Page 26 of Taking What's Mine

“Thanks,” I say, feeling warmth spread through my chest. “Your turn.”

Her grin fades to a smaller smile. “Uh… baking competition shows. I used to watch them with my mom, before she passed. Now I watch them whenever I’m stressed. Something about dough rising and people frosting cakes is soothing.”

I nod slowly, wishing I could give her a comforting hand squeeze without crossing a line. “That’s nice. So, if anyone asks about your weird late-night TV habits, I’ll say you’re hooking up with cooking shows.”

She laughs lightly, a shadow in her eyes at the mention of her mom. “Yeah. That’s me, whipped cream fanatic.”

We cycle through more questions, leaning closer as if the conversation itself is pulling us in. The tension in the room shifts—it’s less about the mission, more about just wanting to know each other. I realize I’m enjoying this a little too much.

Her voice softens as she asks, “What’s your earliest childhood memory?”

I pause, sorting through the mental images. “Probably sitting on my mom’s lap on the front porch, eating popsicles in the summer. I remember the sticky juice running down my arms and her laughing while she tried to clean me up.”

She smiles. “That’s sweet.”

“I guess it is,” I murmur. “What about you?”

She exhales, gaze drifting toward the window. “Sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night with Dean to watch old reruns of detective shows. We’d sit there, wide-eyed, trying to guess who the culprit was before the reveal. Sometimes our parents would catch us, but they usually let us stay up. I think they liked that we did it together.”

I smile, imagining a small Isabel and Dean whispering theories at the TV. “Makes sense. You two have always been a team.”After a lull, I clear my throat. “So, from now on, we should practice how we’d actually answer these questions if someone asked about our marriage. Let’s… set a timeline. How long have we been married?”

She considers it. “Not too long, so the honeymoon phase excuse can explain why we’re all over each other. But long enough that we know basic stuff. How about two years?” She grabs her laptop. “I’m going to set it up online with records of our marriage license and stuff like that.”

I nod. “Sounds good. We can also say we met at Maddox Security, fell in love working a case together—maybe, I don’t know, a corporate espionage gig or something that required a few late nights.”

She chuckles. “We definitely need a more romantic story than that if anyone pries. But sure, that’s the broad strokes.”

I grab my phone, typing a quick note. “Met at work, started dating six months later, got engaged after a year, married at City Hall, small ceremony. No honeymoon because we got busy with the job. That about right?”

Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “I like it. Simple enough that we won’t trip up, but has details we can expand on.”

“Perfect.” I save the note, then slip my phone back onto the table. My mind strays to that impulsive purchase I made earlier—a vibrator I’m hoping will help us look the part at whatever risqué party Devereaux is throwing. A part of me is still reeling that I even considered it, let alone actually ordered it. But if we’re selling this marriage, maybe we need some real evidence of a spicy private life.

I swallow, pushing the thought aside before my face heats up. “So, next question,” I say, forcing a playful tone. “You wake up on a Sunday morning—what’s the first thing you do?”

She pretends to think. “Depends. If I’m feeling lazy, I stay in bed and read on my phone. If I’m feeling ambitious, I make pancakes.”

“Duly noted. Favorite pancake topping?” I fire back.

“Nutella,” she answers without hesitation. “And you?”

“Strawberries,” I say. “Guess we’ll compromise with chocolate and strawberries.”

She laughs. “Hey, that sounds delicious actually.”

Our conversation drifts on, weaving through random facts and deeper confessions. We talk about scariest moments on the job, little pet peeves, random items on our bucket lists. With each question, the distance between us shrinks. Not just physical—though we’re definitely sitting closer now—but emotional. I’m seeing facets of Isabel that I never noticed before, subtle gestures that reveal her thoughtfulness or a spark in her eyes when she’s excited.

It’s disarming. I keep reminding myself this is a cover, that this intimacy is a performance. But the way my heart flips whenever her knee brushes mine or the way she leans in to laugh at something I say… that’s not an act, at least not on my end.

Eventually, we lapse into a comfortable silence, the only sounds the faint hum of the air conditioner and the echo of the conversation in my head. I glance at her, noticing a soft smile on her lips as if she, too, is replaying our talk.

“So,” she murmurs after a moment, “I guess we’re as ready as we can be for Devereaux’s party?”

I rub the back of my neck. “We’ll see. We’ve got the basics—favorite color, earliest childhood memory, how we met. That should get us through the usual questions. But who knows what they’ll ask?”

She shrugs. “We’ll just have to be quick on our feet.” Her eyes glimmer with a mix of excitement and nerves. “A few days… we still have time to practice more.”

I nod, meeting her gaze. “Yeah, we do.”

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