Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
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.
Chapter 11
Lincoln
How long can a man be tempted without going completely insane? It’s a logical question. One that I wish I had the answer to, because being in close proximity to Isabel day-in and day-out is maddening.
Even the smell of her shampoo drives me batty. I’m doing my best to focus on the laptop screen in front of me—trying to find any new information on Morris Rolfe, cross-referencing addresses, scanning old police reports—but if I’m honest, I’ve been stuck on the same paragraph for ten minutes. My brain refuses to cooperate. All I can think about is Isabel, drifting around the house in that loose T-shirt and shorts, her hair tied back in a ponytail. The safe house is quiet this morning, the only sounds the low hum of the HVAC and the soft clicks of our keyboards, but the tension in the air is anything but peaceful.
I shoot a glance her way. She’s sprawled on the other side of the couch, eyes narrowed at her own laptop. She’s barefoot, one leg curled up under her, the other swinging idly back and forth. The posture is casual—relaxed, even—but I know better. I can see the set of her jaw, the restless bounce of her foot. She hates waiting, and so do I, but that’s the nature of undercover work: long stretches of inactivity, punctuated by moments of high-risk action.
My phone buzzes on the couch cushion beside me, snapping me out of my thoughts. I grab it, half-hoping it’s Devereaux with some news. Sure enough, the text icon flashes.