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)
“We’re in this together, right?” he murmurs.
My heart clenches at the vulnerability in his tone. I meet his eyes again, the air between us crackling with unspoken truths. “Right,” I whisper, knowing full well we’ve just crossed into territory neither of us expected.
Chapter 15
Lincoln
I wake up feeling like I barely slept, yet my body is oddly alert as every muscle hums with the memory of last night. The warm morning light spills through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the room. I blink a few times, trying to get my bearings. For a moment, I don’t move. My head is crowded with images of Isabel. Her voice, the arch of her back, the way her breath caught in her throat as she gripped my arms. Part of me still can’t believe we let ourselves cross that line. But here we are.
The alarm on my phone buzzes on the nightstand. With a low groan, I sit up, scrubbing a hand over my face. Today is our last full day before Devereaux’s private party. Tomorrow night, everything we’ve worked toward, everything we’re risking, comes to a head. Between the tension of the mission and the charged intimacy Isabel and I shared, my mind feels like it’s balancing on the edge of a knife.
I throw off the covers, half expecting to hear some sign of movement from across the hallway. But the house is silent. Isabel must still be asleep. With a resigned sigh, I decide it’s probably a good time to get dressed and make coffee. She’s going to need caffeine after last night, and especially after how late we ended up pushing ourselves. My chest tightens at the memory of how close we came, how we tested each other’s boundaries and wants. A wave of need courses through me, followed by a pang of guilt. I’m here to keep her safe, not to get swept up in desire.
Still, I can’t deny the warmth that spreads through my chest when I think of the look in her eyes, the low sounds she made that made every nerve in my body light up. I push away those thoughts for now, tugging on a worn gray T-shirt and a pair of jeans. I need to keep my head level. If there’s one thing my military days taught me, it’s that focus is everything.
Stepping into the kitchen, I flip on the light. The small safe-house layout feels strangely cozy this morning, and I can’t help noticing the small details we’ve left scattered around—a coffee mug on the table from yesterday, a pair of her socks by the couch. Signs that we’ve made this place home, if only temporarily. The tension in my shoulders loosens a bit. Maybe home is wherever we can breathe together.
My stomach growls, reminding me we didn’t have much of a real dinner last night—too focused on each other and the swirl of emotions between us. I recall that Isabel loves pancakes, something she mentioned during our “get to know you” sessions. She even teased me about how she’d eat them with Nutella if given a choice. That’s it. I’ll make pancakes. A small gesture that might put a smile on her face and ease the awkwardness that’s bound to set in if we don’t address last night head-on.
Rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, I find some pancake mix—thankfully not expired—and the basics: eggs, milk, a bowl, a whisk. The fridge yields no Nutella, no fresh fruit. I frown at the limited selection, then spot a half-empty bottle of chocolate syrup in the door. That’ll have to do. As I glance at the cupboards again, searching for something else sweet, I stumble across a bag of trail mix. It’s mostly nuts, but I see a few dried cranberries in there, which might add some sweetness. It’s a strange combination, but hey, I’m improvising.
With the stove on, I mix the batter carefully. The smell of flour and eggs wafts through the kitchen, and it’s surprisingly comforting. I haven’t cooked pancakes in a while—usually, it’s protein bars and coffee for me—but the act itself feels grounding. My mind churns with a thousand thoughts: the mission, the toy we tried out, the fact that we’re pretending to be a married couple tomorrow night in front of some very dangerous people. Yet, as I pour the batter into the frying pan, I focus on the hiss and bubble, on the swirl of the wooden spoon, letting the simple, repetitive motions calm me.
The first few pancakes come out golden-brown, though a bit lopsided. I shrug at my handiwork. They’ll taste fine, I hope. I chop up a handful of dried cranberries into tiny pieces and sprinkle them on top, then drizzle chocolate syrup in a spiral. It looks… interesting, to say the least. I try not to think too hard about how weird the combination is. All that matters is the gesture.