Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I turn to Charlotte just as she opens her door. “We’ll blend in here. No one’s watching.”
She smirks. “Unless my grandmother sent a drone.”
I laugh. “Even if she did, I’ve got counter-surveillance measures.”
“Of course you do,” she says, stepping down from the truck.
I join her on the sidewalk, and for a second, I hesitate. Then I reach for her hand.
She looks at me.
I expect her to roll her eyes or resist. But instead, she threads her fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It’s not for show.
It’s not because we’re pretending.
She just… does it.
And damn it if that doesn’t hit me harder than I expected.
We walk down the street, hand in hand, toward a coffee shop that smells like cinnamon and roasted espresso. A couple of locals smile and nod our way. There’s no performance here. No pressure. No need to prove anything.
For the first time in days, I feel like we’re not playing parts.
We’re just us.
And maybe this whole thing doesn’t have to be fake anymore.
Maybe it never was.
16
Charlotte
The late-morning sun is warm on my face as Asher and I walk along the sleepy main street of Magnolia Ridge. Quaint storefronts in pastel colors line the sidewalk: a bakery that smells like cinnamon rolls, a second-hand bookshop with sun-faded hardcovers in the window, and a boutique advertising hand-poured soy candles on a chalkboard sign. It’s all very Hallmark-movie adorable, and for the first time since we arrived at the resort, I feel lighter.
“Town looks safe enough,” Asher says, scanning the street before he parks. His voice is calm, but his eyes never stop moving—mirrors, storefront glass, doorways.
“That hyper-vigilant thing you do,” I tease as I unclip my seat belt, “is it ever-off duty?”
He shrugs, that almost-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Never. Besides, you’re a magnet for trouble.”
“Excuse me? I am not the problem. Horses, stalkers, intrusive future wannabe mothers-in-law—those are the problems.”
“Point taken.” He rounds the hood and opens my door, offering a gallant hand. “Let’s try to keep today problem-free.”
I slip my fingers into his—because why not enjoy the perks of this fake-fiancé arrangement?—and hop down. “First stop,” I announce, “Pour Some Sugar On Me. The cute coffee shop on the corner. I need caffeine if I’m going to survive an afternoon of ‘retail therapy.’”
Inside the coffee shop, the barista greets us. Asher orders two caramel macchiatos and a muffin for me. He says I need to keep up my energy, and I roll my eyes. Although, I secretly love how he’s always watching out for me. We retreat to a corner table where he can keep his back to the wall and his gaze on the entrance.
“You know,” I say, stirring foam, “normal couples sit side by side and make heart eyes.”
“Are we normal?”
“Touché.” I bite my lip, pretending to ponder. “So tell me, Mr. Colorado, what’s your go-to coffee order when you’re not playing bodyguard?”
“Black. Nothing fancy.”
“Of course. Rugged manly man.” I lower my voice, imitating a dramatic movie trailer: “He drinks danger for breakfast… and bitter caffeine for lunch.”
He laughs—actually laughs—and the sound sends a flutter through my chest. I add it to the growing list titled Things That Make Asher Human and Unreasonably Attractive.
From coffee we wander into the bookstore. Book, Spine, and Sinker. Asher pretends not to care as I flit between shelves, but I catch him smoothing a thumb over the spine of a battered Jack London novel. He looks…soft, almost wistful, like he’s seeing an old friend.
“If you need anything, I’m Millie,” the adorable bookstore owner says with a smile.
“Thank you, Millie,” I say, smiling back at her.
Asher keeps the novel in one hand while I weave deeper into the stacks, scooping up a collection of poetry for myself. When we reach the counter, Millie rings us up with a conspiratorial smile.
“Jack London’s one of my favorites,” she says, sliding the worn hardback into a paper bag. “That edition has a few margin notes from the previous owner. Makes it feel alive.”
Asher’s stoic mask cracks for half a second—genuine appreciation flickers in his eyes. “Thanks,” he says, tone softer than I’m used to hearing.
I pay for both books before he can argue. He starts to protest, but I cut him off with a playful glare. “Call it reconnaissance. I need to know your taste in literature.”
Outside, sunlight bounces off the vintage lettering of the boutique next door—SeaGlass & Silk. Dresses and handmade jewelry glimmer in the window.
“Five-minute detour,” I announce, linking my arm with his. “I need a gift for Melanie.”
He huffs but allows himself to be towed. Inside, the boutique smells of eucalyptus and vanilla. Racks of airy sundresses line one wall while glass cases sparkle with delicate gemstone pendants.
Asher positions himself automatically near the entrance—human security camera—yet his gaze drifts to a display of leather-bound journals. He thumbs one open, tracing the embossed compass rose on the cover.