“He had one last gig to play in DC before heading down,” Carter said. “Isn’t that right, dear?” He moved to take the guitar but paused, hand an inch from the strap, his eyes locked with Lincoln’s. Mischief lingered there but also an entreaty, an ask from one partner to another.
Fuck. Lincoln didn’t know what was going on here, but between the two of them, Carter was the field agent. A damn good one if Bureau talk was true. As much as it chafed, Lincoln should follow his lead for now. “That’s right.” He tilted the guitar toward Carter. “Put it someplace safe, please.”
“Always.” Carter smiled, a genuine one, maybe the first Lincoln had ever seen from him, and fuck if it didn’t make him more attractive. He picked up the guitar and moved it, along with the luggage and bags, into a dark room off the foyer. An office, maybe?
Before Lincoln could get a better look, the lady beside him extended her hand. “It’s so great to meet the other Mr. Polk. I’m Susanne Geiger. I teach English Lit at Apex. I’m also the president for the Sardis Woods homeowners association. Guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you at the library, around the neighborhood, and at HOA meetings. We’re so happy to have you both.”
A warm hand slid across Lincoln’s back, an arm settled low on his waist, and Carter’s body fit alongside his. Too perfectly. Lincoln hoped the shiver that raced up his spine didn’t bleed into his voice. “Happy to be here,” he told Susanne. It was mostly a lie, but a traitorous ounce of it was the truth.
Why did Lincoln Monroe have to be so fucking hot?
That had been Carter’s first thought the day he’d stepped into the prickly professor’s lecture hall, and eight years later, it had been his first thought opening the front door to him. His next thought: Lincoln Monroe had actually gotten hotter.
Carter occasionally passed through Quantico between one undercover assignment and the next, but he was never there long enough to visit his favorite Academy instructor. He was glad for that now, the swooping sensation in his gut rare and exciting. He was an adrenaline junkie, and this was some potent shit. Lincoln’s blond hair was sprinkled with silver, tiny lines radiated out from the corners of his light brown eyes the warm color of honey, and a fire burned in them that hadn’t existed there eight years ago. It spread from his eyes down to his reared-back shoulders and on down his rigid spine, holding up his long, lean body with an attractive air of fuck-you confidence. As it spread, the fire clashed with all the things that made Lincoln Monroe appear unbearably delicate—the porcelain pale skin, the too-thin lips, the lanky runner’s build, and his argyle sweater. The combined effect was devastating. So much fucking hotter.
And all that hotness damn near burned Carter alive as he walked with Lincoln toward the living room. Twenty-four-year-old Carter would have killed to stand this close to him. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, arm snaked around his slim waist. Thirty-two-year-old Carter was likewise thrilled, though more about the fact he hadn’t been throttled. He was surprised Lincoln hadn’t tried to punch him in the foyer; he’d looked angry enough to give it a go. Regardless, a near brawl between the supposedly smitten newlyweds was the last thing Carter needed, and Susanne, bless her gossiping heart, had swooped in like his own Tammy Faye painted angel.
Lincoln leaned close as they trailed behind her. “Why do they think we’re married?”
Carter resisted the urge to angle in his face and lower his chin, just enough for their lips to brush. That would surely instigate a brawl. “Our cover,” he said.
“Beverley didn’t say anything about that.”
“Because he trusted me to handle it. This”—he gestured at the townsfolk milling around the living room—“is what I’m good at.”
Lincoln arched a brow. “Thought you were a forensics expert?”
“No, that’s you,” he replied with a smile.
Lincoln wasn’t charmed. “Why do they think we’re married?” he asked again.
Carter nudged him to the side, just shy of the living room, and spoke quietly and quickly. “I’d barely gotten the keys from the realtor when the neighbors came snooping around. I couldn’t exactly tell them we’re feds.”
“So you thought telling them we’re married was a good idea?”
“Just married.” He shifted so his back was to the living room and reached into his jeans pocket. He withdrew a braided silver band, a match to the one on his own ring finger, and held it out to Lincoln. “Newlyweds.”
Lincoln glared at the band like he wanted to toss it into the fires of Mordor. “Because that’s so much better.”
Carter stepped closer and affected one of the many accents he’d cultivated, drawling in Georgia molasses, “Aww, come on, honey—” Fiery eyes darted to his, and Carter stopped before taking another step, before saying another word. He lifted his other hand, palm out. “Whoa, okay, I’m sorry. My bad. Just go with it, please, and I promise I’ll lay it all out once everyone’s gone.”
Lincoln hesitated a few horrible seconds during which Carter feared he’d gone too far and cratered this opportunity, one he’d likely never get again, but then Lincoln snatched the ring from him and shoved it onto his finger. It caught on his knuckle, and Lincoln scrunched up his nose adorably as he fought to push it down. When sheer force didn’t work, he put his mouth on the knuckle and licked over and under it with his tongue. Carter bit back a groan. Fucking hell, why had he thought this was a good idea?
The ring slipped past Lincoln’s knuckle and notched into place at the base of his finger. Successful, he lifted his gaze, the angry heat in his eyes replaced with thinly veiled challenge. “You have thirty minutes to wrap this shindig up.”
Smiling to cover the hungry growl that threatened to escape, Carter returned to Lincoln’s side and settled his hand on the professor’s lower back, just above his perfect, perky ass. “They’ll be gone in twenty-nine, promise.”
Three
Twenty-eight minutes later, after finally getting Susanne and her wife out the door, Carter strolled into the kitchen, eager to face the one-man firing squad that awaited him. He liked a challenge, liked it even better when it was six feet plus of gorgeous goodness. He found Lincoln behind the island, his back to the room, shifting his weight side to side.
“Ants in your pants, Professor?”
Lincoln scowled over his shoulder. “More like ants between my toes.”
“For real?”
“Of course not for real.”
