Page 2 of Claimed By my Fake Husband

Reynolds is close enough to hear Alec through the quiet room, so I just hand him the phone, brows raised, doing my best not to look as annoyed as I feel.

“Oh—hello. Agent Reynolds, FBI. Who am I speaking with?”

I watch him work out the details with Alec. It doesn’t take long. When he hangs up, he passes the phone back, and I tuck it into my bag.

“So, are we settled?” I keep my brows up, my expression daring either of them to argue.

“Your friend says he’ll have a bodyguard at your apartment by six o’clock. We’ll get a call to arrange the rest.”

The other detective, Agent Sawyer, chimes in. “Don’t go back to your apartment until six. We’ll send a detail to follow you and escort you into the paper. Finish up what you need to before you leave. Once protection starts, you won’t contact anyone from the paper. You’ll stay at the safe house, and any updates on the case come through me or my partner. Understood?”

“I need to work. I can’t just drop it. There’s more to report on Cilento and?—”

“Write all you want on the secure server. But there’s no leaving the safe house, no contact with coworkers or friends, and daily check-ins with us.”

I hate being bossed around. These two are working my absolute last nerve.

I shove back from the table—the metal chair might be the single most uncomfortable object on this planet—and storm for the door.

“Ms. Beaumont, I expect you to follow the rules. They’re for your safety.”

“Yeah, I hear you. Get that bodyguard ready. I need to go tell my paper I’m taking a leave.”

And then I’m out the door. My entire life just got upended. I’m in the middle of the follow-up piece on the Cilento trial, and now I can’t even work the streets for it.

No contacts. No sources. Just me, writing from some glorified flophouse with a bodyguard breathing down my neck.

Fucking fantastic.

At precisely one minute after six, my doorbell rings. I’ve had ten minutes in the apartment, just enough to scrounge up everything I need.

“Jesus, someone’s punctual. Ugh.”

I roll my eyes, stuff the last pair of pants into my suitcase, zip it shut, and haul it off the bed.

“Coming!”

I skid to a stop by the console table, grab my keys from the catch-all dish, and yank the door open. Then I stop dead, jaw falling open.

“Umm, can I help you?”

This can’t be the guy I hired. Bodyguards don’t usually look like male models. Stuffy ones, sure, but come on.

All six-foot-something of him stares down at me like I’ve grown a second head, dark brows low over deep brown eyes.

Did I miss something? Is there a calendar shoot happening in my building? Because as much as dating and sex have been a hard no for me lately, I could probably make an exception forthisguy.

“Ms. Beaumont?” His voice is so deep it sounds fake. He tips his head, eyes flicking down to my suitcase.

Aside from a flicker of confusion, his expression is stoic, unreadable—he’d be terrifyingly good in a courtroom with a face like that. White streaks cut through his temples, the only real sign of his age. Forty, maybe. If that.

“Umm, yes. Sorry—are you who they sent?”

A hint of annoyance crosses his eyes. “If by ‘they’ you mean the security company, then yes. Logan Taylor. We need to get to the safe house.”

“Right.”

I shake myself out of it, reminding my lizard brain that I’m going into witness protection, and no matter how good Mr. Business Suit looks, I don’t have time for this.