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)
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.