Chapter 7
Asher
I lean against the wall in the sitting room, arms crossed, my eyes flicking between Charlotte and her parents.
The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Charlotte’s sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Her father paces the length of their room, while her mother perches beside Charlotte, looking worried but trying to play the composed matriarch.
“So,” I start, breaking the silence. “We’re all on the same page that Wade is a threat, right?”
Charlotte’s father, Charles Lane, stops pacing and looks at me, his expression pinched. “He’s not just a threat, Mr. Hawke. He’s a menace. If what Charlotte says is true—”
“It is,” Charlotte interrupts, her voice sharp and firm. “He threatened to destroy your company if I don’t go through with this ridiculous idea of marrying him.”
Her mother gasps softly, clutching her pearls—literally. “What do we do?”
Charlotte gives her a look. “I don’t know. Maybe I should just do it. Rip the bandaid off and marry him.”
Yeah, that fucking shit ain’t happening.
“No,” I say way too quickly.
Charlotte stands up, walking toward her father. “Maybe I should. The company would be safe. You’d be happy. Everyone would be.”
“You won’t,” I say out of turn.
Her father sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. “Asher’s right. Besides, your mother and I would never be happy if you weren’t happy too.”
Her mother steps in, her voice soothing but firm. “We need to focus on what to do next.”
I clear my throat, pushing off the wall. “Well, one thing’s for sure: if Charlotte and I look convincingly in love, it makes it harder for Nana Peg to push the marriage angle. Nobody expects someone who’s supposedly madly in love to suddenly ditch their fiancé for another guy.”
Charlotte gives me a sharp look. “Are you suggesting we... what? Turn this fake engagement into a public spectacle?”
I shrug. “Not exactly a spectacle, but the more people who believe we’re head over heels for each other, the harder it is for her to manipulate the situation.”
Charles nods slowly, his pacing coming to a stop. “It makes sense. If we make this relationship seem real—deeply real—Nana Peg loses leverage.”
“And the press would love it,” her mother adds, her eyes lighting up like she’s picturing the headlines. “‘Socialite and Security Specialist: A Love for the Ages.’”
Charlotte groans, burying her face in her hands. “This is insane.”
I take a step closer to her, lowering my voice. “It’s not ideal, but it’s the best shot we’ve got. If Wade thinks he can break you, he’ll keep pushing. We need to make him, and everyone else, believe there’s no way you’d ever choose him over me.”
Her hands drop, and she looks up at me, her eyes blazing with a mix of frustration and something else I can’t quite place. “And how exactly do we do that, Mr. Hawke? Start kissing in front of everyone? Stage a few dramatic declarations of love?”
I smirk, leaning down just enough so only she can hear. “If you think that’ll sell it, I’m game.”
Her cheeks flush, and she looks away quickly, but not before I catch the flicker of something in her expression. Annoyance? Embarrassment? Maybe a little of both.
“Enough,” Charles cuts in, rubbing his temples again. “The point is, you two need to sell this. Completely. At dinner tonight, in front of everyone. No hesitation. No cracks in the story.”
“Understood,” I say, straightening. “But we also need to address the real issue: Wade.”
Charles nods grimly. “Agreed. What do you suggest?”
I glance at Charlotte, then back to her father. “I want to dig deeper into his background. If he’s capable of making threats like this, who knows what else he’s involved in? The more we know about him, the better chance we have of shutting him down.”
“Do it,” Charles says without hesitation. “Whatever you need, let me know.”
“Already planning on it,” I reply, glancing back at Charlotte. “But in the meantime, we need to stick to the plan. Sell the relationship. Keep Nana Peg off balance.”
Charlotte sighs, standing and brushing her hands down the front of her dress. “I agree. I’ll play along. But let me make one thing clear, Asher.” She steps closer, her gaze locked on mine. “If you screw this up, it’s not just my reputation on the line. It’s my family’s entire future.”
I meet her gaze, the fire in her eyes igniting something in me. “Don’t worry, Charlotte. I don’t fail.”
Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she turns to her parents. “Anything else?”
Her mother smiles faintly. “Just remember, dear, you’re in love. Make us believe it.”
Charlotte groans again and stalks toward the door. I follow her, feeling the heat of her frustration radiating off her.
As we step out into the hallway, I lean closer and lower my voice. “You know, I think we’re off to a great start.”
She stops, turning to glare at me. “Oh, really? And what makes you think that?”
I grin. “Because that glare you just gave me? Definitely believable as the look of a woman madly in love.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile before she storms off down the hall. We make our way back to our room.
I seal the suite door behind us and engage the privacy latch—habit more than paranoia, though after the Wade encounter every lock feels suddenly essential.
Charlotte walks straight to the dresser, loosening her dress from her shoulders with a sigh that’s half exhaustion, half relief.
I turn away long enough to scan the space: balcony secure, adjoining door dead-bolted, bathroom clear. All green.
The couch waits like a punishment bench at the far wall.
Gross. It’s too narrow, and the armrests are boxed in tight.
At dinner I insisted it was fine. Now my lower back screams pre-emptive protest. I lower myself anyway, jacket still on, boots unlaced but not removed.
The cushions compress to wafer thickness and a spring nicks my shoulder blade. Fantastic.
Across the room, Charlotte slips into navy satin pajamas: modest, but the sheen follows every curve.
She flicks off the lamp and slides beneath the king-size duvet.
Darkness swallows the room; HVAC kicks on in a low rush, and my eyes adjust to silhouettes—dresser, chair, the faint outline of her profile against moonlit curtains.
Minutes stretch. Twice I shift, failing to find a painless angle; the third creak from the sofa earns a soft, amused huff from the bed.
“You’re going to need a chiropractor by sunrise,” she murmurs.
“I’ve survived worse,” I say, voice hovering at whisper-range. Sandstorms, forward operating bases, a collapsed observation post in the Hindu Kush. This couch might rank lower on the misery scale, but only barely.
Silence again, but it’s denser now—filled with the unasked. My throat’s dry, my pulse drumming in my neck. I catalog its tempo with idle precision: mid-eighty, climbing when she speaks.
“Asher?” Her voice is closer. She's propped on an elbow, the duvet sliding enough that moonlight outlines her collarbone. “It might look strange tomorrow if we’re stiff around each other. Body language tells on us.”
She’s making a point about operational credibility, but underlying tension crackles like static on a radio.
“I agree,” I answer. “What do you propose?”
“You sleeping in the bed for starters.”
I huff, standing as I do. “Fine.” I remove my boots, shirt, and pants. I’m in nothing but boxer-briefs, and I swear I can hear a sharp intake of breath from Charlotte, but I don’t think she can see me through the darkness. I climb into the bed, sliding onto my back. “Better?”
I can tell she’s smiling by the way her voice is light and a higher pitch than normal. “Much. I was also thinking…” her words fall away.
I’m curious. “Thinking about…” I prompt.
She hesitates, then—brave as ever—says, “We could practice.” A beat. “Kissing.”
Every muscle goes taut. Immediate threat check: heart rate spikes into the nineties. I clear my throat. “We’re lying down. Kissing while lying down together is dangerous.” However, my body grows harder at the idea of it all.
“I’ll turn the lamp on,” she counters, flicking the bedside switch. Warm gold spills over the linens, flooding the space with something that feels intimate and incredibly exposed. Her cheeks flush a delicate pink, but her chin stays lifted. “Strict parameters, Hawke. Training drill.”
“Sit up,” I demand of her.
She does as I say, and I groan at how submissive she is. I catalog that reaction, but not sure why. Fuck, who am I kidding? I know why I’m cataloging everything she does. Because I want her. Plain and simple, but I can’t go there.
“One kiss,” I stipulate, like issuing a range order. “Controlled duration. No… escalation.”
Charlotte’s lips twitch, half nervous smile, half challenge. “Copy, soldier.”
We lean toward the center at the same measured pace—battlefield ballet.
Her hand alights on my chest for balance, and the heat of it burns straight through me.
My own palm rises almost of its own accord, my fingertips brushing her jaw.
Her skin’s warm, and impossibly soft. In that instant every threat assessment I’ve ever run feels obsolete.
Then her lips meet mine.
Fuck.
First contact is light, tentative, a reconnaissance pass.
Her exhale ghosts across my mouth, tinged with the plum notes of the cabernet she’d nursed downstairs.
The scent hits me like a memory I never had—ripe fruit in late summer, sun-warmed and decadent.
I keep it gentle, angle adjusting, eyes half-closing while my senses map the moment with forensic clarity.
The fine tremor in her hand, the silk whisper of her hair as it brushes my knuckles, the tiny hitch in her breath when I deepen the pressure a millimeter has me ready to buckle to my knees and worship this woman.
Second beat: she tilts her head, inviting, and I accept, letting my thumb glide along the edge of her cheekbone, guiding her closer.
Mouths align and the kiss blooms, slow and thorough, no longer a test but an exchange.
A low hum vibrates in her throat. It’s a sound I feel more than hear.
It detonates heat down my spine, and pools in my stomach.
I taste soft lips, a tease of tongue, and everything inside me reorients.
Protecting her was my mission, but wanting her is instinct.
I catch myself, pulling back before the line blurs completely. My breathing’s elevated, ninety-five BPM. We hover inches apart, foreheads nearly touching, her lashes fanning down as if processing the same internal collision.
Charlotte opens her eyes—blue depths storm-lit—then breaks the silence first. “That…felt convincing.”
I clear my throat, searching for professional vocabulary but come up empty. “Operationally…effective,” I manage, voice rougher than intended.
She laughs softly, the sound as fragile as crystal. “Your tactical report will be fascinating.”
The lamp clicks off under her hand. Darkness returns, but it’s changed.
It’s now charged with an energy I’m unable to deny any longer.
We slide beneath the covers, shoulder to shoulder now.
The diplomatic eighteen-inch buffer is gone, replaced by inches, maybe less.
I remain hyper-aware of her breathing pattern—slow, steady, laced with the faintest tremor of excitement or nerves. Probably both.
I stare at the ceiling, trying to recalculate threat hierarchies.
Outside: Wade, corporate sabotage, stalkers.
Inside: the inferno currently replacing my cardiovascular system.
Sleep is unlikely. But Charlotte shifts closer…
fuck… just enough that her arm brushes mine, and whispers, “Thank you, Asher,” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Like that kiss didn’t just rewrite every protocol I’ve ever followed.
I answer the only way I can. Quiet, resolute. “Always.”
And I lie awake, mapping the ceiling, mapping her breath, tucking both into memory like the most valuable intel I’ve ever acquired.