Claimed By my Fake Husband (Grumpy Bodyguards for Hire #5)

1. Tess

Tess

“You can’t be serious. I can’t just drop everything in my life and go hide in a hole.”

My voice is tight as I glare across at the balding man in a cheap suit, his dark, beady eyes pinned on me while his partner scribbles in a little notepad.

“Ms. Beaumont,” the detective sighs, tenting his fingers, “this isn’t as ‘unbothered’ a situation as you might think. You’ve already done an exposé on the Cilento family, and Luigi is looking for blood.”

“Death threats, letters, and a man showing up at the paper to harass you? We need to get you into witness protection.” The man who was scribbling looks up at me, his stoic face just this side of serious.

“His trial is at the end of the month. We’ll ride out this wave, and when you testify, he’ll go down. ”

All I can do is sigh right back at these jokers. The FBI has been as big a disappointment as the local PD, and now I’m supposed to trust my safety to them in some safe house until the trial?

No way.

“This new Cilento isn’t as level-headed as his predecessor. Luigi is young, and as far as dons go, he’s already been a problem for every witness who’s tried to come forward. Or don’t you remember the meat of your own exposé?”

“Ugh, I can’t believe this. I at least need a house with internet access. I’ll stay secure, but I won’t stop my work because some forty-five-year-old manchild is looking to make a name for himself. Luigi can shove it.”

Reynolds—if I remember correctly, which I always do—snorts, setting down his pencil and looking up from his pocket-sized notepad.

“Secure internet connection. Got it.” He nods once, like he’s been assigned the job of being nice so I’ll agree to this. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. I get to hire my own bodyguard. I don’t trust the locals to do a good enough job, especially considering corruption and lack of police action were a big part of that article.”

I can tell they’re humoring me. They just smile and nod, like I’m being overly cautious. But the Feds have one job here: get me into witness protection.

So they’ll agree to anything if it means shutting me up and getting me moving.

I lean back in my chair, tapping my pen against the table. I’ve been fiddling with it the whole time the detectives talk at me—a habit I couldn’t break even if I tried. I’ve been attached to a pen or a keyboard since I could write, chasing stories since I was eight years old.

I run my stare over these two and picture my apartment instead. Clean. Orderly. Nothing in the fridge that’ll rot while I’m gone. Everything I need to write, right at my fingertips.

And now I can’t get back to it.

“I need my stuff. Can I go home tonight to get it? I’ll have the bodyguard meet me there and take me to the location.”

Neither of them likes that. It’s common knowledge where I live, and they don’t want me anywhere near my building.

Still, I haven’t had any trouble there. Probably because it’s got its own security—cameras everywhere, and I’m on the fifth floor.

“Call them now. I want to know someone’s waiting for you,” Reynolds says, nodding at my phone. I pick it up, grumbling to myself.

I scroll to Alec’s name. I know the company he works for, and I know they’ll have someone reliable.

It rings twice before he picks up. “Hello, Tess. This is a surprise.”

“Yes, I imagine it is.”

We don’t talk much. When I do reach out, it’s usually to confirm details with his wife, Claire, about the ongoing work exposing Senator McDowell.

“I need someone from your company. The FBI is putting me into witness protection, and I want an independent bodyguard with me.”

There’s a pause, like he’s digesting it. “Whoa, okay—witness protection? Is this because of the exposé on Luigi?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Can your boss get someone to meet me at my apartment this evening?”

“That’s a quick turnaround, Tess, but…I’ll make it happen. Give me the agents’ contact info so our guy can coordinate with them.”

Reynolds is close enough to hear Alec through the quiet room, so I just hand him the phone, brows raised, doing my best not to look as annoyed as I feel.

“Oh—hello. Agent Reynolds, FBI. Who am I speaking with?”

I watch him work out the details with Alec. It doesn’t take long. When he hangs up, he passes the phone back, and I tuck it into my bag.

“So, are we settled?” I keep my brows up, my expression daring either of them to argue.

“Your friend says he’ll have a bodyguard at your apartment by six o’clock. We’ll get a call to arrange the rest.”

The other detective, Agent Sawyer, chimes in.

“Don’t go back to your apartment until six.

We’ll send a detail to follow you and escort you into the paper.

Finish up what you need to before you leave.

Once protection starts, you won’t contact anyone from the paper.

You’ll stay at the safe house, and any updates on the case come through me or my partner. Understood?”

“I need to work. I can’t just drop it. There’s more to report on Cilento and—”

“Write all you want on the secure server. But there’s no leaving the safe house, no contact with coworkers or friends, and daily check-ins with us.”

I hate being bossed around. These two are working my absolute last nerve.

I shove back from the table—the metal chair might be the single most uncomfortable object on this planet—and storm for the door.

“Ms. Beaumont, I expect you to follow the rules. They’re for your safety.”

“Yeah, I hear you. Get that bodyguard ready. I need to go tell my paper I’m taking a leave.”

And then I’m out the door. My entire life just got upended. I’m in the middle of the follow-up piece on the Cilento trial, and now I can’t even work the streets for it.

No contacts. No sources. Just me, writing from some glorified flophouse with a bodyguard breathing down my neck.

Fucking fantastic.

At precisely one minute after six, my doorbell rings. I’ve had ten minutes in the apartment, just enough to scrounge up everything I need.

“Jesus, someone’s punctual. Ugh.”

I roll my eyes, stuff the last pair of pants into my suitcase, zip it shut, and haul it off the bed.

“Coming!”

I skid to a stop by the console table, grab my keys from the catch-all dish, and yank the door open. Then I stop dead, jaw falling open.

“Umm, can I help you?”

This can’t be the guy I hired. Bodyguards don’t usually look like male models. Stuffy ones, sure, but come on.

All six-foot-something of him stares down at me like I’ve grown a second head, dark brows low over deep brown eyes.

Did I miss something? Is there a calendar shoot happening in my building? Because as much as dating and sex have been a hard no for me lately, I could probably make an exception for this guy.

“Ms. Beaumont?” His voice is so deep it sounds fake. He tips his head, eyes flicking down to my suitcase.

Aside from a flicker of confusion, his expression is stoic, unreadable—he’d be terrifyingly good in a courtroom with a face like that. White streaks cut through his temples, the only real sign of his age. Forty, maybe. If that.

“Umm, yes. Sorry—are you who they sent?”

A hint of annoyance crosses his eyes. “If by ‘they’ you mean the security company, then yes. Logan Taylor. We need to get to the safe house.”

“Right.”

I shake myself out of it, reminding my lizard brain that I’m going into witness protection, and no matter how good Mr. Business Suit looks, I don’t have time for this.

“Let me grab my bag and lock up.”

I reach for the suitcase, and a hand beats me to the handle. I glance over my shoulder as he carries it into the hall.

“Oh—thanks.” I lock the door behind us, twisting the key so the place stays safe while I’m gone. “All right, let’s go.”

“My car’s downstairs. We head to the safe house immediately. I’ve spoken with the FBI agents on this case, and we’ve reached an accord.”

“An accord?” I raise a brow as we head down the hallway. “Do you always talk like a lawyer?”

“I prefer as little miscommunication as possible.”

Fair enough answer, but the whole vibe coming off this guy is wound tight. I just nod.

His car is black, unmarked, forgettable. He opens my door, stows my suitcase in the trunk, and I buckle in.

We haven’t said much, and the quiet feels too heavy to break.

He gets in, starts the engine, and pulls out without a word. We’re on the road in minutes, headed somewhere I’ve never been, my driver about as chatty as a corpse.

It takes a while to reach the house—out past the city limits, in a suburb called Oakendale.

The kind of place built for families with two-point-five kids and white picket fences.

My stomach sinks lower with every narrow street we pass, until we stop in front of a house with a SOLD sign staked in the lawn.

He kills the engine and grabs my bag. I notice his own duffel on the curb, far smaller than mine.

How he plans to survive a month on that is beyond me.

Without another word, he walks to the door—straight out of a Better Homes & Gardens spread—and lets us in.

I catch up just as he glances back, holding the door for me while he rolls both suitcases over the pristine wood floors.

I’ve barely stepped inside, taking in the staged, sterile décor, when the door slams behind me and I jump.

“Apologies.” He locks it, then guides me toward the living room with a hand at my back.

He draws the drapes so no one can see in while I stand frozen in the middle of the room, thrown by all of it.

When he turns to face me again, I finally ask the question that’s been eating at me.

“So what’s the actual deal here? I know you’re supposed to keep me safe, but what did you work out with the Feds?”

Something crosses his face—handsome, maddeningly unreadable—something beyond the stoicism.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he does a slow sweep of the lower floor, checking every lock, closing every curtain.

When he finally comes back, he stops right in front of me, close enough that I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes.

“I discussed it with the FBI. We agreed a cover story would be best while we’re here. There are neighbors. Blending in keeps up appearances—and keeps us safe.”

“Oookay,” I drag out, “but that still doesn’t answer my question. What’s the cover? What am I supposed to do?”

“We’ll be new homeowners.” He pauses, and the silence stretches long enough to choke on. “Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”

My jaw drops, stomach falling straight through the floor. “I’m sorry, did you just say—”

“Yes. I’ll be your husband. Congratulations.”