said into her ear as I held her tight, her cheek to my chest.
As much as my dick wanted more, all the other parts of me needed this moment with her safe in my embrace. To feel her big, beautiful heart tangled with the beats of mine.
“We’ll be okay,” I added. “We’ll take these pricks down and everything will be good. All this effort won’t be in vain.”
It was a long-ass op, and we’d thought we’d come close to a meeting with Hugo Soren in Paris, but it’d been a no-go. Same thing happened in Yemen, but nope. “Third time’s a charm.” I pulled back and framed her face with my big hands. “And with any luck, this new story we’re working on will draw him here, and you won’t even have to flirt with the guy.” And I won’t have to break cover and kill him for staring at your ass.
That diplomat we’d interviewed had no idea how close he’d come to having an artery or two severed with how much he’d ogled my girl. Pretending to only be “work friends” with Mya for this assignment had tested my control on so many levels.
“Trying to kill the mood with talk of Hugo?” She arched her brow.
“Just making sure you’re okay and really want this, and the heat out there didn’t get to you.” It was wildly warm out for February, even for Thailand.
Lifting her hands between us, she fisted my white T-shirt. “Remember our first time together?”
I laughed as my palms wandered from her face down to her shoulders. “I don’t need a photographic memory to not forget that night.” Or any other with you. “Also, even if you delete those images from the camera, they’ll be forever stored in my head. Thank God for that.” At her smile, a touch of her teeth showing but no dimple, I added, “But yes, Ireland. You slipped into my bedroom that night after Carter finally came to from being sick . . .”
“I stood by your bed, took off my clothes, and asked to sleep next to you.”
She finished my trailed-off words like I’d hoped she would. I loved hearing her describe that night. And I wouldn’t mind her narrating every other time we’d been together, her voice playing along with the pictures in my mind.
“Remember what you said?”
Now she just wanted to hear me talk. Same page, buttercup. I looped my arms around her waist as she stared into my eyes. “I said I’d sleep next to you as long as we could leave the lights on. Not that I had plans to sleep.”
“Scared of the dark, my ass.” She chuckled, and bless that sound.
“I wasn’t about to pass up spending the whole night with you in my bed and not be able to see you. You know, for some, seeing is believing. And it sure as hell was for me.” I’d been shocked, to say the least, at her “waving the white flag” moment, taking the first step to stop pretending she hated me, and giving in to desire.
“It’s still daylight out now, so I guess you won’t need to make that request about the lights.” She angled her head toward the bedroom.
Good point, but we couldn’t risk an audience. Not that anyone could see into the room, but we could never be too careful. After all, we were undercover to take down the worst enemy we’d yet to deal with.
I quietly followed Mya into her bedroom, my heart pounding all the way into my ears. I wasn’t sure why, today of all days, she’d decided to give in to what we’d been fighting since day one of this mission, but I didn’t need an answer. I just wanted her.
Inside the bedroom, curtains already drawn, she switched the lamp on by the bed, and I closed and locked the door.
Am I dreaming? Is this happening? Part of me was waiting for her to change her mind, to come to her senses and decide this was a reckless move. We’d be resetting our count back to zero on how many days we’d gone without misbehaving, and that’d be a very Mya thing to point out.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she quietly stood in front of the queen bed, slipped her sandals off, and wordlessly removed her sundress. It fell to her feet, and my eyes skated over her stunning figure.
I waited for her to free herself of her nude strapless bra and matching panties, and once she did, only then did I go for the button of my khaki linen pants.
“You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you? Learn to fly if I had to.” Shit, I hadn’t meant to voice my thoughts out loud.
Standing naked before me, Mya’s brows tightened and her mouth opened, not quite into a full O-shape, but I was worried I blew it. Blew my chances with her. She’d panic, grow concerned I wouldn’t be able to pretend to be her trusty sidekick who lacked feelings for her after this, and assume I’d ruin the mission.
The problem was, she was probably right.
I highly doubted I could reset the clock back to zero and make it another thirty, fifty, or God help me, seventy-six days without holding her again.
“This is a mistake.” She padded toward me. “But after seeing those photos today, and how you . . . how you see me . . . and feel about me,” she murmured, “well, I just don’t care.” And with that, she hooked her arm behind my neck, pressed up on her toes, and kissed me.