Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Charlotte groans, burying her face in her hands. “This is insane.”
I take a step closer to her, lowering my voice. “It’s not ideal, but it’s the best shot we’ve got. If Wade thinks he can break you, he’ll keep pushing. We need to make him, and everyone else, believe there’s no way you’d ever choose him over me.”
Her hands drop, and she looks up at me, her eyes blazing with a mix of frustration and something else I can’t quite place. “And how exactly do we do that, Mr. Hawke? Start kissing in front of everyone? Stage a few dramatic declarations of love?”
I smirk, leaning down just enough so only she can hear. “If you think that’ll sell it, I’m game.”
Her cheeks flush, and she looks away quickly, but not before I catch the flicker of something in her expression. Annoyance? Embarrassment? Maybe a little of both.
“Enough,” Charles cuts in, rubbing his temples again. “The point is, you two need to sell this. Completely. At dinner tonight, in front of everyone. No hesitation. No cracks in the story.”
“Understood,” I say, straightening. “But we also need to address the real issue: Wade.”
Charles nods grimly. “Agreed. What do you suggest?”
I glance at Charlotte, then back to her father. “I want to dig deeper into his background. If he’s capable of making threats like this, who knows what else he’s involved in? The more we know about him, the better chance we have of shutting him down.”
“Do it,” Charles says without hesitation. “Whatever you need, let me know.”
“Already planning on it,” I reply, glancing back at Charlotte. “But in the meantime, we need to stick to the plan. Sell the relationship. Keep Nana Peg off balance.”
Charlotte sighs, standing and brushing her hands down the front of her dress. “I agree. I’ll play along. But let me make one thing clear, Asher.” She steps closer, her gaze locked on mine. “If you screw this up, it’s not just my reputation on the line. It’s my family’s entire future.”
I meet her gaze, the fire in her eyes igniting something in me. “Don’t worry, Charlotte. I don’t fail.”
Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she turns to her parents. “Anything else?”
Her mother smiles faintly. “Just remember, dear, you’re in love. Make us believe it.”
Charlotte groans again and stalks toward the door. I follow her, feeling the heat of her frustration radiating off her.
As we step out into the hallway, I lean closer and lower my voice. “You know, I think we’re off to a great start.”
She stops, turning to glare at me. “Oh, really? And what makes you think that?”
I grin. “Because that glare you just gave me? Definitely believable as the look of a woman madly in love.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile before she storms off down the hall. We make our way back to our room.
I seal the suite door behind us and engage the privacy latch—habit more than paranoia, though after the Wade encounter every lock feels suddenly essential. Charlotte walks straight to the dresser, loosening her dress from her shoulders with a sigh that’s half exhaustion, half relief. I turn away long enough to scan the space: balcony secure, adjoining door dead-bolted, bathroom clear. All green.
The couch waits like a punishment bench at the far wall. Gross. It’s too narrow, and the armrests are boxed in tight. At dinner I insisted it was fine. Now my lower back screams pre-emptive protest. I lower myself anyway, jacket still on, boots unlaced but not removed. The cushions compress to wafer thickness and a spring nicks my shoulder blade. Fantastic.
Across the room, Charlotte slips into navy satin pajamas: modest, but the sheen follows every curve. She flicks off the lamp and slides beneath the king-size duvet. Darkness swallows the room; HVAC kicks on in a low rush, and my eyes adjust to silhouettes—dresser, chair, the faint outline of her profile against moonlit curtains.
Minutes stretch. Twice I shift, failing to find a painless angle; the third creak from the sofa earns a soft, amused huff from the bed.
“You’re going to need a chiropractor by sunrise,” she murmurs.
“I’ve survived worse,” I say, voice hovering at whisper-range. Sandstorms, forward operating bases, a collapsed observation post in the Hindu Kush. This couch might rank lower on the misery scale, but only barely.
Silence again, but it’s denser now—filled with the unasked. My throat’s dry, my pulse drumming in my neck. I catalog its tempo with idle precision: mid-eighty, climbing when she speaks.
“Asher?” Her voice is closer. She's propped on an elbow, the duvet sliding enough that moonlight outlines her collarbone. “It might look strange tomorrow if we’re stiff around each other. Body language tells on us.”
She’s making a point about operational credibility, but underlying tension crackles like static on a radio.