Page 67 of Wicked Sin

“It’s too dangerous.”

“How can it be dangerous if it’s spontaneous? Literally, nobody knows I’m here.” Except maybe, probably, Wilson, I remind myself. I’ll leave the pager here, though. He doesn’t need to be able to track me to a mall.

“Too many unknown variables.”

“Like what?”

“A store clerk recognizing you. Contacting the paparazzi. Your stalker has a Google alert for your name and the next thing we know, boom.”

Boom.

I ignore the tremor of fear that runs through me. No. There has to be a way to keep living my life. “We can go to the mall in the suburbs. Where it would take paparazzi too long to find us even if someone did recognize me, which they won’t because you’re a master of disguises.”

“I’m not.”

“You said you’re going to go undercover.”

“That’s not what that means.”

“Come on, Luke. We don’t need to go anywhere I usually go. I want retail therapy. Given the circumstances, I’m not picky about what that looks like.”

“Maybe I’ll take you to Walmart.”

Sure. I smile. “That sounds great.”

It is not great.I take slow, non-judging steps down the moisturizer aisle. Well, it’s not really a moisturizer aisle. It’s a single aisle for everything facial, and bubble bath, and foot cream. Also, something called Bag Balm, which I’ve read about in magazines but definitely thought was a joke.

It’s not a joke.

“Find anything you like, princess?”

I pick up the Bag Balm. “Yep.”

It’s hard to read his face from beneath the brim of his baseball hat. Or out from under mine—the limit of his masterful disguises, which is what he called the hat when he jammed it on my head. But then he put us both in his track clothes, and that actually was masterful. We look younger than we are, and our faces are well obscured. If he does go undercover, he’ll be good at it.

Even though the thought of him living as someone else, surrounded by criminals, makes my chest hurt.

But I won’t know him then. The chances of us running into each other—

Next week, maybe. Yeah, hopefully the busy thing will be gone by then.

No, Luke doesn’t want to run into me once he’s done with this task of protecting me.

“I think it would be better if I buy a new bathing suit,” I say, turning on my heel.

From behind me, I hear a choking sound. “I’ll, uh, catch up with you in a minute.”

It takes him more than that, and by the time he’s found me in women’s clothing, I’ve found the most conservative one-piece in the entire store. High neck, low on the legs, and covered in layers of ruched fabric designed to cover all lumps and bumps.

I don’t have any interest in showing Luke any more of those.

At the checkout, I pay with cash; painfully aware my cards don’t work. I will have to start keeping track of how much I spend. I’ll have to keep a budget. I’ll have to pick between Botox and Brazilian…everything. Waxes, blow-outs.

Maybe I won’t be able to afford any of the above.

I don’t make a lot of money, and there’s a solid chance I’m not getting my trust fund back. Maybe I’ll have to sell my jewelry.

You could write a book.

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