Chapter 32
Sometimes getting dressed up . . . feels like coming undone.
The SUV slowed and turned onto the street behind the convention center, along the bayside. The park down by the marina was packed with people standing in the Next Day Line for Hall H.
“What on earth are you up to?” she asked, shooting a suspicious look at Darren.
He was practically glowing, smug as ever. “You’ll see.”
They rolled past a couple of loading docks before a familiar figure came into view—a honey-blonde girl in a bright purple dress standing on one of the platforms. It was the same girl who had interrupted them on the rooftop, now waiting with a burly security guard behind her.
The car rolled to a stop. Darren climbed out first, then offered his hand to Emma as she slid down from the seat. The air smelled faintly of asphalt and frying food from somewhere nearby as they climbed the steep metal stairs up to the platform.
“Hi, Sienna,” Darren said.
“Perfect timing,” she answered, her voice brisk and efficient. “We’re cleared. Let’s move. Hi, Emma.” She nodded to the guard, who buzzed open the gray door beside the dock and let them inside.
They turned right in the quiet concrete corridor.
Industrial pipes traced the ceiling, air vents humming overhead.
Sienna set a clipped pace, her dress swishing over her sneakers.
Emma and Darren followed close behind. Their footsteps echoed in the enclosed space, no trace of the exhibit floor frenzy leaking in from the walls.
Emma’s pulse picked up with each step, anticipation coiling through her. It felt like infiltrating a compound in an action movie.
“Did you talk to Max?” Darren asked, looking at Sienna.
“I did,” she said, without breaking stride. “He still thinks you’re coming out on top of all this. Emma’s the one taking heat. No offense, love,” she added, blonde ponytail whipping as she glanced back.
“You didn’t tell him about this, though, right?” Darren pressed.
Sienna snorted. “Of course not. He’d be far too tempted to tip someone off.”
They reached a narrow break room tucked between a machine room and a janitor’s closet. Sandwiches and bottled water waited on a rickety table. On the floor beside it sat a sleek black duffel bag.
“Lunch is here,” Sienna said. “And . . . that other thing you asked for.” Her eyes flicked to Darren with a trace of wryness.
Emma looked at the duffel. “What other thing?”
“Eat first,” Darren said, already peeling open a sandwich wrapper like this was a completely normal lunch break for him. Emma perched on the edge of the table and tore into hers as well, hunger beating out curiosity. Sienna left them, muttering something about dealing with Max.
They finished quickly, brushing crumbs from their fingers. Darren crouched by the duffel and unzipped it. A shimmer of desert-sand fabric and black tubing came into view as he lifted something out. He set it on the table with a soft thunk.
Emma stared at it, baffled. “Is that what I think it is?”
Darren tilted his head. “That depends. What do you think it is?”
She let her hand trail over the smooth fabric, recognizing the colors, the unmistakable aesthetic. She looked up at him. “I think it’s a stillsuit from Dune.”
“Correction,” Darren said, eyes lighting up as he reached into the bag and took out a matching set. “It’s two stillsuits from Dune.”
The pure delight on his face made her laugh out loud. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning. “Darren Cole, sci-fi nerd,” she said. “Who would’ve thought?”
“Tell me it isn’t perfect.” He leaned in. “No one will recognize us. And I’ll still get to see those blue eyes of yours.”
The words hit lower than they should have. She hid her reaction by turning her attention to the mask, tracing a finger along the smooth edge of the visor. It was the kind that covered mouth and nose but left the eyes bare. The oversized hood would hide their hair and shadow their faces.
“Are you suggesting we actually go out in public wearing these?” She had a hard time keeping the smile out of her voice. His excitement was contagious.
“It’s Comic-Con, Emma,” he said, positively beaming. “We’re going cosplaying.”
She shook her head, disbelief tugging at her mouth. This was objectively a terrible idea. If anyone recognized them, it would hit the Internet like a freight train, and Leah would probably have an aneurysm.
But Darren was already holding the costume out to her with that disarming, boyish grin. “Come on. Let’s see how good we look as Fremen.”
Well. She’d wanted reckless. Dressing up as literal rebels and hiding in plain sight surely qualified. And honestly, resisting Darren’s unfiltered joy felt like trying to resist gravity.
She tugged the bundle of fabric free. The suit unfolded heavy in her hands, panels of sand-colored cloth stitched with black piping and straps.
“People actually wear these for fun?” she asked, aiming for casual, feeling anything but.
Darren was already halfway undressed, shirt gone and stepping out of his jeans, leaving him only in black boxers. “People wear far worse than this for fun,” he said. “Wait till you see the guys who built their own Iron Man armor out of scrap metal.”
He tossed the pants aside, all lean muscle and ridiculous ease. The shift of his body beneath golden skin made something tighten inside her, but Darren seemed completely unbothered. “Now come on, get changed,” he said, making a point of turning away from her. “I won’t look. Promise.”
Emma shook her head, smiling despite herself at his eager earnestness. She turned around too, stripping down to bra and panties, then quickly shrugging the suit up around her. The room felt suddenly too small, air thick with rustling fabric and the sharp whisper of zippers.
The suit hugged her tightly, making her conscious of every inch of her body. She fumbled with the chest straps. The layers refused to settle, her fingers clumsy with nerves.
“You need help?”
A small gasp escaped her as Darren’s voice came from just behind. She hadn’t heard him approach.
She turned. He was already fully suited, hood down, mask loose at his neck, a stray lock of dark hair falling over his forehead—and he looked absurdly good. If she’d been casting Paul Atreides, she’d have hired him on sight.
His gaze dipped to the tangled straps across her ribs. Without hesitation, he reached, fingers brushing lightly over her as he clipped them into place, one by one, unhurried. She stood frozen, hyperaware of his nearness, the scrape of fabric, the warmth of his hands through the suit.
“There,” he murmured.
Emma’s breath caught. She looked up and met his eyes. For a suspended moment, neither of them moved. Maybe it was the costumes, maybe the secrecy, or maybe just the intimacy of the small room—but the air between them seemed to vibrate.
Then Darren reached up, slow and reverent as a ritual, and drew her hood into place. His knuckles skimmed her temple, fingertips tucking back a loose strand of hair. Her skin tingled in their wake.
He pulled on his own hood, settling his mask into place. She followed.
The transformation was almost eerie. The uniforms made them unrecognizable—yet his eyes were completely, unmistakably him. Dark, alive, locked on hers.
Her laugh broke the tension, breathless, shaky. It rumbled oddly inside the mask. “We look like we’re about to go ride a sandworm.”
“That’s the idea,” he said, voice muffled. His eyes crinkled in a smile. “And this one’s called Comic-Con. Ready?”
She wasn’t sure if he meant the cosplay or all of it—the secrecy, the risk, the rush of being here with him. But her answer came easily.
“I must not fear,” she said, arranging her posture into that of a soldier. “Fear is the mind-killer.”
Darren’s eyes lit up so sharply that it sent a jolt straight through her. His voice dropped, rough with approval.
“Good answer, Whitehart. Very good answer. Now let’s go ride this thing.”