Page 6 of Riggs (The Maddox BRAVO Team #2)

I eat. He drinks his coffee. The band returns to slow, and Riggs stands and without asking he pulls me toward the makeshift dancefloor. He folds me into his arms as we sway slowly together.

We talk in whispers that sound like planning and feel like flirting.

“Tomorrow, hotel ballroom,” he murmurs, breath on my cheek. “Two exits, one service corridor. We’ll enter through catering.”

“Kiss me in the kitchen,” I murmur back, because I’m not the only one allowed to set rules.

He huffs a laugh against my temple and we sway, the room blue-gold and blurred at the edges. His earpiece crackles, and he ignores it for one, two, three heartbeats before touching it with a knuckle and saying ‘all clear’ so quietly it might be a prayer.

“Tell me what scares you,” I say, because if we’re going to play pretend, I want the real person under it.

“The quiet right after you think you’re clear,” he says, no pause. “Missing something small that mattered big.”

“I’m scared of letting the camera tell my story,” I confess. “And of closing it and not recognizing my life without it.”

His hand slides up my spine. “We’ll write it ourselves,” he says. “Page by page.”

“Deal.”

The song ends. Applause patters. Rain taps a more insistent rhythm at the windows. He glances toward the terrace and tips his head. I nod.

Outside, the city smells like damp stone and freedom. We step under an awning, watching the drizzle get harder as each minute passes.

We lean against the railing, looking out at the blur of lights. Inside, the trio plays something that tastes like dark chocolate. Out here, it’s just us and the rain and the ridiculous throb of my heart in my throat.

“Dean told me to use the cover of us pretending to date,” he says quietly, answering the question I hadn’t asked out loud. “Said to make it work for us.”

“And what do you want?” I ask, because I’m done with pretending my wants are small.

His jaw goes tight, then loosens like unclenching a fist. “Both,” he says finally. “To keep you safe. And to stop pretending this doesn’t feel like it does.”

The rain makes my hair curl. His eyes track a bead of water from my temple to my jaw the way he’d track a threat, only slower, softer. I step into him until we share breath again.

“Kiss me because they’re watching,” I say, even though no one is.

He does, and the drizzle disappears; the city disappears; my body becomes a map where his mouth draws the route home.

It’s not an airport-tactical kiss; it’s a this-is-what-it’s-like-when-no-one-has-a-camera kiss.

My hands slide up his chest and around his neck; his palms bracket my hips, pulling me closer, like he can’t help himself.

For a second I think: This is what we’ll look like in every photo we never post.

He breaks away first, forehead resting against mine, breath rough. “We can’t,” he says, and the way he says it is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

“I know.” I press my palm to his chest, feel the steady drum there and memorize the tempo. “But I’m not going to pretend I don’t want it.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Noted.”

We go back in before the room misses us.

He plants me in the booth and takes a slow loop to the bar under the guise of paying the tab, which I know is code for a perimeter check.

He talks to the bartender, smiles for exactly two seconds at something the man says, and returns with a small white to-go box.

“Chocolate torte,” he explains when I lift a brow. “For later. You’re going to say you don’t want it. You’ll want it.”

“You’re learning,” I tease.

“Maybe I pay attention.”

We head for the elevators shoulder to shoulder, fingers almost touching, but not quite.

In the polished metal of the doors I see us doubled—tall, dark, dangerous and bright, trouble wrapped in velvet. When the doors close, the space narrows to the soft ping of floors and our too-loud breaths.

He unlocks our door, does a quick sweep born of muscle memory, then posts up by the window and looks at me with that steady, quiet something that has nothing to do with ring lights and everything to do with the fact that he promised to get me here and did.

One room, one king bed, rain ticking at the glass like a metronome.

“Goodnight, Vanessa,” he says—my name in his mouth is heat.

“Goodnight, Riggs.”

He heads into the bathroom to shower while I get ready for bed. I haven’t shared a hotel room with a stranger in… well, forever. I try a few deep breathing exercises to calm myself down, and when he’s out of the bathroom, I dip in to brush my teeth.

Once I exit, he’s in nothing but his boxer-briefs, and I nearly choke at the sight of him. Oh my. “Your six-pack has a six-pack,” I whisper before I can stop myself.

Riggs balks out a short, quick laugh. “Um, thanks.”

My eyes blow wide at the sight of him. His chest is all smooth muscles and tanned skin. It’s like I’m staring at the epitome of a Greek god. I stare at the bed when I realize I’ve been staring too long.

“I’ll take the chair,” he starts.

“Don’t,” I say, fingers catching his wrist. “Just… stay.” The word lands between us like a truce.

He hesitates, then tows his go-bag closer to the nightstand.

We both slide under the covers, and I dig the to-go box out of my tote, crack the lid, and break the torte with a fork.

“You were right,” I murmur, offering him a bite.

He takes it from my fingers, eyes on mine, and something low in my chest lights up.

“I usually am,” he says, deadpan, and I laugh.

When we’re done sharing dessert, which is so intimate… I do not recommend with someone you’re only fake dating, we settle into the bed. Together.

I queue a delayed post on the secure phone, and then set it facedown and curl closer. Wishing more than anything I could have this man for real.