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)
She considers it. “Not too long, so the honeymoon phase excuse can explain why we’re all over each other. But long enough that we know basic stuff. How about two years?” She grabs her laptop. “I’m going to set it up online with records of our marriage license and stuff like that.”
I nod. “Sounds good. We can also say we met at Maddox Security, fell in love working a case together—maybe, I don’t know, a corporate espionage gig or something that required a few late nights.”
She chuckles. “We definitely need a more romantic story than that if anyone pries. But sure, that’s the broad strokes.”
I grab my phone, typing a quick note. “Met at work, started dating six months later, got engaged after a year, married at City Hall, small ceremony. No honeymoon because we got busy with the job. That about right?”
Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “I like it. Simple enough that we won’t trip up, but has details we can expand on.”
“Perfect.” I save the note, then slip my phone back onto the table. My mind strays to that impulsive purchase I made earlier—a vibrator I’m hoping will help us look the part at whatever risqué party Devereaux is throwing. A part of me is still reeling that I even considered it, let alone actually ordered it. But if we’re selling this marriage, maybe we need some real evidence of a spicy private life.
I swallow, pushing the thought aside before my face heats up. “So, next question,” I say, forcing a playful tone. “You wake up on a Sunday morning—what’s the first thing you do?”
She pretends to think. “Depends. If I’m feeling lazy, I stay in bed and read on my phone. If I’m feeling ambitious, I make pancakes.”
“Duly noted. Favorite pancake topping?” I fire back.
“Nutella,” she answers without hesitation. “And you?”
“Strawberries,” I say. “Guess we’ll compromise with chocolate and strawberries.”
She laughs. “Hey, that sounds delicious actually.”
Our conversation drifts on, weaving through random facts and deeper confessions. We talk about scariest moments on the job, little pet peeves, random items on our bucket lists. With each question, the distance between us shrinks. Not just physical—though we’re definitely sitting closer now—but emotional. I’m seeing facets of Isabel that I never noticed before, subtle gestures that reveal her thoughtfulness or a spark in her eyes when she’s excited.
It’s disarming. I keep reminding myself this is a cover, that this intimacy is a performance. But the way my heart flips whenever her knee brushes mine or the way she leans in to laugh at something I say… that’s not an act, at least not on my end.
Eventually, we lapse into a comfortable silence, the only sounds the faint hum of the air conditioner and the echo of the conversation in my head. I glance at her, noticing a soft smile on her lips as if she, too, is replaying our talk.
“So,” she murmurs after a moment, “I guess we’re as ready as we can be for Devereaux’s party?”
I rub the back of my neck. “We’ll see. We’ve got the basics—favorite color, earliest childhood memory, how we met. That should get us through the usual questions. But who knows what they’ll ask?”
She shrugs. “We’ll just have to be quick on our feet.” Her eyes glimmer with a mix of excitement and nerves. “A few days… we still have time to practice more.”
I nod, meeting her gaze. “Yeah, we do.”
The tension thickens again, and I have to resist the sudden urge to close the gap between us and see what it feels like to kiss her for real. Instead, I clear my throat, leaning back against the couch. “I think we did good today,” I say softly, “learning about each other.”
She nods, dropping her gaze to her hands. “Yeah. Thank you. I feel better about… all this.” Her voice is quiet, a bit uncertain, and I know she’s talking about more than the cover story.
My phone buzzes again, startling us both. We exchange quick glances, and I snatch it off the couch cushion. Another text from Devereaux:
Devereaux: “Friday. Don’t be late. Dress to impress.”
My jaw sets. Dress to impress, huh? I guess that means the new suit’s coming back out. And maybe the, um, new purchase too. “Looks like our date is confirmed,” I say, turning the phone so she can see.
She sighs, tension flickering in her eyes. “We’ve got this, right? I’ll order another dress from online.”
I swallow, forcing confidence into my voice I only half-feel. “Yeah, good idea. We’ve got this.”
The irony of the situation—the two of us dancing around each other like we’re not seconds away from stepping off a cliff—doesn’t escape me. But as I stare at her, I realize that, for better or worse, we’re in this together. Pretending to be a married couple for a dangerous mission was not on my Bingo card, yet here we are.