Page 10
Isabel
I wake up to the gray light of dawn, though calling it “waking up” might be a stretch. It’s more like I give up on any hope of rest and finally roll out of bed. My body aches from tossing and turning all night, and I can’t shake the vivid images of Lincoln that invaded every fitful dream. It’s frustrating. Part of me wants to blame him for my insomnia, but the truth is I can’t blame anyone. Not when the real problem is that I can’t stop thinking about the way he held me at that club, the look in his eyes when we danced, and the possibility that all of it might’ve felt too real.
With a sigh, I slip out from under the covers and tug on a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top. The safe house is quiet, except for the faint hum of the HVAC system. I glance at the clock on my nightstand—6:47 a.m. I guess that qualifies as morning. Might as well get some coffee and try to salvage this day.
When I open my door, the hallway is dim. I pad across the floor on bare feet, heading toward the living room. The house feels too still, that post-night hush lingering like a ghost. As I round the corner, I’m expecting an empty couch and maybe a quiet kitchen. Instead, my heart nearly leaps out of my chest at the sight before me.
Lincoln is in the living room—shirtless—doing push-ups, his broad back rippling with every controlled movement. His arms flex beneath his weight, biceps and triceps bunching. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his skin, accentuating the lines of muscle on his shoulders. He’s wearing a pair of dark athletic pants, hanging low on his hips, and each time he dips down, I catch a glimpse of his abs tightening. I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle a startled gasp, but I doubt he’s heard me over the sound of his own breathing.
I stand frozen, not sure whether to tiptoe back to my room and pretend I didn’t see anything or to clear my throat and announce my presence. Maybe I should be used to this by now—Lincoln, the big, strong soldier type, working out at insane hours. But I’m definitely not prepared for the actual sight of him in motion. It’s… mesmerizing. A flush creeps into my cheeks, and I realize I’m practically ogling him like some swooning teenager.
The embarrassment pushes me to move. I open my mouth, trying to say something, anything—maybe “Morning” or “Uh, hi, I’m here”—but the words die on my tongue. He lowers himself again, forearms bulging, and a wave of yearning washes over me as I remember how those arms felt around me last night. Suddenly, I’m not sure I can speak without my voice cracking.
My feet shuffle on the hardwood, and Lincoln’s head snaps up. He stops mid-push-up, holding himself aloft with jaw-dropping stability, and looks right at me. For a second, neither of us speaks. My heart pounds too loudly in my ears.
Finally, he exhales, easing down to the floor and pushing up to his knees. “Morning,” he says, voice a little winded from the workout. But even in that single syllable, I hear the same deep timbre that played in my dreams all night.
I force myself to breathe. “Morning,” I manage, folding my arms to keep from fidgeting. “I, uh… didn’t realize you were up.”
He scrubs a hand over his face, then reaches for a small towel lying on the couch to blot away the sweat at his hairline. “Got an early start. Couldn’t sleep.”
I exhale a shaky laugh, stepping more fully into the living room. “Yeah. Me neither.”
He nods, as though that’s all the explanation needed. His gaze flicks over me, taking in my tank top, shorts, and messy hair. I feel self-conscious for a split second, but then I remind myself it’s just Lincoln. Then again, it’s not just Lincoln. Not anymore.
“How long have you been at it?” I ask, nodding toward his makeshift workout space.
He stands, the muscles in his torso shifting in a way that sends a flutter through my stomach. “About thirty minutes, I guess. Didn’t want to wake you, so I stayed in here.”
“You didn’t,” I say quickly. “I was already awake.”
We fall into silence again, a tangible heaviness settling. My eyes keep drifting to the expanse of his chest, the faint line of hair trailing down his abdomen. I pull my gaze away and clear my throat, determined to focus on something else. “So… coffee?” I blurt.
His lips twitch in a near smile, and he tosses the towel on the couch. “I was about to offer. Figured we could both use some.”
“Yeah, definitely.” I straighten my spine, crossing my arms to hide the goose bumps prickling my skin. “Lead the way, soldier.”
He arches an eyebrow at the nickname but doesn’t comment, turning instead toward the kitchen. I follow, the tension still humming in the air. Passing through the archway, I’m struck by how bright the kitchen is in the morning light. The large window above the sink frames a view of towering pines outside, their branches swaying slightly in a gentle breeze. Under different circumstances, it could be serene. But my nerves are too high to enjoy it.
Lincoln heads straight for the coffee machine, reaching for the filters and beans we stocked on our first day here. I lean against the island, arms still folded. “So,” I say, forcing a casual tone. “What’s the plan for today?”
He sets the coffee filter in place, then pours water into the machine. “We wait for Devereaux’s call.” His voice is calm, but I can sense the undercurrent of frustration—he’s not a man who likes waiting around. “In the meantime, we can dig a little more into any other leads you have on Morris Rolfe. Cross-reference them with what I found yesterday.”
I nod, picking at a tiny chip on the countertop’s laminate. “Right. My contact’s still trying to confirm whether he’s the same Morris from that old hacking circle. There’s some mention of a different alias, but I haven’t pinned it down yet.”
Lincoln starts the coffee machine, the low gurgle filling the silence. Then he turns around, crossing his arms in a mirror of my posture. “We can see what else we can dig up about his possible location. That rumor about him being in Saint Pierce might be a smokescreen.”
“Or it might be true,” I point out. “He could be holed up somewhere, only showing his face when he has a deal to make.”
Lincoln inclines his head. “Devereaux said Rolfe hosts private parties, right? If we get an invite, we’ll have a better chance of catching him in the act.”
“Assuming he trusts us enough to let us attend.” I chew my lower lip, recalling the conversation last night. “And assuming no one blows our cover before that happens.”
His expression darkens, jaw flexing. “We’ll just have to be careful. Stick to the story. Mr. and Mrs. Zane.” He says it like the words taste foreign on his tongue, which they probably do.
The memory of me blurting out his last name makes me cringe and laugh simultaneously. “Yeah. Sorry about that. It just… slipped out.”
He shakes his head. “No, it was smart. Ties us together. We just have to make sure we can pull it off if and when Rolfe checks us out.”
I let out a long breath, the tension in my shoulders easing a fraction. “You’re right. We can do this, though. We have to.”
The coffee machine lets out a final hiss, signaling the brew is ready. Lincoln turns, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet. “Cream, sugar, or do you still take it black?”
“You remember how I take my coffee?” I blurt, blinking in surprise. He’s always seemed so aloof at the office—polite, but distant.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Just something I noticed.”
Warmth creeps into my cheeks. “Right.”
He fills one mug and slides it across the island toward me, then takes a quick sip of his own. The domesticity of the moment is almost surreal, especially after the intensity of last night. But I can’t deny it’s nice, standing here with him in the quiet morning light, sipping coffee like two normal people.
After a few sips, I muster the courage to ask the question that’s been nagging me since I saw him in the living room. “So, about last night…”
He tenses, and I see his knuckles whiten around the mug’s handle. “What about it?”
I resist the urge to chew my lip and make myself meet his gaze. “I just… wanted to say I think we did well. You know, with the cover. We played it up convincingly.”
He nods slowly, eyes flicking to the window before settling on me again. “Yeah. We did.” Then he inhales, his broad chest expanding. “But we can’t forget why we’re doing this. If we get… carried away, it could complicate things.”
I swallow hard. “Right,” I say, stifling the twinge of disappointment in my chest. “All business, no personal entanglements. Got it.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t contradict me. Instead, he circles around the island, leaning against it from the opposite side. The morning light catches on the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his torso. I want to reach out and wipe it away, which is a ridiculous impulse that has me blushing all over again.
I take another gulp of coffee, scalding my tongue in the process. Wincing, I set the mug down. “Damn.”
“You okay?” he asks, brow furrowing.
I force a tight smile. “Fine. Just impatient, apparently.” My mind leaps to the mission, how we’re stuck in limbo until Devereaux calls. “We should probably do something to keep ourselves busy while we wait.”
He pushes off the counter, standing at his full height. It’s impossible not to notice how the muscles of his abdomen flex with the movement. “Any suggestions?”
“Let’s fire up the laptops,” I say, desperately trying to refocus. “I can see if my contact left me any messages overnight. Maybe check if there’s any chatter about Morris Rolfe on social media or the dark web. If he’s half as cocky as I think he is, there might be some digital breadcrumbs.”
Lincoln nods, draining the last of his coffee in one smooth tilt of his head. “I’ll get dressed, meet you in the living room?”
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I, uh, think I’ll do the same. Not exactly dressed for intense investigative work.”
He glances at my tank top and shorts, and for a moment, I see something flicker in his eyes—something hungry. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by his usual stoic calm. “Okay. Five minutes.”
With that, he hands me his empty mug and strides out of the kitchen, heading toward his bedroom. I watch him go, my gaze betraying me by lingering on the muscular line of his back. The moment he’s out of sight, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
I practically sprint back to my own room, setting the mugs on my nightstand for now. My hands shake a little as I grab some clean clothes from the small dresser. Jeans and a plain T-shirt—something comfortable. My reflection in the mirror shows flushed cheeks and hair that’s a tangled mess from my restless sleep. I rake my fingers through it, smoothing out the worst of the knots, then tug it into a loose ponytail.
My mind keeps flashing back to the vision of Lincoln on the floor, muscles rippling, sweat glistening. I curse under my breath, my cheeks burning. This is ridiculous. I’m acting like a schoolgirl with a crush, not a professional woman trying to solve a very real threat on her life.
But the more I try to shake it off, the more vividly I remember his gaze in the club, the press of his chest against my back as we danced. Something definitely changed between us last night, and I’m not sure we can go back to the friendly coworker dynamic.
No, scratch that. Lincoln and I were never exactly friends. We were colleagues, yes, respectful of each other’s skills. But now we’re living together under these tense circumstances, and suddenly I can’t look at him without my heart rate spiking.
I blow out a breath, rubbing my forehead. “Focus, Isabel,” I mutter at my reflection. “We’ve got a job to do. You can’t afford to get distracted.”
When I return to the living room, Lincoln is already there, dressed in dark jeans and a plain gray T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders. He’s fiddling with his laptop on the coffee table. The air conditioner kicks on, sending a gentle hum through the house.
I drop onto the couch beside him, leaving a polite amount of space between us. “Any updates?” I ask, tucking one leg under me.
He shakes his head, eyes on the screen. “Nothing from Devereaux yet. No missed calls or texts.”
I crack open my own laptop, powering it up. The screen’s glow illuminates my face, and I type in my password. “I’ll check my messages,” I say. “See if my contact got back to me.”
Lincoln nods, resting his elbows on his knees as he stares at his laptop. “I’ll cross-reference the addresses we found for Rolfe, see if any property records match his known aliases. Might be a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”
“Right.” I open my email, scanning through the overnight messages. There’s some spam, a reminder about a client proposal from weeks ago, but nothing from the person I was hoping to hear from. I exhale through my nose. “No news from my contact. Guess that’s how it goes sometimes.”
Lincoln types away, brow furrowed in concentration. “Mmhmm,” he murmurs.
For the next twenty minutes or so, we work in companionable silence. The tension from earlier lingers, but we both bury ourselves in the details—property searches, rumored sightings, old intel from Maddox Security’s archives. I lose track of time, focusing on each tidbit of information, hoping something will connect to Morris Rolfe.
At one point, I spot a small forum post that mentions a “M. Rolfe” in Saint Pierce about six months ago, associated with some shady business deals. I flag it, copying the text into a separate document. “Hey, found something,” I say, tapping the screen. “It’s not exactly definitive, but it places him here around half a year ago.”
Lincoln shifts closer, and my pulse skips. I remind myself to breathe normally as he reads over my shoulder. “Could be him,” he says, pointing to the username on the forum. “See that? ‘MRShadow.’ Might tie in with the name. Or it could just be a coincidence.”
I nod. “Still, it’s one more breadcrumb.”
He jots down the username in his notes, lips set in a thin line. “We’ll see if that username pops up anywhere else.”
“Worth a shot,” I agree, glancing up from the screen. My eyes flick to the hard line of his jaw, and I notice the tension there. He’s as wrapped up in this as I am, maybe more. And a pang of guilt hits me—if something goes wrong, he’ll blame himself, because Dean entrusted him with my safety.
Not wanting to dwell on that, I turn back to my laptop, checking social media platforms for any mention of Rolfe or suspicious posts that might hint at a new presence in town. It’s a slog, sifting through half-baked rumors, but it keeps my mind occupied.
Eventually, Lincoln closes his laptop with a tired sigh. “We might be spinning our wheels here.”
I lean back, stretching out my arms. My spine cracks, and I groan. “God, I hate waiting around. I’m more of a go-getter. You know, run in guns blazing.”
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
My cheeks warm, but I push past it. “Hey, no judgment. We got this lead on Devereaux calling us soon, right? Maybe it won’t be so bad.”
Lincoln rakes a hand through his hair. “Hopefully not. But it could be days, even weeks, before he decides to set up that party. If Rolfe’s careful, he won’t just jump into an event without vetting us.”
I scowl. “So we just… wait? And keep digging?”
He nods, and the reality of it sinks in. My knee bounces with restless energy. “Great. I’m not the best at sitting still.”
Lincoln’s smile widens a fraction. “I remember. Dean used to say you’d run circles around him if you had half a chance.”
A bubble of laughter escapes me. “Yeah, well, growing up, we didn’t have much. I had to hustle for everything. Guess it’s still in my blood.”
His gaze flickers with empathy. “You did good, though. Maddox Security wouldn’t be the powerhouse it is without you.”
I swallow, surprised by the praise. “Well… thanks.”
We lapse into silence, a gentler kind than before. I glance at him, noticing the way his posture is still rigid despite the easy conversation—like he’s constantly ready for the next threat. Part of me aches to see him so on-edge. Another part of me appreciates that unwavering vigilance, knowing he’s here for me.
After a moment, I stand, dragging my fingers through my ponytail. “I’m gonna refill my coffee,” I say. “You want anything?”
“I’m good,” he answers, giving me a half-smile. “Thanks.”
I head into the kitchen, leaving him behind. It’s only a momentary reprieve, but it helps me clear my head. The emotional whiplash of the last few days is intense—fear for my safety, curiosity about Rolfe, and this overwhelming attraction to Lincoln that just won’t go away.
As I pour more coffee, I can’t help wondering what today might bring. Maybe we’ll find the clue we need to corner Rolfe. Maybe Devereaux will call with an invite to one of those infamous parties. Or maybe we’ll keep twiddling our thumbs, stuck in this safe house, dancing around each other’s barely contained desire.
I return to the living room with a steaming mug. Lincoln is perched on the couch, phone in hand, probably checking messages or scanning through more data. His eyes flick up when I enter, and for a second, our gazes lock. My heart trips over itself, and I can see the question there in his eyes—are we going to talk about the tension?
I exhale, crossing to the couch and sitting beside him again, coffee warming my hands. “So,” I say softly, “we wait.”
He nods, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Yeah. We wait.”
And in that moment, I realize that waiting might be the hardest part. Because as the day stretches ahead of us, the walls of this safe house feel like they’re closing in, and I’m not sure how long I can pretend that what’s happening between us is purely for show. But for now, it’s all we can do—brew coffee, click through leads, and try to pretend I don’t want to climb the man like a tree.