Chapter 10
Isabel
I wake up to the gray light of dawn, though calling it “waking up” might be a stretch.
It’s more like I give up on any hope of rest and finally roll out of bed.
My body aches from tossing and turning all night, and I can’t shake the vivid images of Lincoln that invaded every fitful dream.
It’s frustrating. Part of me wants to blame him for my insomnia, but the truth is I can’t blame anyone.
Not when the real problem is that I can’t stop thinking about the way he held me at that club, the look in his eyes when we danced, and the possibility that all of it might’ve felt too real.
When I open my door, the hallway is dim.
I pad across the floor on bare feet, heading toward the living room.
The house feels too still, that post-night hush lingering like a ghost. As I round the corner, I’m expecting an empty couch and maybe a quiet kitchen.
Instead, my heart nearly leaps out of my chest at the sight before me.
Lincoln is in the living room—shirtless—doing push-ups, his broad back rippling with every controlled movement.
His arms flex beneath his weight, biceps and triceps bunching.
A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his skin, accentuating the lines of muscle on his shoulders.
He’s wearing a pair of dark athletic pants, hanging low on his hips, and each time he dips down, I catch a glimpse of his abs tightening.
I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle a startled gasp, but I doubt he’s heard me over the sound of his own breathing.
I stand frozen, not sure whether to tiptoe back to my room and pretend I didn’t see anything or to clear my throat and announce my presence.
Maybe I should be used to this by now—Lincoln, the big, strong soldier type, working out at insane hours.
But I’m definitely not prepared for the actual sight of him in motion.
It’s… mesmerizing. A flush creeps into my cheeks, and I realize I’m practically ogling him like some swooning teenager.
The embarrassment pushes me to move. I open my mouth, trying to say something, anything—maybe “Morning” or “Uh, hi, I’m here”—but the words die on my tongue.
He lowers himself again, forearms bulging, and a wave of yearning washes over me as I remember how those arms felt around me last night.
Suddenly, I’m not sure I can speak without my voice cracking.
My feet shuffle on the hardwood, and Lincoln’s head snaps up. He stops mid-push-up, holding himself aloft with jaw-dropping stability, and looks right at me. For a second, neither of us speaks. My heart pounds too loudly in my ears.
Finally, he exhales, easing down to the floor and pushing up to his knees. “Morning,” he says, voice a little winded from the workout. But even in that single syllable, I hear the same deep timbre that played in my dreams all night.
I force myself to breathe. “Morning,” I manage, folding my arms to keep from fidgeting. “I, uh… didn’t realize you were up.”
He scrubs a hand over his face, then reaches for a small towel lying on the couch to blot away the sweat at his hairline. “Got an early start. Couldn’t sleep.”
I exhale a shaky laugh, stepping more fully into the living room. “Yeah. Me neither.”
He nods, as though that’s all the explanation needed. His gaze flicks over me, taking in my tank top, shorts, and messy hair. I feel self-conscious for a split second, but then I remind myself it’s just Lincoln. Then again, it’s not just Lincoln. Not anymore.
“How long have you been at it?” I ask, nodding toward his makeshift workout space.
He stands, the muscles in his torso shifting in a way that sends a flutter through my stomach. “About thirty minutes, I guess. Didn’t want to wake you, so I stayed in here.”
“You didn’t,” I say quickly. “I was already awake.”
We fall into silence again, a tangible heaviness settling. My eyes keep drifting to the expanse of his chest, the faint line of hair trailing down his abdomen. I pull my gaze away and clear my throat, determined to focus on something else. “So… coffee?” I blurt.
His lips twitch in a near smile, and he tosses the towel on the couch. “I was about to offer. Figured we could both use some.”
“Yeah, definitely.” I straighten my spine, crossing my arms to hide the goose bumps prickling my skin. “Lead the way, soldier.”
He arches an eyebrow at the nickname but doesn’t comment, turning instead toward the kitchen.
I follow, the tension still humming in the air.
Passing through the archway, I’m struck by how bright the kitchen is in the morning light.
The large window above the sink frames a view of towering pines outside, their branches swaying slightly in a gentle breeze.
Under different circumstances, it could be serene. But my nerves are too high to enjoy it.
Lincoln heads straight for the coffee machine, reaching for the filters and beans we stocked on our first day here. I lean against the island, arms still folded. “So,” I say, forcing a casual tone. “What’s the plan for today?”
He sets the coffee filter in place, then pours water into the machine.
“We wait for Devereaux’s call.” His voice is calm, but I can sense the undercurrent of frustration—he’s not a man who likes waiting around.
“In the meantime, we can dig a little more into any other leads you have on Morris Rolfe. Cross-reference them with what I found yesterday.”
I nod, picking at a tiny chip on the countertop’s laminate. “Right. My contact’s still trying to confirm whether he’s the same Morris from that old hacking circle. There’s some mention of a different alias, but I haven’t pinned it down yet.”
Lincoln starts the coffee machine, the low gurgle filling the silence. Then he turns around, crossing his arms in a mirror of my posture. “We can see what else we can dig up about his possible location. That rumor about him being in Saint Pierce might be a smokescreen.”
“Or it might be true,” I point out. “He could be holed up somewhere, only showing his face when he has a deal to make.”
Lincoln inclines his head. “Devereaux said Rolfe hosts private parties, right? If we get an invite, we’ll have a better chance of catching him in the act.”
“Assuming he trusts us enough to let us attend.” I chew my lower lip, recalling the conversation last night. “And assuming no one blows our cover before that happens.”
His expression darkens, jaw flexing. “We’ll just have to be careful. Stick to the story. Mr. and Mrs. Zane.” He says it like the words taste foreign on his tongue, which they probably do.
The memory of me blurting out his last name makes me cringe and laugh simultaneously. “Yeah. Sorry about that. It just… slipped out.”
He shakes his head. “No, it was smart. Ties us together. We just have to make sure we can pull it off if and when Rolfe checks us out.”
I let out a long breath, the tension in my shoulders easing a fraction. “You’re right. We can do this, though. We have to.”
The coffee machine lets out a final hiss, signaling the brew is ready. Lincoln turns, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet. “Cream, sugar, or do you still take it black?”
“You remember how I take my coffee?” I blurt, blinking in surprise. He’s always seemed so aloof at the office—polite, but distant.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Just something I noticed.”
Warmth creeps into my cheeks. “Right.”
He fills one mug and slides it across the island toward me, then takes a quick sip of his own.
The domesticity of the moment is almost surreal, especially after the intensity of last night.
But I can’t deny it’s nice, standing here with him in the quiet morning light, sipping coffee like two normal people.
After a few sips, I muster the courage to ask the question that’s been nagging me since I saw him in the living room. “So, about last night…”
He tenses, and I see his knuckles whiten around the mug’s handle. “What about it?”
I resist the urge to chew my lip and make myself meet his gaze. “I just… wanted to say I think we did well. You know, with the cover. We played it up convincingly.”
He nods slowly, eyes flicking to the window before settling on me again. “Yeah. We did.” Then he inhales, his broad chest expanding. “But we can’t forget why we’re doing this. If we get… carried away, it could complicate things.”
I swallow hard. “Right,” I say, stifling the twinge of disappointment in my chest. “All business, no personal entanglements. Got it.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t contradict me.
Instead, he circles around the island, leaning against it from the opposite side.
The morning light catches on the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his torso.
I want to reach out and wipe it away, which is a ridiculous impulse that has me blushing all over again.
I take another gulp of coffee, scalding my tongue in the process. Wincing, I set the mug down. “Damn.”
“You okay?” he asks, brow furrowing.
I force a tight smile. “Fine. Just impatient, apparently.” My mind leaps to the mission, how we’re stuck in limbo until Devereaux calls. “We should probably do something to keep ourselves busy while we wait.”
He pushes off the counter, standing at his full height. It’s impossible not to notice how the muscles of his abdomen flex with the movement. “Any suggestions?”
“Let’s fire up the laptops,” I say, desperately trying to refocus. “I can see if my contact left me any messages overnight. Maybe check if there’s any chatter about Morris Rolfe on social media or the dark web. If he’s half as cocky as I think he is, there might be some digital breadcrumbs.”
Lincoln nods, draining the last of his coffee in one smooth tilt of his head. “I’ll get dressed, meet you in the living room?”
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I, uh, think I’ll do the same. Not exactly dressed for intense investigative work.”