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)
I clock the small tells while lifting her suitcase—designer hard-shell, weight evenly distributed, no exterior ID tag (nice privacy discipline). I stow it in the truck bed, note the balance shift, slam the tailgate. Her glare tracks me the whole time; heat index about 9.5.
I circle to the driver’s seat, cataloging angles: mirror sightlines clear, nearest exits south and east, black sedan across the street (empty, still keep half an eye). “Ready for the best week of your life?” I flash the practiced grin—forty-percent charm, sixty-percent disarming.
She rolls her eyes hard enough I worry for retinal strain. “Let’s skip the cheesy banter and jump to the part where we pretend we’re soulmates.”
The truck engine rumbles to life. I ease onto the road with a smooth acceleration, just under the limit. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
Her head snaps around. I catch the movement in my peripheral. Flight risk? Low, but she contemplates the door handle. “Did you just call me sweetheart? Again?”
I adopt my most angelic expression. “Prefer honey? Babe? Classic ‘my love’? I’m flexible.”
“Let’s stick with Charlotte,” she deadpans, seat-belt click punctuating each syllable.
“Copy that.” I merge into traffic, running mental overlays of threat routes, safe houses, medical facilities. She exhales—half exasperation, half surrender—and stares out the window. I let a smile tug at one corner of my mouth.
Game on.
The silence that follows is thick enough to slice through, but I’m not one to be put off by awkward quiet. I’ve handled high-pressure situations before, and compared to some of the missions I’ve been on, this is a walk in the park. Still, I know we need a plan if we’re going to pull this off.
“So,” I say after a few minutes, “how do you want to play this?”
She crosses her arms and stares out the window. “We pretend to be in love. Simple.”
I snort. “Yeah, because that’s all it takes, right? Just say we’re in love and everyone will believe it.”
She turns to face me, eyebrows raised. “What exactly do you suggest, Mr. Expert?”
I shrug, enjoying the way her annoyance seems to bubble up every time I speak. “We need a backstory. Something believable. How we met, how long we’ve been together, why you’re so madly in love with me you couldn’t possibly go through with marrying Wade.”
Her nose scrunches up at the mention of Wade, and I file that reaction away for later. “Fine,” she says, giving in just enough to keep the conversation going. “Let’s hear your genius idea.”
“All right,” I say, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. “We met a few months back at some fancy charity event your parents forced you to go to. You were bored, sneaked out to get some air, and found me doing the same. Sparks flew. We’ve been sneaking around ever since, but now we’ve decided to come clean and tell your family.”
She blinks, processing the story, and then shakes her head. “Sneaking around? That’s the best you can come up with?”
“Hey, you’re the one who’s supposed to be madly in love with me,” I tease. “If you have a better idea, let’s hear it.”
She lets out a sigh that’s probably meant to sound exasperated, but I catch a hint of a smile before she hides it. “I guess it’s not the worst plan.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, my grin widening.
The truck falls into silence again, but this time it’s a little less tense. Charlotte shifts in her seat, probably trying to get comfortable with the fact that, for the next week, we’re going to be glued at the hip. I glance over at her, studying, watching as she stares out the window like it’s more interesting than me. She’s definitely not thrilled about this, but I find her annoyance oddly entertaining.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence again. “What’s the story with Wade? You hate the guy, right?”
She gives a short laugh, devoid of any humor. “Hate is a strong word. I prefer to say that I would rather spend a week locked in a room with a thousand mosquitoes than marry him.”
I let out a low whistle. “Wow, that bad, huh?”
She rolls her eyes again, but there’s a slight smile on her lips. “You have no idea.”
We fall into a pocket of silence again, but this time it doesn’t sit sharp between us. It feels... looser. Like maybe we’re starting to find a rhythm—two professionals caught in a tangled situation, trying not to trip over each other.
I keep my gaze on the road, but my attention drifts sideways. Out of habit, I read her cues the way I’d scan a room—subtle shifts, tells. Charlotte’s sitting tall, her arms crossed, but her fingers are tapping an erratic beat against her thigh. A signal. Anxiety. Despite the razor wit and ice-queen posture, she’s not as indifferent as she pretends.