Page 7 of Defending What's Mine

He whistles low, then leans back casually against the dresser, all relaxed muscle and infuriating confidence. That same cocky grin spreads across his face like he’s enjoying this far too much. “Charlotte, sweetheart,” he says, and I swear that word has never sounded so dangerous, “I’ve got this. Old ladies love me.”

I roll my eyes hard, but the smallest smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite my best efforts to keep it buried. “You betterreallyhope so. Because if Nana Peg smells even a hint of bullshit, we’re done for. She’s got the kind of instincts that could rival your background check database.”

He lifts a brow, clearly delighted by the challenge. “Excellent. Nothing I love more than impressing sharp women with high standards.”

“You’ll fit right in then,” I mutter, trying not to laugh. “Just remember—if she figures out we’re faking, you’ll be the one she blames.”

He winks, slow and deliberate, like it’s some sort of secret weapon. I groan internally.This man is going to be the death of me.It should be illegal to look that good in black jeans and a plain T-shirt. I mean, honestly. The sleeves cling to his biceps like they were sewn on him, and when he leans down to grab his bag, I have to turn away or risk staring. Again.

“Don’t worry,” he says smoothly, slinging the bag over his shoulder like he’s about to stroll into combat. “We’ll make sure Grandma thinks you’re head over heels for me.”

I laugh—actually laugh—and he grins like that was his plan all along. “She’s more perceptive than you think, Hawke. She’s like an elegant bloodhound in pearls. She’ll know if something’s off.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “Well then,” he says, voice low and playful, “I guess we’ll just have to make sure itdoesn’t feellike we’re faking.”

My heart stutters in my chest, a single, traitorous beat that takes me by surprise. I roll my eyes again, quickly, hoping the movement masks the sudden flutter in my stomach. “Yeah, yeah,” I say, waving him off and turning back toward my suitcase. “Let’s just survive dinner without triggering any family alarms.”

He chuckles behind me, and I canfeelthe warmth of his gaze linger even after I’ve turned away.

As I unzip my suitcase, pulling out the outfit I’d meticulously planned for the evening, a strange little thought worms its way into my brain and settles somewhere deep in my chest:What if it doesn’t feel like we’re faking… because we aren’t?

I shake it off, stuffing the notion right back where it came from.

This is just acting. A performance. A favor to my family.

But something tells me Asher Hawke has no intention of keeping things strictly professional.

And judging by the way my hands tremble slightly as I pull my dress off the hanger, maybe I don’t either.

Either way… this week?

Is going to beveryinteresting.

5

Asher

Dinner with the Lane family is a textbook elite gathering—high ceilings, cut-glass chandeliers, more reflective surfaces than a tactical house-clearing nightmare. Crystal, silver, and a banquet table long enough to compromise line-of-sight if things go sideways. I log entrances (three), usable cover (buffet console, piano), and nearest improvised weapon (candelabra—brass, heavy).

Charlotte enters on my arm, sapphire dress, shoulders held straighter than usual—tells me she’s running on adrenaline under the smile. If she’s tense, then my threat index auto-steps up one level. I widen my awareness radius.

Visual sweep of occupants: parents near midpoint—expressions polite but loaded:Sell the relationship.Staff staging at side door—two servers, minimal risk. And at the far end: Wade. Posture too composed, hands folded precisely, eyes tracking Charlotte’s every move with predatory fixation. Breathing shallow, minimal fidget: classic suppression of agitation. Internal alarm pings yellow—possible hostile intent.

I maintain the façade. The affable fiancé, hand light at Charlotte’s back while mapping Wade’s reach to cutlery, noting he has a clear lane down the table if he decides to close the distance. I’ll relocate seats if necessary.

Charlotte’s voice is steady enough. “Everyone, this is Asher, my fiancé.” Perfect cadence. I nod, deliver the measured half-smile, squeeze her hand—tactile cue we practiced for confidence and optics.

Wade’s gaze flicks between us, micro-tightening at the corners—assessing, calculating. I catalog his tells for later. For now, I file him as primary surveillance target, secondary extraction obstacle.

Operation dinner begins. Objective: convince, protect, observe. Contingency: move Charlotte behind piano, neutralize Wade with minimal collateral. All variables logged; execution underway.

“Asher,” her grandmother, who’s sitting closest to us, says, eyeing me up and down. “Fiancé? That’s... sudden.”

I take her hand, giving her my most charming smile. “When you know, you know, ma’am.”

She arches an eyebrow but says nothing, and I catch Charlotte giving me a small, approving nod. One hurdle down, about a hundred more to go.

We sit down, and I make sure to pull out Charlotte’s chair for her. Gotta sell the wholechivalrous boyfriendangle, right? As soon as we’re seated, though, I feel it again—that itch at the back of my neck. Wade hasn’t taken his eyes off her, and it’s starting to get under my skin.

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