Page 29 of Playing With Love

Trey was staring at me with a look I couldn’t read.

“What?”

“That was Nick’s suggestion, too.”

“And?”

“And, nothing, just impressed the two of you are on the same page. Carter’s suggestion was you were in digital marketing. For the same reason Tucker’s in web design, easy relocation.”

“An artist can paint anywhere and I could sell the idea moving out into the hills of Tennessee would be amazing for my creativity.”

Trey nodded. “Don’t bother calling your people. Nick’s on the phone with them now.”

I clenched my jaw and got another lip twitch from Trey but this one turned into a smile and wowza. That smile ratcheted up the hot guy, GQ male model quota by ten.

“Don’t take offense, it’s just Nick’s way. When shit has to get done, Nick doesn’t fuck about.”

That might’ve been the case, but that didn’t mean I appreciated someone horning in and taking over.

Trey jerked his chin, and smile still in place, bid his farewell, “I’ll see you in the conference room.”

Tucker didn’t waste time making his way to my side, nor did he delay in telling me, “Trey’s wife’s name is Addy.”

My gaze darted away from Trey’s retreating form to Tucker. He looked none too happy I’d been appreciating his friend’s million-dollar smile.

“And?” I challenged.

Tucker ignored my challenge that was really more of a taunt. Though he did skewer me with his gray eyes, which meant he hadn’t missed the challenge or the taunt; he simply chose not to verbalize his comeback. Not that he needed to—his eyes said it all.

And I didn’t know how I felt about that. Not his obvious disapproval at his incorrect assumption I was checking out his friend. I mean, I didn’t miss Trey was gorgeous but that didn’t mean I was going to jump the man and beg him to let me have his babies. But more than that, I was thinking about the mysterious Crystal and how Tucker hadn’t missed my reaction to her call.

I was facing an uncertain amount of time undercover with Tucker Mitchell. An assignment that would have me pretending he was my husband.

If we didn’t get our shit sorted the situation that was already messy would get exponentially messier.

Which meant, I had no choice but to have the conversation I didn’t want to have.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was late when I pulled in front of Liza’s hotel to drop her off.

A day that should’ve been easy—checking in with Allyson, talking to her in a place where she felt comfortable in hopes she’d give us more intel—had turned into a four-hour visit. The first hour of that had been eaten up by Liza having to calm Allyson down. Not only was she freaked, she was mourning the loss of a friend. The next hour had been consumed by Allyson ranting and lamenting her guilt about not knowing what was going on around her. Liza had deftly guided Allyson beyond that, whereupon we spent the last two hours learning everything we could from Allyson, with Jessica sitting next to her sister offering quiet support. By the time we wrapped up the visit, Jessica’s support had morphed into relief when Allyson declared she was moving back to Georgia.

Before we left TC, Liza and Nick worked on Liza’s cover. After some back and forth with a man named Sammy who worked with Liza, (a man I and the rest of my team called “Sam.” No man who was no longer in grade school, and had a voice as deep as Sam’s wanted to be called Sammy. But if he did, he didn’t correct any of us when we didn’t use the name, and actually sounded relieved to be addressed as Sam) it was decided Sam would craft the cover with Dylan’s help. That call had lasted forty-five minutes.

After our visit we returned to TC and put in another five hours briefing the team and getting a brief from them. Jason’s contacts had come through and confirmed the colored baggies had hit the streets of the Tri-Cities area north of Rogersville. The influx had started in Kingsport, then Bristol, and finally Johnson City where two college kids from East Tennessee State had overdosed with red baggies in their possession. Dylan had also tapped into Beatrice’s emails. Weekly communication with his sister didn’t get us anything helpful—Bea loved her life, she was doing great, Tennessee was beautiful, and Mackenzie was amazing. The only thing those emails brought into question was where Bea was getting money to send to her sister. Every three months, there was an email reminding her sister to go to Western Union to pick up money. Which meant Bea had sent cash. Not something most people do in this day and age. According to Bea’s bank records there were no large cash withdrawals. Hell, the woman didn’t have the bank balance to support sending her sister money. The rent and HOA dues living on the Nu Dawn compound weren’t cheap. Bea’s songwriting wasn’t paying the bills, her job as a checkout clerk at the local grocery store that only paid a few bucks over minimum wage did. The cash was a question mark we needed to answer.

Now I was dropping Liza off at her hotel. As suspected, neither car rental company in Hollow Point had cars available. She’d have to go to Savannah to get a rental from the airport or wait a few days until a car could be transferred for local pickup. This meant she was stuck with me, since she’d stubbornly refused to take my Yukon.

“Do you…” Liza began with a hint of nervousness I didn’t understand. “Uh, do you have time to come in for a drink?”

I didn’t get the nervousness so I really didn’t understand the uncertainty. Liza didn’t get nervous and she was rarely uncertain. Further from that, she’d never been either of those with me until yesterday.

Instead of answering I changed course from the front door to the parking area and swung into a space, killed the engine, and didn’t delay throwing open the door to exit. Whatever made Liza uncertain and nervous had her moving much slower than me to haul her ass out of my SUV.

After what felt like an eternity, she met me around the back of the Yukon. The silence as we walked into the hotel didn’t have me feeling good thoughts about what Liza wanted to talk about. Though I could guess it was time we’d started the groundwork laying out our cover. She hadn’t said the words, but she’d fully participated. In two weeks we’d be posing as husband and wife. Before that, we’d be spending time together. Some of that would be spent getting comfortable around each other, which wouldn’t have been an issue seeing as we knew each other well, had a bond that I knew—even if she’d repeatedly tried to deny it—was deep and meaningful. Now she was going to use this talk as a way to draw a few lines in cement. Lines that I had no intention of abiding by. Meaning this conversation was going to go to shit. She likely knew it, but that still didn’t explain her nervousness. Liza never had a problem going toe-to-toe with anyone, including me.

I followed her as she skirted some tables before she wound her way to a corner booth and slid in. I debated sliding in next to her or sitting opposite. Sitting on the same side was where a man would sit to be close to his woman. Which was precisely where I wanted to be. However, for this conversation I needed to be opposite from her, not have her face in profile. So that’s what I did.