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“Sophia.” His shadow crosses my feet before I feel his presence. His finger brushes my chin and gently presses, encouraging me to lift my chin. Sparks scatter from the point of contact across my torso. My breath catches.
The corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement, and the lines around his lips tell me he’s struggling to hold back laughter.
I can’t take it. I push back for some room. He’s too close. “I don’t need practice.” I spit that last demeaning word out. Jesus. I’m not a virgin. “It’s just weird for you and me.” I wave a hand between us. He has to see it. It’s not just in my head, and it’s not just because I’m green. “I mean, you’re, like, old enough to be my dad. It’s gonna be weird.”
He closes his eyes, and that’s when it happens. He actually laughs. It’s deep and barely there, so maybe more of a chuckle, but it’s at me. The sound is as smooth as honey and as warming as hot tea.
“Way to catapult a man’s ego. How old do you think I am?”
My gaze automatically flits to the laptop on the coffee table. It’s in the project folder. I read it.
“I’m forty-two,” he answers for me. “I realize that qualifies as old. To you.” He raises his eyebrows for emphasis. The smirk comes back. “And yes, technically, I could have fathered you at the age of sixteen. But I think by most standards I’m not old enough to be your father.”
“Well, you’re friends with my dad.”
“True.” He turns his back on me, walking away to spread out the blanket on the sofa and set up his pillows. “Your dad is one of a small group of men I count as close friends. Our friendship is one reason I stayed on working for him while you were in college.” He slowly turns around and crosses his arms again, stretching the thin sweater over the curves of his pecs.
Back home, he always wore a secured Glock on his belt, but tonight the sweater spills over the waistline of his jeans. He’s not wearing a belt, and nothing is tucked in. The little details underscore the difference between then and now. His casual attire lends an air of not being on the clock, even though he is.
“If you want, we can practice tomorrow.” He checks his wrist. “After my workout, we can go down for breakfast. As a married couple.” His fingers lightly brush my arm. It’s skin on skin, and I’m mesmerized by the contrast of roughhewn skin and the gentle movement. He’s attempting to comfort me, yet my lungs constrict, and his touch reverberates from that benign point of contact through my limbs and into my chest. “It’s normal to overthink it all when you’re first starting out. It’ll get easier.”
“It’s not because I’m starting out.” The condescending jerk is so damn amused with himself. “If it was any other man, it wouldn’t.” A huff escapes from the pit of my stomach, and I spin for the safety of my bedroom. I’ve got to get my head on straight. I’m coming across like an amateur. If I didn’t know him, if it was any other man, I wouldn’t have these issues.
“If it was any other man, it wouldn’t what, Sophia?”
“It wouldn’t be weird.” My voice rises annoyingly high, and I reach for the door. I need to put an end to this. In the morning, I’ll handle it better.
“Sophia,” he says, stopping me right before I’ve closed the door. “When we kiss, it won’t be weird.” I can’t breathe. “If our roles require it, I promise you, as the skilled officers we both are, we’ll pull it off. It’s acting. It’s part of what we do.”
He winks. He’s never winked before. The action completely alters his serious persona. The teasing expression is… I don’t know. Friendly. Younger. Real. I shove the door closed and pop in a meditation tape. We’re both actors? Fine. Great analogy. Actors practice. But he thinks I’m green. Nervous. Silly. A colleague he doesn’t need to take seriously.
I clamber onto the bed, cross my legs, lift my shoulders, touch my thumbs to my index fingers, and close my eyes. I need to clear my mind.
* * *
In the morning, bird chirps fill the room, enunciated with cracks of thunder. My eyes pop open and I fumble for my phone to silence the sounds of the Amazon. The bedroom door is closed, but I don’t want to wake Fisher. Er, Damian.
Come on, Sophia. Get it straight. Today it’s game on. His name is Damian. Think of him as Damian. Call him Damian. He’s your husband. You’ve been married for eighteen months. You’re his second wife. He doesn’t have children. Do we want children? That’s not in the brief. I’ll say no. Keep it closer to the truth.
Shit. Are we in a happy marriage or not?
Our spending level exceeds his income. This is an important point. It makes him more approachable, and usable, to the Toro cartel. Maybe that’s the angle we can play up. I’ll push for him to spend more and more, and it will be a sore point between us. A rift in the relationship. And an explainable source of tension.
Yes, I like that. If we get to spend time with them, that’s a good backstory. It exposes our weakness naturally.
Dressed in workout clothes and with our room card in hand, I carefully open the bedroom door. The drapes are pulled open, exposing the fading night sky and a scattering of stars. Two pillows sit neatly stacked on top of a blanket folded so tightly it possesses corners.
Fisher—er, Damian—is gone. And I thought I got started early.
Ninety minutes later, sweat drips down my brow as I pound through my timed intervals of weights, push-ups, pull-ups, and burpees. There are two others in the hotel gym with me. One middle-aged man on a bike, and an older woman with long gray strands pulled back in a low ponytail working out on the stair climber.
Damian enters the gym. He scans the room and steps to the back, where the weights are. I watch him through the wall of mirrors. Our eyes meet in the reflection. That frustrating tilt of the lips returns. There’s really no description for it other than “cocky smirk.”
He strides straight up to me. “Good workout?” And cue the smirk. “After this, wanna meet back at the room, and we’ll go down for breakfast together?”
He removes a thick sweatshirt, revealing a soaked workout shirt. It might be frigid outside, but it’s not cold enough to prevent Damian’s sweat from drenching his top. The fabric clings to his defined shoulders, his clavicle, and every curve and divot down a very taut abdomen.
“Sure.”
