Page 8 of Made for Reign

She’s right. Marcus got me hooked on it last year during a particularly boring stakeout. We’d burned through two seasons before the job was done.

“Fine,” I admit. “I’ve seen every episode. Twice.”

Elizabeth giggles. “I knew it! Nobody can resist the siren call of watching rich idiots try to install their own plumbing.”

Her eyes are sparkling now, all traces of that earlier sadness gone. She looks younger, lighter, like whatever weight she’s been carrying has temporarily lifted. And Christ, she’s beautiful when she’s happy like this.

“Season three, episode seven,” I say, testing her. “The couple from Manhattan who?—”

“Bought the cabin in Montana and tried to DIY a hot tub on the deck!” She finishes, practically bouncing in her seat. “And the whole thing collapsed!”

“Taking half the deck with it,” I add, grinning at her enthusiasm.

“The way she screamed when it happened.” Elizabeth does a perfect imitation of the woman’s shriek, then immediately covers her mouth, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, that was loud.”

“Don’t be sorry, Princess.” My eyes lock with hers. “That was perfect.”

“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” she says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “Here I am, supposed to be having some elegant last night out, and instead I’m debating the merits of shiplap with a stranger in a bar.”

“Disappointed?”

“No.” She meets my eyes, and the laughter fades into something else. Something that makes my chest tight. “This is...this is exactly what I needed tonight.”

The air between us shifts. She’s looking at me like she’s seeing me for the first time, and I’m looking at her like I’ve been looking at her all night.

Like I want to devour her.

“Elizabeth,” I say, her fake name feeling strange on my tongue.

“That’s not my name,” she admits quietly. “But you already knew that.”

“I figured.” I lean forward, close enough to catch her scent again. “Want to tell me your real one?”

She shakes her head. “I like being Elizabeth tonight. Is that okay?”

I reach for her hand, letting my fingers brush hers. “We can be whoever we want tonight.”

She turns her hand palm up, letting our fingers intertwine. Her touch sends electricity shooting up my arm.

“I should go,” she whispers, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Should you?”

“My friends?—”

“Are fine.” I stroke my thumb across her knuckles. “Stay.”

Fuck.

She’s young. Too young for me, probably. Early twenties if I had to guess, while I’m staring down the barrel of forty-five. But the way she looks at me—those eyes tracking every movement, lingering on my mouth, my hands—tells me she doesn’t give a damn about the years between us.

Acting on pure instinct, I close the distance between us and press my lips to hers.

It’s brief, but it hits me like a fucking thunderbolt. She tastes like gin and something sweeter, something uniquely her, and I know immediately that one taste will never be enough. When I pull back, her eyes are wide, and her lips are slightly parted in surprise.

She swallows hard, and I can see her pulse racing at the base of her throat. “That was...unexpected.”

“Good unexpected or bad unexpected?”

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