Page 23 of Taking What's Mine

Lincoln nods, draining the last of his coffee in one smooth tilt of his head. “I’ll get dressed, meet you in the living room?”

“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I, uh, think I’ll do the same. Not exactly dressed for intense investigative work.”

He glances at my tank top and shorts, and for a moment, I see something flicker in his eyes—something hungry. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by his usual stoic calm. “Okay. Five minutes.”

With that, he hands me his empty mug and strides out of the kitchen, heading toward his bedroom. I watch him go, my gaze betraying me by lingering on the muscular line of his back. The moment he’s out of sight, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

I practically sprint back to my own room, setting the mugs on my nightstand for now. My hands shake a little as I grab some clean clothes from the small dresser. Jeans and a plain T-shirt—something comfortable. My reflection in the mirror shows flushed cheeks and hair that’s a tangled mess from my restless sleep. I rake my fingers through it, smoothing out the worst of the knots, then tug it into a loose ponytail.

My mind keeps flashing back to the vision of Lincoln on the floor, muscles rippling, sweat glistening. I curse under my breath, my cheeks burning. This is ridiculous. I’m acting like a schoolgirl with a crush, not a professional woman trying to solve a very real threat on her life.

But the more I try to shake it off, the more vividly I remember his gaze in the club, the press of his chest against my back as we danced. Something definitely changed between us last night, and I’m not sure we can go back to the friendly coworker dynamic.

No, scratch that. Lincoln and I were never exactly friends. We were colleagues, yes, respectful of each other’s skills. But now we’re living together under these tense circumstances, and suddenly I can’t look at him without my heart rate spiking.

I blow out a breath, rubbing my forehead. “Focus, Isabel,” I mutter at my reflection. “We’ve got a job to do. You can’t afford to get distracted.”

When I return to the living room, Lincoln is already there, dressed in dark jeans and a plain gray T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders. He’s fiddling with his laptop on the coffee table. The air conditioner kicks on, sending a gentle hum through the house.

I drop onto the couch beside him, leaving a polite amount of space between us. “Any updates?” I ask, tucking one leg under me.

He shakes his head, eyes on the screen. “Nothing from Devereaux yet. No missed calls or texts.”

I crack open my own laptop, powering it up. The screen’s glow illuminates my face, and I type in my password. “I’ll check my messages,” I say. “See if my contact got back to me.”

Lincoln nods, resting his elbows on his knees as he stares at his laptop. “I’ll cross-reference the addresses we found for Rolfe, see if any property records match his known aliases. Might be a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”

“Right.” I open my email, scanning through the overnight messages. There’s some spam, a reminder about a client proposal from weeks ago, but nothing from the person I was hoping to hear from. I exhale through my nose. “No news from my contact. Guess that’s how it goes sometimes.”

Lincoln types away, brow furrowed in concentration. “Mmhmm,” he murmurs.

For the next twenty minutes or so, we work in companionable silence. The tension from earlier lingers, but we both bury ourselves in the details—property searches, rumored sightings, old intel from Maddox Security’s archives. I lose track of time, focusing on each tidbit of information, hoping something will connect to Morris Rolfe.

At one point, I spot a small forum post that mentions a “M. Rolfe” in Saint Pierce about six months ago, associated with some shady business deals. I flag it, copying the text into a separate document. “Hey, found something,” I say, tapping thescreen. “It’s not exactly definitive, but it places him here around half a year ago.”

Lincoln shifts closer, and my pulse skips. I remind myself to breathe normally as he reads over my shoulder. “Could be him,” he says, pointing to the username on the forum. “See that? ‘MRShadow.’ Might tie in with the name. Or it could just be a coincidence.”

I nod. “Still, it’s one more breadcrumb.”

He jots down the username in his notes, lips set in a thin line. “We’ll see if that username pops up anywhere else.”

“Worth a shot,” I agree, glancing up from the screen. My eyes flick to the hard line of his jaw, and I notice the tension there. He’s as wrapped up in this as I am, maybe more. And a pang of guilt hits me—if something goes wrong, he’ll blame himself, because Dean entrusted him with my safety.

Not wanting to dwell on that, I turn back to my laptop, checking social media platforms for any mention of Rolfe or suspicious posts that might hint at a new presence in town. It’s a slog, sifting through half-baked rumors, but it keeps my mind occupied.

Eventually, Lincoln closes his laptop with a tired sigh. “We might be spinning our wheels here.”

I lean back, stretching out my arms. My spine cracks, and I groan. “God, I hate waiting around. I’m more of a go-getter. You know, run in guns blazing.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

My cheeks warm, but I push past it. “Hey, no judgment. We got this lead on Devereaux calling us soon, right? Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

Lincoln rakes a hand through his hair. “Hopefully not. But it could be days, even weeks, before he decides to set up that party. If Rolfe’s careful, he won’t just jump into an event without vetting us.”

I scowl. “So we just… wait? And keep digging?”

He nods, and the reality of it sinks in. My knee bounces with restless energy. “Great. I’m not the best at sitting still.”

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