Page 4 of Defending What's Mine

I can’t help it, but my eyes roll on instinct. “Don’t get too excited. It’s just for the week.”

“Trust me,” he says, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy sort of posture that’s clearly designed to look casual, “I’m not thrilled either.”

I let out a slow, measured breath, trying—and failing—to bleed off some of the tension crackling in the air. The entire room hums with it, thick enough to choke on as we size each other up like opponents in a ring. Well. This is off to a great start.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I say, more sharply than intended as I zip up my suitcase with a firm tug. The sound slices through the heavy silence. “Try to act like you’ve actually seen a five-star hotel before, and maybe we’ll survive the week.”

Across the room, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise to the bait. Just leans one broad shoulder lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, exuding casual dominance. His lips tilt into a slow, infuriating grin that makes me want to throw the nearest pillow at him.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice deep and warm, with just enough amusement to stoke my annoyance. “I can play the part.”

Sweetheart?The word slithers under my skin, both condescending and way too distracting coming from that mouth. I shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. But before I can deliver the scathing comeback teetering on the tip of my tongue, he pushes off the frame, unfolding to his full height with deliberate ease.

He gestures toward the door with a slight nod, entirely too pleased with himself. “Shall we?” he asks, tone light and controlled—as if he’s already dictating the pace of this game.

I bite back a retort, snatch up my bag, and march past him without a glance. “This is going to be a disaster,” I mutter under my breath, words meant only for me.

Except nothing gets past him. His deep, velvet chuckle follows me down the hall like a slow burn across my skin.

And somehow, from the warmth curling low in my stomach, I know he agrees.

And worse? Some part of me might already be bracing for exactly that disaster.

3

Asher

The moment Charlotte Lane steps onto the driveway, every sensor in my head lights up. I try to focus on potential threats, but it’s hard when she’s this close to me. She isn’t old money flashy—she’s composed, chin high, shoulders squared, eyes sweeping the perimeter like she’s already bored of this “fake-fiancé” op. Translation: a walking complication. And, inconveniently, gorgeous.

I clock the small tells while lifting her suitcase—designer hard-shell, weight evenly distributed, no exterior ID tag (nice privacy discipline). I stow it in the truck bed, note the balance shift, slam the tailgate. Her glare tracks me the whole time; heat index about 9.5.

I circle to the driver’s seat, cataloging angles: mirror sightlines clear, nearest exits south and east, black sedan across the street (empty, still keep half an eye). “Ready for the best week of your life?” I flash the practiced grin—forty-percent charm, sixty-percent disarming.

She rolls her eyes hard enough I worry for retinal strain. “Let’s skip the cheesy banter and jump to the part where we pretend we’re soulmates.”

The truck engine rumbles to life. I ease onto the road with a smooth acceleration, just under the limit. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Her head snaps around. I catch the movement in my peripheral. Flight risk? Low, but she contemplates the door handle. “Did you just call me sweetheart? Again?”

I adopt my most angelic expression. “Prefer honey? Babe? Classic ‘my love’? I’m flexible.”

“Let’s stick with Charlotte,” she deadpans, seat-belt click punctuating each syllable.

“Copy that.” I merge into traffic, running mental overlays of threat routes, safe houses, medical facilities. She exhales—half exasperation, half surrender—and stares out the window. I let a smile tug at one corner of my mouth.

Game on.

The silence that follows is thick enough to slice through, but I’m not one to be put off by awkward quiet. I’ve handled high-pressure situations before, and compared to some of the missions I’ve been on, this is a walk in the park. Still, I know we need a plan if we’re going to pull this off.

“So,” I say after a few minutes, “how do you want to play this?”

She crosses her arms and stares out the window. “We pretend to be in love. Simple.”

I snort. “Yeah, because that’s all it takes, right? Just say we’re in love and everyone will believe it.”

She turns to face me, eyebrows raised. “What exactly do you suggest,Mr. Expert?”

I shrug, enjoying the way her annoyance seems to bubble up every time I speak. “We need a backstory. Something believable. How we met, how long we’ve been together, why you’re so madly in love with me you couldn’t possibly go through with marrying Wade.”

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