Chapter 10 #2
She gingerly placed the fluff ball on the floor in front of his food bowl. While she went through the motions of tending to her precious pet, I watched in fascination. She looked completely put together. Completely at ease. Confidence resting in her posture and smooth motions.
“Ready?” she questioned after planting a final kiss on the top of Bento’s head.
“No, but let’s get this shit over with.” I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it, the fabric settling across my shoulders like something familiar. Controlled. Measured. The version of myself that functioned in public snapping back into place without effort.
Bea moved with purpose, crossing the apartment in quick, efficient lines. Phone. Bag. Hair pulled back with practiced hands that didn’t shake, even if the rest of her might have. There was no mirror check. No hesitation.
I stepped toward the door and opened it before she reached it, holding it there without thinking about it.
She paused just long enough to notice. “Thanks,” she muttered, already moving past me.
I let the door fall shut behind us and followed her down the hallway, the quiet of her apartment replaced by the sharper, colder air of the building.
The walk to the car was short. Too short. She didn’t fill it. Neither did I. And somehow that worked.
The driver was already waiting, engine running, heat pushing out into the cold morning air in faint waves that blurred the space around the car. He stepped out the second he saw us, moving around to open the back door.
Bea hesitated half a step. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
I closed the distance without thinking and placed a hand lightly at the small of her back.
Guiding. Not pushing. Her spine went straight under my hand, every inch of her suddenly aware of where I was and what I was doing. Not startled.
I pulled my hand back before it became something it wasn’t supposed to be. She slid into the car without comment. I followed. The door shut behind me with a muted, final sound that cut the outside world off in one clean motion.
Silence settled in as the car moved almost immediately, easing away from the curb and into the flow of morning traffic without hesitation.
I leaned back into the seat, one arm braced along the door, my gaze shifting to the window for a second before settling on her again.
She was already working. Phone in hand, screen lit, thumb moving in short, precise motions.
Messages. Notes. Something she was adjusting in real time.
Her jaw was set, not tight, but focused.
Her breathing had evened out, her shoulders squared like she had physically stepped into a role she couldn’t afford to fumble.
“You’re quiet,” I sighed, desperate for a distraction from the impending lynching I was being driven to.
She didn’t look up. “I’m thinking.” Her eyes lifted, sharp and immediate. “Do you want me to talk?”
“No.”
“Then don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
There it was again. That edge. I watched her for a second longer than necessary, then shifted my gaze back to the window, the city sliding past in blurred lines of gray and movement.
“Walk me through it,” I groaned.
“You were in the room,” she replied flippantly. “You heard the plan.”
“I want your version.”
A second stretched. Then she locked her phone and set it face down on her lap, turning just enough in her seat to face me without fully committing to it.
“We go in together,” she began. “We don’t hesitate. We don’t contradict each other.”
“I don’t contradict people,” I huffed.
“You had a tantrum on the ice and then immediately broke a poor man’s nose.” The frustration that laced her tone thickened the edges of her accent.
“Where are you from?” I asked, not ready for the fight her comment was about to spur.
Her gaze bore into me, brow knitting together. “Does it matter?”
“Humor me. We’re about to spend a lot of time together. Parles-tu francais?”
I did not accepted the answer to come out in flawless, beautiful French. With lips curling into a dangerous smile, Bea responded, “Oui, je parle anglais. Mais ma langue maternelle est le portugais.”
That did something to me that I was not prepared for. I adjusted in my seat, sucking in a sharp breath. “Portuguese, huh? So, you’re Brazilian. Interesting.”
Bea’s expression stiffened and shifted instantly, as if she was catching herself getting too comfortable. Or maybe she was just as uncomfortable as my jeans were becoming.
Fuck, this chick might be a problem.
“Enough, Alois. This is serious. Questions are going to come fast,” she snarled. “It’s your job to make them shift from the game and your bar fight to our relationship.”
“How the hell is there even going to be a transition?” I met her glare and tone, letting the small ember of interest that sparked fizzle out.
“It’s all in the note cards Char and I did for you after you left yesterday. We have a plan. It’s your job to implement it.” Reaching in her bag, Bea pulled out a stack of small white cards. “See for yourself.”
I took the cards from her without comment, my fingers brushing hers for a fraction of a second before I pulled them back. I didn’t look at them. Didn’t flip through them. Just held them. Like I was going to stand in front of a room full of cameras and read off someone else’s lines.
I am not a puppet on their strings.
The car slowed slightly as we hit a line of traffic near the arena, the shift in movement subtle but noticeable. Outside, the world bustled—people, cameras, movement gathering in places it shouldn’t be this early.
Bea followed my line of sight this time. Her fingers curled once against her phone before flattening again.
“Last thing,” she breathed.
I looked at her.
“We walk in together,” she continued. “No space between us. No hesitation.”
I held her gaze. “Understood.”