Page 21 of Fake Lemons Love and Luxury

SEAN

I wake to the weight of warmth pressed into his side. Wren. She’s curled into me, her head resting just over my heart, one arm draped over my ribs, her breaths slow and even. I don’t move, relishing the moment. The living room is quiet, washed in early morning light filtering through the blinds.

We must’ve fallen asleep like this after talking for hours last night.

We didn’t discuss heavy subjects. Just the kind of nothing that changes everything.

I asked her about her pinterest board called If I Had a Farm .

I once saw the board on her laptop. She joked that in another life, she’d be a farmer.

I told her I’ve read East of Eden seventeen times and she teased me about it. We drifted off like that, tangled together on the couch.

I stare at Wren, at the rise and fall of her chest. This moment feels too fragile, too perfect, like it’ll vanish if I shift the wrong way.

Then I hear soft footsteps. Small ones.

I turn my head just enough to see Eric coming down the stairs, that worn-out triceratops tucked under one arm. His curls are a mess. He blinks at us, bleary-eyed, then toddles over like it’s the most normal thing in the world to find me wrapped around his mom.

“Morning,” he stage-whispers, loud in that way only kids manage. “Is Mommy sleeping?”

I nod and press a finger to my lips.

He nods back like a soldier receiving orders, then climbs right up into my lap and wedges himself between me and the back of the couch.

No hesitation. My throat tightens as I shift just enough to make room for him.

He’s warm and small and solid. It hit me now.

A hard, sharp and terrifying realization slam into me. I want this. I want all of it.

This quiet, intimate moment. Waking up beside Wren. Holding her son like my own.

“Can we have waffles?” Eric whispers, eyes hopeful.

I smile. “Sure, buddy. Let’s let your mom sleep a little longer, yeah?”

He snuggles into my side, clutching his dinosaur like it’s battle gear. Wren breathes against my chest, and just like that, I can see the whole damn picture. Mornings like this. Laughing in the kitchen. Sunday pancakes and bedtime stories and not waking up alone.

I close my eyes for a second, but I already know the truth. None of it matters unless she wants it too. And that’s the part I don’t have control over.

Later that morning, I meet Marcus at the gym. He’s already stretching when I walk in, smirking like he’s been waiting all morning to run his mouth.

“Well, well, look who it is,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Our favourite Silver Fox.”

“Don’t start.”

He laughs. “You’re a regular tabloid darling now. I don't know if the algorithm knows that you're my boss but I get all updates about you and Wren’s relationship. I think it’s safe to say I’m a Wrenan stan. And you should know that your ‘smoldering protective gaze’ is a fan favorite.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter and start wrapping my hands.

“It’s all your fault for staring at her like that . I’ve never seen that smitten look on your face before.”

I ignore him, wrapping my hands before stepping up to the heavy bag. I throw a clean one-two. The rhythm helps, but not enough.

“No use fighting it, man. You’re in it. The people have spoken.” He watches me. “But I gotta ask… are you two still pretending? Because this picture—” he flips the phone again to a shot of Wren looking up at me like I’m really the man she loves—“doesn’t look fake to me.”

I focus on taping my wrist. “I don’t know, Marcus. I can’t tell anymore.”

“You two look at each other like that and still don’t know?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Sounds like what people say when they’re drowning but don’t want to admit it.”

I fire off another combo, harder. He steadies the bag. Marcus and I go way back—fifteen years of field ops, high-profile clients, near-death situations. He sees right through me.

“I woke up with her kid curled into me this morning,” I say. “And all I could think was… I wanted it to be real.”

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s not complicated. That’s crystal clear.”

I grunt, hitting harder.

“I have to question it. It started as a job. And yeah, somewhere between escorting her to press events and sleeping on her couch, the lines got blurry. But she set the rules. Temporary.” I roll back my shoulders before hitting again.

“And now she’s packing up. After the product launch, she and Eric are leaving my house. ”

“So what now? You two just go back to work like nothing happened?”

“That’s the plan, isn’t it? Next contract. Next client.”

He holds the bag steady while I continue throwing jabs.

“You know what the worst part is?” I say, between hits. “I don’t want the next contract. I want this. Her. Eric. Mornings on the couch, waffles and cartoons. But if she doesn’t want that too… I’ll just be the guy who overstepped. The guy who mistook proximity for something more.”

Marcus grunts. “You didn’t mistake anything. I’ve seen you shut people out for years. Then she walks into your life, and all of a sudden you’re cooking breakfast and laughing. That doesn’t happen unless it’s real.”

“It’s confusing because I don’t know where I stand with her. It’s like we’re holding our breath waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Sounds messy.”

I let out a breath. “It is. But I’ve fallen for her.”

“Then tell her. Before it’s too late.”

I drag a hand over my head. “She’s still got a lot going on though the chaos is dying down. But she's still very busy. She’s had a surreal few months. I’m being careful not to add to her burden. It’s not exactly the time for declarations.”

“There’s never a perfect time,” he says. “There’s only your time. And it’s running out.”

I stop punching. My heart’s already racing, but not from the workout. “I don’t even know what I’d say.”

“Try the truth,” he says. “Start with ‘I love you.’ End with, ‘I want more than just a job.’”

I stare at the floor for a long second. Then I nod, grabbing my water bottle. “After the launch.”

Marcus walks with me toward the locker room. “For what it’s worth, I’ve been profiling people for two decades. That woman is not pretending when she looks at you. But you’re not the only one who knows how to build a wall.”

I nod, knowing his words are more true than he knows.

We hit Roxy’s Diner after our workout, sweat still drying on our backs. The place is half-empty this time of morning, all worn booths and the smell of bacon grease that has soaked into the walls over the last twenty years.

We slide into a booth in the back, away from the windows out of habit. Marcus orders a black coffee and the steak-and-eggs special. I go for the protein scramble, extra avocado, and a double espresso. It’s routine. Familiar and comforting in a way the rest of my week hasn’t been.

He leans back and lets out a satisfied groan. “Damn, I forgot how much I missed a post-lift breakfast. You don’t get this kind of bacon in the field.”

“You don’t get bacon at all in the field,” I mutter, tapping my fingers on the table. “Just MREs and regret.”

He snorts. “Truth.”

The waitress drops off our coffees, and as soon as she walks off, Marcus shifts gears.

“So,” he says, “about our next job. Got a preliminary call from Wexler Industries. They’re looking for discreet protection on a short-term executive retreat. Small group, high-level, minimal movement, but they want full oversight. Physical security, intel monitoring, transport logistics.”

“Wexler. Oil and gas money. Private resort in Jackson Hole?”

“Yeah. You already read the file?”

“Skimmed it last night.” I take a sip of coffee, setting the mug down with a dull thud. “I’m interested. It’s tight, professional. No media. No drama. Corporate-level trust. We’d need a small team. Maybe Lena on surveillance and Miles on perimeter rotation.”

Marcus smiles, raising a brow. “You’re sure? Because a week ago, you wouldn’t stop griping about how bored you were.”

I glance out the window. “It’s not boring. It’s… different now.”

He waits.

“I built this company to handle corporate security. Executive protection, international travel, asset movement, sensitive intel. I don’t do celebs and media all up in my business, and I never take jobs with personal ties. I had rules.”

Marcus stares at me over the rim of his mug. “And Wren broke every single one.”

“She did but that’s not her fault. That’s mine. I let it happen. I made an exception. And now… I don’t know where I stand with her.”

Marcus doesn’t press. He lets the silence settle. That’s why he’s my second. He knows when to talk and when to let me work it out myself.

I dig into my breakfast and let the structure of my business ground me. The company I built after years of working chaos. I made a name for myself by being calm, effective, and selective.

My contracts are air-tight. Risk assessments get triple-checked. I don’t gamble on people anymore. Not unless they show they’re worth it.

And now I’m trying to pretend like Wren Sinclair isn’t the first person in years who made me want the mess again.

“I still care about the work,” I say at last. “I still get that adrenaline. But now, it’s about being in control. Choosing what I say yes to.”

“And Wexler checks the boxes?”

I nod. “Wexler checks the boxes.”

He studies me for a beat, then stabs a piece of steak. “Alright. I’ll run point on client coordination. You want me to prep a full logistics packet?”

“Yeah. And keep Miles close. If Wren’s launch event goes smooth and she and Eric move out without incident, I’ll be ready to shift back into rotation by next week.”

Marcus leans back, satisfied.

I finish the last bite of my scramble and push the plate away.

“After the launch, I’ll know if she wants me back.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then I go back to the job. Full-time. No mess. No exceptions.”

But the truth is, I’m not sure that life fits anymore. I might’ve built my company to eliminate chaos. But now I’m wondering if the right chaos is what I’ve needed all along.