Page 64 of Lost in the Moonlight

Except, just being photographed with him could slice through our protective wool hiding us from the Viceroys. Coming here, to the grocery store, in the middle of the day wasn’t smart.

I tore my gaze from his, watching the automatic doors swooshing back and forth as dozens of people walked in and out. “Aren’t you afraid of being recognized?”

Maybe he heard the tremor in my voice, because he tried to ease it by grinning and saying, “I have a disguise.” I raised my brows, and he winked, leaning into the back seat and coming back with a baseball cap. After putting it on with a snap, he opened the center console, grabbed a pair of sunglasses, and slid them on with a flourish of hands. “Voilá, I’m no longer Lincoln Matherton.”

I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped, because there was no way it was a true disguise. Sure, the bright-blue eyes the world adored were hidden as well as his lush, dark waves, but everyounce of his nose, jaw, and broad shoulders still screamed the truth of him.

“You can’t be serious. The girl at the café recognized you with that hat.”

“But I didn’t have my sunglasses. That’s the ultimate shield.”

I shook my head, but all my doubts disintegrated with the force of his wide smile that stopped my lungs from filling completely.

He got out of the car, and I opened my door and stepped out just as he came around and shut it behind me.

“Watch and learn, little Padawan. The Force is with me dressed and acting like this.”

He hunched his shoulders, grabbed my hand, and headed for the row of carts with a shuffle that was anything but confident. It was the first time I’d seen him without the rigidly straight back and assured air I’d come to equate with him.

In some ways, he was right. He didn’t look like Lincoln Matherton, world-famous artist and president’s son. He looked…normal. Everyday. But also stunningly gorgeous enough people would look. So I still expected someone to recognize him, to shift their eyes and phones toward us, but not a single person glanced in our direction, even when he kept the sunglasses on inside the store.

While I continued to look around nervously, Lincoln led us to the produce section where he started tossing items in the cart that felt utterly random. This was a ridiculous risk. Stupid in just the way the Marshals had taught us not to be. But I hadn’t wanted to go home when he’d asked me to come. I’d wanted to stay in the one place where I felt safest—with him.

My palms turned sweaty, and I shot a nervous look in the direction of a man staring at the bagged salad display.

Lincoln put a bunch of bananas in the cart and then pulled me closer. “You’re going to ruin everything and get us spotted if you keep looking around like that.”

“Me?” I asked. “You’re the one who was on the cover ofThe Reporter.”

He shifted me so I was caught between the handle of the cart and him. My hips pressed against his, and a fire flew through my veins that felt like a heavy pull of alcohol.

“You’re supposed to be part of the disguise, not shaking it. No one expects to see me here in Cherry Bay with a blonde they can’t name.”

One glance over his shoulder proved we had caught the eye of an elderly woman. Her pursed lips and narrowed eyes screamed her disapproval of this display of…whatever it was.

“I should be offended that you consider me no one, but I’m not,” I said. “I need that anonymity. It’s kept me safe.”

His face softened, and he leaned in and gave me a soft, quick kiss. “You’re not no one, Sweetness. You’re the bravest, strongest woman I’ve met.”

My heart and soul flipped at those words said with a surety that allowed for no argument. I pushed against his chest. “You’re the one making a scene. That woman is about to call security.” I flicked my eyes in the older woman’s direction, only to have her glance away with disgust.

He looked over his shoulder, caught the woman’s eyes, and gave a little wave.

The woman turned beet red, turned on her heel, and rounded the next corner.

I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped me once more. “Nice way tonotcall attention to yourself.”

I shoved against his chest once more, and this time, he released me. As he pushed the cart down the aisle with those uncharacteristically slumped shoulders, I walked by his side, scanning the fruits and vegetables. When my eyes landed on baskets of perfectly ripe strawberries, I wished I’d at least brought some money with me. I picked the berries up, sniffed them, touched their firm skin, and then set them down with a sigh, moving past them as I followed Lincoln.

“You make it really hard not to touch you,” he said.

“I’m not doing anything,” I huffed out.

“You practically made love to the strawberries.”

I beamed up at him. “They’re perfect. It’s hard to find perfect strawberries this early in the season, especially at a regular market.”

“And yet you left them behind.”

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