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CHAPTER FOUR

Tessa

I slept like the dead.

It was the kind of sleep where you wake up and aren’t sure what decade it is, let alone the time of day. After weeks of a few stolen, restless hours here or there, it was more needed than I could have known while still operating from my survival mode.

That post-sleep haze was to blame for why I didn’t realize I wasn’t alone for a long moment or two as I did long cat stretches in the bed, the covers falling away from my body to reveal the stolen white tee I was wearing, along with a pair of simple cotton boxers.

It was all that stretching that had my intruder clearing his throat.

“Sorry,” Rook said, holding up a hand as I shot up in the bed, my heart racing. “I was worried. I knocked and called several times…”

“Oh,” I said, my air rushing out in relief. “I really do sleep like the dead,” I told him.

He looked good.

Showered and changed into a fresh white tee and a pair of workout pants.

And, perhaps best of all, he was carrying a large coffee and something on a plate that smelled like potatoes, peppers, and eggs.

My painfully empty stomach let out a grumble loud enough that he had to have heard it.

The little smile he shot me said he did. “I brought you some breakfast. Before Detroit starts making lunch.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost eleven. I had to reheat the quiche, so hopefully it tastes as good as it did fresh.”

“A… quiche? You have a man named Detroit who is cooking quiche at a biker club?”

“Yep. The man missed his calling as a Michelin Star chef.”

As I scooted up against the headboard, Rook came over to put my coffee on the nightstand. I could smell all the caramel goodness wafting over to me before he handed me the plate with the quiche, and I got overwhelmed with the more savory scents.

“Oh, my God.”

“He made it with a potato crust. Everyone decided it’s the only way quiche should be made now.”

“Well, it will be my first time having quiche, so I have nothing to judge it against.” At his surprised look, I shrugged. “Growing up, breakfast was usually some stale cereal and questionable milk.”

I stuck the fork in the cake-like slice of quiche and popped it into my mouth before I could overthink it. I’d admit to anyone that I didn’t exactly have worldly tastes. In my life, a “fancy” meal was some soupy greige-colored boxed pasta mixed with chopped meat.

Honestly, given the shit diet I’d eaten growing up, it was a miracle I didn’t end up with rickets or stunted growth or something.

Luckily, the quiche was a solid foray into fancy food. It was like an omelet, really, just better.

I hadn’t realized the moan had escaped me until I saw Rook’s eyes go a little heated.

“This is amazing. I would pay good money to have your brother cook this for me. Of course, I have no money. So, I will have to keep settling for rest stop waxy egg sandwiches.”

“Not necessarily,” Rook said, gesturing toward the foot of the bed, asking permission to sit.

What was this?

Asking for consent?

That was new to me too.

I nodded, and Rook sat with one leg at an angle on the bed, so he could look at me.

“I’ve been doing some thinking.”

“A man thinking. What a dangerous situation. Have you decided to invade another country? Or, worse yet, start a podcast?”

To that, I got a chuckle, and I had to admit the deep rumble was a lot sexier than I’d been prepared for. Maybe my defenses were just lower than usual thanks to some good sleep and food in my stomach. And him remembering how I liked my coffee. I was pretty sure that was the modern-day equivalent of someone writing you a sonnet or something.

“Well, seeing as a condition of my parole is I have no access to electronics, a podcast is unlikely…”

“Wait, really? But you went in for assault, you said.”

“Yeah, but I may or may not have done some hacking to track down the asshole I eventually beat up.”

“Ah, there it is. I’m assuming you don’t actually abide by that rule.”

“I have a computer at work. The club picked me because of my skills. Nancy just doesn’t need to know about it.”

“Some parole officers are on a power trip.” I was trying to savor the first decent meal I’d had in ages, but I couldn’t seem to stop shoveling food in my mouth. In just a few bites, it was gone, and I was left wanting more.

Setting the plate on the nightstand, I reached for my coffee instead.

“Yeah, this one more than most. Her husband was put into a coma once by someone on parole. So she made her whole life about punishing the rest of us for that guy’s crimes.”

“Real great coping skills she’s got there.”

“Yeah, that’s actually why I’m here. I got a call from my mom’s facility today. She’s… struggling.”

“I’m sorry.” I might not have had much love lost with my own mom, but I’d always admired people who had close relationships with theirs. How different life might have been if I’d had that.

“It got me thinking. And considering.”

“Considering,” I repeated. “You mean the marriage arrangement thing?”

“Yes. I really need eyes inside that place. I need someone to give my mom specific messages to see if that helps. And one of my brothers reminded me last night that I literally can’t use anyone I know.”

“Because everyone you know would link back to this club. And that Nancy lady might find out and send you back.”

“You’re quick.”

“I grew up around a lot of people in and out of prison. So, you want us to get married after all?”

“I want to… discuss it. I think there’s a lot to talk about with this.”

“Okay. Like what?”

“Like we don’t know each other. But we will need to if we want to sell this to my PO.”

“True. But that’s easy enough. We can have a getting-to-know-each-other bootcamp. You already know how I like my coffee. That’s a start.”

“And we would need a story. How we met, why we are getting married ‘so fast.’ It all has to stand up to scrutiny. Because, believe me, Nancy will scrutinize.”

“I have a memory like a steel trap.” Unfortunately. Some things were better forgotten. But I didn’t think there was a single moment of my life that was lost to space and time.

“We’d have to live together.”

“Yeah, that was kind of my whole reason for putting my name in the hat in the first place,” I reminded him.

I mean, even if this was just something for a few months, having a place to rest that cost me nothing and allowed me to work and save money for a more permanent solution than living in my car would be invaluable. Plus, of course, the protection that being married to someone as connected as Rook would offer me.

“My biggest concern is you are new in town. You have no work history here.”

“Hmm. Well, you obviously have someone to fake employment for you. Couldn’t they do the same for me? Does Nancy keep track of everyone you work with?”

“I dunno. But I don’t think she’d be able to argue with Nyx if Nyx says that, of course, you’ve been working for her for months.”

“Maybe I work remote and only come to the office once in a while for meetings. We met. Sparks flew. Hearts… what do hearts do?”

“Skip a beat? Flutter? Swoop? Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Not a romantic then, I take it.”

“More of a fun-for-the-night kind of guy. You?”

“I’m not really sure I believe in love,” I told him.

I hadn’t always been a cynic. I’d been the definition of a hopeless romantic in the past. With an emphasis on ‘hopeless.’ Until my shitty choice in men turned me into someone new entirely.

“We’re gonna have to get really good at faking it then,” Rook said.

“I’m sure we can manage.”

Rook nodded at that as he glanced out the window.

“Are there any other concerns?”

“I guess what happens after.”

“We get a divorce. If you’re worried about your money or something, I’m going to assume most of it is untraceable. You don’t have to worry about the courts finding it.”

“It’s not the money. Fuck the money.”

Wow.

What I wouldn’t give to have ‘fuck the money’ money.

“Actually, maybe that would help.”

“What?” I asked, wondering what he and his biker friends were in that he had such easy money. I mean, their clubhouse alone had to cost bank. Then they’d completely renovated it.

Was that drug money?

“If I paid you.”

“You want to pay me to marry you? When I’m willing to do it just for a place to crash? Why?”

Clearly, negotiation wasn’t my strong suit.

If the man wanted to pay me, I wasn’t exactly in the position to refuse.

“Yeah. I think we’d both feel better about the situation if we approached it like a job. I pay you for your ‘work’.”

“What kind of ‘work’ are we talking about here?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Not that. Jesus,” he said, looking offended. “I don’t need to pay for it. I strictly mean the show we have to put on for Nancy and the trips to see my ma. Granted, we might have to get a little touchy to sell it to Nancy, but I can’t imagine we’d need to do more than hold hands or have a peck.”

I mean, I could use the money. Not necessarily to sit around on my ass. But if I worked on top of taking his money, if I really got a chance to build up a nest egg…

“I’m fine with casual contact around Nancy or other circumstances where it is important to try to sell our relationship to people.”

“I’m thinking… five grand.”

“For the whole thing?” I asked, seeing dollar signs. No, it wasn’t crazy money from most people. But for someone living in their car, who barely ever had two dimes to rub together her whole life, that was big.

“No, babe. Per month.”

“You want to pay me five grand to pretend to be your wife. Why?”

“Because I’m asking you to put your entire life on hold. You should be compensated for that.”

“Well, I’m definitely not going to turn down the money. How long do you think this will go on?”

“Good question. If we sell this and Nancy backs off and lets me go see my mom myself, I think we can part ways.”

“What if Nancy asks about me?”

“You’re visiting family. Friends. On a yoga retreat. Plenty of excuses to use. As for the divorce itself, I guess as soon as I get off parole, if that works for you. Even if we go our separate ways before then.”

“Okay. That’s fine. Like I said, I don’t really think relationships are in my future. So, it doesn’t really matter if we’re married.”

“So, we’re doing this.”

“We’re doing this,” I agreed, holding my hand out.

He shook it.

“I guess we should go and buy you a ring, huh?”

“And see my new home.”

“Yeah, don’t get too excited about that. It’s a shoebox studio.”

“Shoebox studio trumps backseat of a car any day.”

“Alright. So let’s come up with our proposal story.”