Page 34 of Taking What's Mine

I laugh, running a hand through my hair. “I’ll make it up to you one day. Next time, I’ll find actual strawberries. And maybe not ruin them with dried cranberries.”

She snorts. “Deal.”

We step inside, the warmth of the interior hitting us. The moment the door closes behind us, I feel a subtle shift—a reminder that we’re back in the real world, the clock ticking toward tomorrow night’s party. But for now, at least, there’s a sense of ease between us, a shared memory of laughter and lightness that helps offset the nerves.

We shed our jackets, hanging them on the rack by the door. Isabel gives me a playful bump with her hip as she heads toward the living room, and I catch her wrist gently, halting her. The gesture is spontaneous, my thumb brushing the inside of her arm. She looks up, surprise flickering in her gaze.

I lean down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. It’s chaste, almost brotherly, but the warmth that floods through me is anything but platonic. She exhales a small, trembling breath, and I can tell the moment she surrenders to it, just for a heartbeat, letting her forehead rest against my collarbone. My chest tightens with the familiar ache of wanting more.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, voice thick. “For… everything.”

She nods, her own voice barely above a whisper. “Same goes for you.”

We linger there for a second longer, the air charged with the intimacy of the moment. And then I head to where my laptop sits along the table. Fuck. There’s so much more I want to say to her, but don’t even know how to voice it.

I want to kiss her. I know she laid down a no kissing rule, but fuck me. Her lips look so inviting. So soft. So fuckable. Will we appear married if we don’t even kiss?

Chapter 16

Isabel

The sun has just dipped below the horizon, turning the sky outside the safe house a dusky purple. I stand in front of the small bedroom mirror, smoothing down the clingy black dress I chose for tonight. My stomach feels like it’s hosting a thousand butterflies, all fluttering in different directions. The anticipation for this evening has been building in the pit of my gut all day, pulsing like a low-grade current of electricity. Everything we’ve practiced—our “married couple” backstory, the countless little details about each other—comes alive tonight.

Club Greed’s private party. The place where we’re supposed to finally meet Morris Rolfe, or at least get close enough to gather real intel. The very idea sends my heart into overdrive, though I’m not sure if it’s the mission that has me so anxious or the memory of how close Lincoln and I have become over the past week. When I think of the nights we’ve shared—of the intimate, heated moments I never saw coming—my cheeks burn.

For a long minute, I stare at my own reflection: teased hair pinned back, smoky eye makeup giving me a darker, more alluring look than usual, and the form-fitting dress that leaves little to the imagination. If we’re going to convince anyone we belong in a place like Club Greed, we have to look the part. With a shaky exhale, I remind myself that I’m not just going as Isabel Maddox—I’m going as Isabel Zane, Lincoln’s wife. A role I’ll have to play convincingly, from the way I cling to his arm to the way I greet him with a kiss if someone’s watching.

A knock on the doorframe startles me. I turn to see Lincoln lingering there, half in shadow, wearing a dark suit that clings to every line of his body in a way that has me pressing my thighs together. His hair is styled neat, but a bit of that natural wave still shows at his temples, a reminder that he’s not just some corporate stiff—he’s ex-military, a man who thrives on danger. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him.

“You ready?” he asks quietly, voice low and calm, though his eyes flick over me with a need that betrays his composure.

I swallow hard. “As I’ll ever be.” I force a nervous laugh. “You look… good.”

He steps into the room, his gaze lingering on the hem of my dress, then meeting my eyes. “You look incredible,” he says, the faintest crack in his voice. A flicker of a smile tugs at his lips before he glances away, clearing his throat. “Listen, before we head out, there’s something I realized we haven’t practiced.”

My stomach twists. “We’ve practiced everything, though. The details about each other’s families, our fictional wedding date, our favorite foods. We even practiced being comfortable with… well, with each other physically.” Heat swirls in my cheeks, recalling just how physical that got.

He shifts his weight, rolling back on his heels. “Yeah, we did. But there’s one pretty basic thing that’s expected of a married couple—kissing. People at the club might notice if we never do it, or if it looks awkward when we do.”

My face burns hotter. “We, uh… oh, right,” I murmur, realization sinking in that he’s absolutely right.

Lincoln’s shoulders tense, like he’s worried he’s overstepping. “I know this might be weird to just… bring up. But if we go in there, acting like newlyweds or at least a happily married couple, we can’t look like we’re fumbling around each other’s mouths. That’d raise suspicion.”

He’s not wrong. Of course he’s not. My heart pounds. “Okay,” I whisper, running my fingertips over the neckline of my dress to distract myself. “So we… practice, here. Now?”

His gaze darts to the hallway, as though double-checking that we’re alone. Even thought we obviously are. “Yeah, I think we should. Just… get it out of the way, so we’re both comfortable.”

I nod, my nerves fraying like a live wire. We’ve done more intimate things than a kiss, but somehow, this feels different—more vulnerable, more telling. A kiss is a statement, a public display of care or desire. And we’re about to leave and face an entire crowd of suspicious onlookers who might test our story if we so much as hesitate.

I take a breath to steady myself, stepping toward him so that there’s only a sliver of space between our bodies. He smells like cologne—something warm and smoky—and underneath that, the familiar scent of Lincoln, fresh and undeniably masculine. My pulse thuds in my ears, and when I look up into his dark eyes, I see them flicker with the same tension that’s gripping me.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly, his voice laced with concern. “If you’re uncomfortable?—”

I press a hand to his chest, my palm meeting the solid warmth of muscle beneath the suit jacket. “No,” I say, “I’m not uncomfortable. Just… nervous. This kiss has a lot riding on it.”

He lifts a hand, gently tucking a stray lock of my hair behind my ear, the small gesture sending a shiver through me. “Right,” he murmurs. “Let’s just… go slow.”

I nod, throat too tight to form words. He drops his head toward mine, gradually closing the distance. I tilt my chin up, heart hammering so hard I’m sure he can feel it. The moment his lips brush mine, every thought in my head scatters like sparks from a flame.

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