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)
“Yes.” The answer is automatic, unfiltered, true.
She searches my face for tells—eye dart, lip curl, defensive blink. I give her none. She looks away first, adjusting the lace at her cuff, and in that micro-surrender I see the opening.
“I appreciate fiduciary prudence,” I add, voice lower, measured. “We’ll sign a prenuptial agreement that satisfies every family attorney you put in the room—ironclad protections. But those documents will be paperwork, not motivation.”
Nana Peg’s shoulders ease a fraction. Not approval, but acknowledgment. She lifts her cup again, steam fogging the lens of her glasses. “What do you know of Charlotte’s philanthropic board obligations?”
“Ten hours a month, plus gala season,” I recite. “She’s passionate about urban literacy programs; I offered my firm’s pro-bono security for their book-mobile events.”
That surprises her. Another point registered.
Her cup clinks softly onto the saucer. “Very well, Mr. Hawke.” She stands, and the conversation is dismissed, but her eyes linger on mine, softer now, if only by a degree. “Charlotte’s happiness is non-negotiable. Break it, and you’ll answer to me.”
I rise, matching her height, which isn’t much. “Understood. And for the record, Mrs. Lane, I’m far more worried about failing Charlotte than crossing you.”
A thin smile cracks her reserve, and for a flicker she looks pleased. “Good night, Mr. Hawke.”
“Good night, ma’am.”
She exits, footsteps precise on the parquet. I wait ten seconds—standard clearance—then step into the corridor, eyes sweeping for threats, ears tuned for distressed syllables. All clear.
One hurdle down, a lifetime of guardianship to go. I can work with that.
When I get back to the room, Charlotte’s sitting on the balcony, and I rush out there, scanning the outside for possible threats.
“What did my grandmother say?” she asks, standing slowly.
“Usual jargon. She adores me.” I’m joking, obviously, and Charlotte just gives me a half-smile.
“I’m sure,” she says, and I hint a note of sarcasm. “As long as she’s buying it, that’s all that matters.”
I nod, eyes sweeping the perimeter for any lingering threat. “Tomorrow we’ll need to dial up the convincing act.”
Charlotte slips past me, pausing just long enough for our gazes to lock. “I was afraid you’d say that,” she murmurs.
I file the hesitation for later analysis. Seems Charlotte is just as wary of our staged intimacy as I am.
I secure the suite one last time—bathroom clear, balcony lock engaged, hallway motion sensor active on my phone—before killing the lights. Only the soft glow of a single bedside lamp remains, throwing amber across the room’s muted décor. Charlotte stands at the dresser, loosening the clip in her hair. The ripple of brown over her shoulders is entirely unhelpful to my concentration.
“Perimeter’s good,” I report, voice pitched neutral. “No anomalies on the camera feed.”
She nods, folding her jewelry into a velvet tray. “Thanks, Asher.” Her tone is gentle, but the tightness in her posture says she’s still replaying the day on loop. Stress writes itself in the slope of her shoulders.
I cross to the sofa at the suite’s far wall. Earlier, I insisted on claiming it; hard lines, thin cushion, terrible for anyone over six feet but perfect for maintaining professional distance. Now, staring at its narrow frame, I realize just how bad the night’s going to be for my spine…and how fiercely I want to be closer to her.
She turns and catches me assessing the couch. “Second thoughts?” she asks, a hint of teasing veiling real curiosity.
“Just confirming load-bearing capacity,” I deadpan. “Looks like it was designed for ornamental pillows, not six-foot security details.”
Her laugh is soft, easing a measure of tension. “Trade you. I’ve slept in worse during hurricane relief trips.”
“Not happening,” I say automatically. It’s a protector reflex. “You take the bed.”
Charlotte crosses the carpet toward me, barefoot, silk pajama set brushing her skin like liquid midnight. She stops just out of arm’s reach and I note her faint lavender shampoo, vanilla lotion. It’s useless intel but logged anyway because my brain seems intent on cataloging everything about her. “You know,” she says softly, “there’s plenty of room.” She gestures to the king-size mattress. Her eyes search mine—challenge or invitation, impossible to tell.
I clear my throat, forcing my gaze to the floor plan pinned on the coffee table. “Bed’s your safe zone. Couch is mine. It works.”
“But you won’t actually sleep.” She folds her arms, reading me too well. “Your eyes never shut for more than five minutes at a time.”
“It’s fine.”
“Is it?” She steps closer, just one pace, but it slams through my circuitry like live voltage. “Look, Asher, I trust you. If sharing a bed makes things less miserable for both of us, I can handle a line in the middle.”
The mental image detonates—her inches away in the darkness, the cadence of her breathing syncing with mine. I inhale slowly, forcing rhythm: in four, hold, out four. “My job is to protect you, not complicate your life.”