Page 12

Isabel

The sun has dipped below the horizon, staining the sky with streaks of purple and crimson, by the time I give up on my search for anything new about Morris Rolfe. My eyes blur at the screen of my laptop, and a frustrated sigh escapes my lips. For the past couple of hours, I’ve been scouring every obscure forum, old database, and off-the-record contact I can think of, but I’ve found nothing. Lincoln’s doing the same on his end, stationed at the other side of the small dining table, laptop open, posture rigid.

He shuts his device with a decisive snap. “I think we’re hitting the wall,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve got two days until Devereaux’s party. We may just have to go in with what we’ve got.”

I push my hair away from my face and slump in my seat. “Yeah. We’re running in circles.”

It isn’t for lack of effort. We’ve barely taken breaks all day. Well, except for the occasional banter to brush up on our cover story as “Mr. and Mrs. Zane.” That part we’ve nailed down. I know Lincoln’s favorite movie, his morning routine, even the little habit he has of rearranging pens on a desk so they’re perfectly parallel. Obsessive much? I, however, find it endearing. He knows I hate when my coffee goes lukewarm, that I’ll reheat it five times before I let it go to waste, and that I get a weird kick out of reorganizing spice racks by alphabetical order whenever I’m stressed.

On paper, we’re rock-solid.

But in reality, we’re still two people who’ve never crossed the line between coworkers and… more . And the closer the event gets, the harder it feels to pretend. Especially when my heart still does a weird flip every time he calls me “Isabel” in that low rumble of his, and I remember that soon I’ll have to respond to “Mrs. Zane” like it’s second nature.

Lincoln stands, nudging his chair back from the table. “Maybe we should practice again,” he says quietly. “You know, run through how we’ll act at this private event.”

I arch an eyebrow. “We spent all day on the details. How much more ‘practice’ do we need?”

A knock at the front door answers for him. We both tense—nobody’s supposed to know we’re here. Lincoln holds a finger to his lips, then crosses the living room in two smooth strides, glancing through the peephole. His shoulders relax. “Delivery,” he says, shooting me a quick, cryptic look.

I lift my brows. “Delivery? The dress I ordered isn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

He unlocks and opens the door, murmuring a polite greeting to the courier. A brief exchange follows, and then Lincoln is closing the door, a small, nondescript box in his grip. He returns to me, every line of his body carrying a taut energy I can’t decipher. My pulse picks up.

“So…” I prompt, gesturing to the package. “What’s that?”

For a moment, he says nothing, his jaw working as if he’s deciding how to explain. Then he exhales, turning the box in his hands. “I ordered something that might help us, um, sell this whole marriage act.”

My stomach tightens, equal parts curiosity and dread. “What do you mean?”

He sets the box on the table, and with deliberate care, peels back the tape. When he finally tips it open, I catch a glimpse of bubble wrap and sleek packaging—until he lifts the item free and holds it up. My eyes go wide.

Oh my god.

It’s… an adult toy. A vibrator. A big one. There’s no mistaking it. I can’t even pretend I’m wrong. My cheeks flame hot enough to fry eggs, and I let out a strangled laugh. “Lincoln, what on earth?—?”

He clears his throat. “Look, hear me out.” A flicker of pink touches his own cheeks, and for once, he looks momentarily unsure of himself. “We’re supposed to be a married couple, right? Devereaux’s parties—especially private ones—are rumored to be… intense. Kinky. I figured if we’re going to convince people we’re used to that kind of scene, we should at least, uh, show that we’re not uncomfortable with each other’s… private preferences.”

My mouth is so dry, I can barely speak. “And you think this helps?”

He glances away, clearly embarrassed but standing by his reasoning. “I wanted to be prepared. If someone checks our belongings, or if we get separated at the party, or if we’re forced to be part of something, I need to be able to back up our story. That includes us having… toys .” He sets it on the table, not meeting my gaze.

My body buzzes with adrenaline, or maybe something else entirely. The idea of me and Lincoln, intimately sharing a thing like that, sends my mind into a spiral of conflicting emotions. On one hand, it’s practical in a twisted way—this entire job is about subterfuge, and from what we’ve seen of Club Greed, it wouldn’t be surprising if adult toys were par for the course. On the other hand, it’s impossible not to think about what it implies. Us. Alone. Crossing lines that were never even on the table before.

“I—” I start, swallowing around the sudden tightness in my throat. “I don’t know if this is necessary.”

Lincoln takes a careful step closer. “I think it is.” His voice is hoarse, and I can see his knuckles whitening where he grips the edge of the box. “Besides if someone goes through our stuff—if we’re at a party where people might wonder if we’re really that… open—then having it could reinforce the idea that we’re comfortable exploring that side of marriage.”

My gaze flicks to the toy, then back to him. It’s still surreal, seeing him holding something like that. A swirl of longing and panic churns in my gut. “So… we’re just going to bring it with us? Hide it in a bag or something?” My attempt at sounding casual falls flat.

He nods once, curt. “Yeah. That’s the plan.” Then he runs a hand over his hair, exhaling unsteadily. “But there’s more to it. If we’re going to really sell this, we should at least act like we’re not shy about… about being intimate.”

A flare of passion flashes through me. I’m equal parts mortified and intrigued. I’ve been trying so hard to keep a boundary between us, reminding myself every day that Lincoln is my bodyguard, my brother’s friend, and that we’re only doing this for the mission. Yet the tension has been mounting since that night at Club Greed, and even before that if I’m honest with myself.

Now, though… I can’t pretend I’m not tempted. If Devereaux’s parties are half as scandalous as the rumors say, we might be expected to do more than just stand around holding hands. But crossing that line isn’t something I can take lightly.

I let out a shaky breath. “You’re saying we… test it out?”

His gaze snaps up, and I see the raw conflict in his eyes. “Only if you want to. Honestly, it might be enough just to own it, but if we have to prove anything…” He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture.

A thousand thoughts race through my mind. Dean’s face, furious if he finds out. The electric thrill of Lincoln’s touch when we danced. The heavy awareness of our bodies in the living room, hallway, or even just at this table. My mouth feels dry. “Lincoln… this is… I don’t want to compromise this job just because we get in too deep.”

He sets the toy down again, his shoulders taut. “Believe me, I don’t want to compromise anything either. But we also can’t walk in there unprepared.”

I cross my arms, trying to steady myself. The rational part of me knows he’s right; if we look squeamish at the slightest hint of adult indulgence, Devereaux or Rolfe might see through our cover. But the idea that I might have to push that boundary with Lincoln—really push it—is enough to set my nerves aflame.

“You really think they’ll check our stuff?” I ask quietly.

He nods. “It’s possible. These people are careful. Rolfe especially. Anyone coming to a private event is suspect until proven otherwise.” Then he hesitates, his voice dropping lower. “Look, I’m not gonna force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. This… it’s your call. But I wanted us to have options.”

The house feels still around us, the hush almost suffocating. I take a moment to swallow, adrenaline still pumping through my veins. “Okay,” I say at last, my tone shaky but determined. “We’ll bring it. As for… using it…” My cheeks burn at the admission. “Umm…” I don’t even know what to say.

He nods again, relief and tension warring in his eyes. “I think you should get comfortable coming for an audience.”

Oh my god.

A silence falls, heavy with possibility. My gaze drifts to the item on the table, then back to Lincoln. Every inch of me is aware of how close he is, the subtle warmth radiating from his body, the way his chest rises and falls with each measured breath. The moment is so charged I half expect him to reach for me—to kiss me or something equally reckless. Part of me wants him to.

But neither of us makes a move.

Finally, I shift my weight, clearing my throat. “We should, uh, probably eat something. Dinner. We haven’t eaten since lunch.” I realize how lame it sounds the second it’s out of my mouth. I can’t even respond to his words.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly, stepping back to give me space. “Let’s do that,” his eyes smolder into mine, “...first.”

I rub my palms on my jeans, trying to banish the lingering hum of tension in my limbs. “Right. Before...” my implication sits heavy in the air.

He nods, reaching to gently place the toy back in its box. The sight of it disappearing from view makes my stomach clench with a mix of relief and a spark of lingering curiosity. This is all so much—too much to process in one night. But at least we’re being honest about what might be expected of us.

As I head to the kitchen, I hear the faint rustle of Lincoln sealing the box again. I peek over my shoulder, catching his gaze just once more. The intensity there steals my breath. We’re playing with fire, and we both know it—but it’s a risk we might have to take. Because come Friday night, all bets are off. And if we can’t convince Devereaux and Rolfe that we’re a real couple, I might not get the chance to figure out where Lincoln and I truly stand.

For now, I’ll settle for making dinner, pushing aside the flood of emotions in my chest. Because the clock is ticking, and soon enough, I’ll have to decide just how far I’m willing to go to protect myself—and to keep Lincoln by my side.