From USA TODAY bestselling author Stefanie London comes the first book in her scorching-hot miniseries Close Quarters! Security expert Owen Fletcher and Detective Hannah Anderson are going undercover...as husband and wife. Their marriage may be fake, but the attraction burning between them is dangerously real!

Owen Fletcher is the most irritating man I’ve ever met...and the hottest fantasy I’ve never forgotten. I haven’t seen him since he left the police force to work as a security expert in New York, but now he’s back in Melbourne to help my department break up a ring of jewel thieves. The catch? We’re going undercover as husband and wife.

Getting up close and personal with Owen is messing with my professional focus. I should definitely not be dreaming about running my hands through Owen’s hair and kissing his smart-ass mouth. But there’s a solution: a no-strings affair to get him out of my system. For one night, I’ll take charge of my own pleasure and invite Owen to explore the red-hot chemistry that’s threatening to combust at any moment...

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

STEFANIE LONDON is the USA TODAY bestselling author of contemporary romances and romantic comedies. After sneaking several English Lit subjects into her ‘very practical’ business degree, Stefanie worked in the corporate world. But it wasn’t long before she became bored with writing emails for executives and turned her attention to romance fiction. Stefanie’s books have been called ‘genuinely entertaining and memorable’ by Booklist, and her writing praised as ‘elegant, descriptive and delectable’ by RT Book Reviews. Originally from Australia, she now lives in Toronto with her very own hero, and is currently in the process of doing her best to travel the world. She frequently indulges in her passions for good coffee, lipstick, romance novels and anything zombie-related. For more information on Stefanie and her books check out her website at stefanie-london.com.

Faking It

Stefanie London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08710-0

FAKING IT

© 2019 Stefanie Little

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To all the readers who emailed me asking why Owen

never got his happy-ever-after...

This book is for you. xx

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
Owen

I KNOW IT’S going to make me seem like a cruel bastard, but there isn’t much in this world that pleases me more than getting the drop on someone. The element of surprise is my catnip. I love the moment my target realises they’ve been duped. Maybe it’s because nobody ever expected a thing from me.

Who actually thinks the class clown will amount to something? No one.

So yeah, I like it when the tables are turned. Especially when my target comes in a five-foot-two-inch package filled to the brim with bristling indignation.

“No.” Miss Indignation shakes her head, a frizzy brown ponytail slapping her ears like she’s a puppy shaking off the water from an unwanted bath. “Can’t we pretend to be brother and sister?”

“I’m not sure which part of this meeting you misinterpreted as a negotiation, Anderson.” My old boss, Gary Smythe, raises a bushy silver eyebrow. “This is your first assignment as a detective. I thought you’d be champing at the bit.”

Hannah Anderson, now known as Detective Senior Constable Anderson, straightens her shoulders. “Yes, sir, and I’m very grateful for the opportunity—”

“Then I suggest you quit shaking your head like you’re trying to dislodge something.”

I snort and stifle the noise with a cough. Neither one of them buys it. We’re sitting in a meeting room at the Victoria Police headquarters. It feels strange to be back. I’d never planned on returning to Australia, let alone to my old job. But that’s life, right? The second you think you’ve got your shit together, fate punches you in the nuts.

“Yes, sir.” Hannah looks like she’s about to erupt. She clutches her coffee cup in a way that tells me she’s trying to mentally crush my skull.

Nice try, Anderson.

“Not exactly the warm welcome I was hoping for,” I chime in, returning her fiery glare with a cocky grin. If there’s one thing that makes Anderson blow her stack, it’s people who take life less seriously than she does.

Spoiler alert: that’s literally everyone.

“Shut up, Fletcher.” Gary takes a sip of his cappuccino. He’s drinking out of a mug that says “I like big busts and I cannot lie” with a picture of a pair of handcuffs beneath it. A white line of milk foam caps his Ned Flanders–style moustache. “If you want someone to fawn over you, then pay your grandmother a visit.”

“Will do, sir.”

Anderson rolls her eyes. If it’s not completely obvious at this point, she kind of hates me. Well, hate might be a strong word although she has said it before. It’s a weird kind of hate. The kind that feels prickly and cold but is really a front for a gooey centre of white-hot attraction. Yeah, she has the hots for me and she hates herself for it.

So I’m scoring another point in the bastard category, but that pleases me very much.

“We’re going undercover,” I say, leaning forward against the table and not even trying to hide my glee. “As man and wife.”

I swear she somehow manages to tell me to go fuck myself with her eyes. “Right.”

“We thought we’d put this to bed before you left.” Gary frowns.

He told me the pertinent details before I submitted my leave at Cobalt & Dane, the security company I work for in New York City. A folder with everything required for this undercover gig—ID for my new identity, keys and an access card for the apartment I’m going to call home for the next month, and surveillance info that’s been collected to date—is already in my backpack.

This is an evidence-gathering mission, in the hopes of convincing the higher-ups to put together a task force. And I’m going to enjoy the heck out of being cooped up with Anderson.

“So did I, Boss.” The name comes out of habit. Gary Smythe will always be “Boss” to me.

We’d cracked the old case before I left for New York. But organised crime is a tricky beast. You think you’ve cut off the snake’s head and suddenly it grows back. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that greed is unrelenting.

“It looks like one of the relatives took over the family business,” Gary continues. “We suspect they’re running the operation out of an apartment complex in South Melbourne. We’ve secured an apartment for you. You’ll move in on Monday morning and make friends with the neighbours.”

Easy as pie. I love making friends.

But I suspect Anderson might have trouble with that. Friendliness isn’t her strong suit.

“I want you two to get reacquainted. Finish your coffees and figure your shit out.” Gary pushes up from his seat, his belly straining against his navy uniform shirt. Today he’s in office dress—proper trousers instead of the tactical ones, and a black tie at his neck. Probably had a meeting with the big boss. “See if you can keep from killing each other.”

“Our reputation precedes us,” I say as Gary exits the meeting room, leaving me alone with my soon-to-be fake-wife.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Anderson corrects me. “Mine is nice and quiet. The way I prefer it.”

“Always so argumentative.” I lean back in my chair and fold my arms over my chest. Unlike her, I’m not dressed in uniform since I’m here as a consultant.

They might be able to drag me back for a case, but I’m not signing any long-term contracts. I’ll do this job as a favour for my old boss. I like the guy. I don’t like the life I left behind. Too many demons. The second this job is over I’m getting my ass back to New York.

“Look, this is my first assignment as a detective,” she says, nailing me with her wide brown eyes. “And I know you have a penchant for wreaking havoc, but I will not let you screw this up. You might have left this life behind, but this job is important to me.”

Anderson is all spit and polish, just as I remember. Perfectly pressed shirt and slacks, neat ponytail. She’s clearly catching up on paperwork before her big move into a detective’s role. I bet she stayed up late last night shining her shoes.

“Message received, Anderson. No tomfoolery.”

“You should start calling me Hannah. Get into the habit so my surname doesn’t slip out in front of anyone while we’re on the job.” She sticks her thumb into her mouth to chew on a nail, but then thinks better of it and folds her hands in front of her. Outside the meeting room, people wander back and forth—some in uniform and others in civilian dress. “I wanted to keep our first names the same. Make it easier to remember. Although I still don’t see why we can’t be brother and sister. It seems ludicrous that anyone would think I’d marry you.”

“Oh yeah, speaking of which...” I dig my hand into my pocket and pull out a worn velvet box. Anderson’s eyes widen as I flip it open, showing her the old, ornate ring nestled inside.

The ring is legit. It belonged to my mother and since I’m never, ever getting married I’m pleased to use it for something. It wasn’t her engagement ring—that one lives with my grandmother. But my mother loved jewellery enough to have a personal jeweller on retainer when she was alive, so I wasn’t short on options for this fake proposal.

Fun fact: I don’t need to work. My parents were rich. Like, travel around the world on a private jet rich. Like fly in a bunch of diamonds straight from Antwerp rich.

Not that I want anything to do with the money. It’s been sitting in a bank account for the last fifteen years while my financial adviser plays with cryptocurrency like he’s got a great big pile of Monopoly money in front of him. I told him to pick the riskiest ones and not even think twice if he lost the lot. He didn’t, not by a long shot.

And for this job, I’m going to have to embrace the upper-crust lifestyle.

“You’ve got to start wearing this,” I say.

Anderson blinks. “This is not how the fairy tales led me to believe a proposal would happen.”

The gold band cradles an interesting stone in a smoky shade that’s somewhere between brown and grey, which is nicer than it sounds. It’s surrounded by tiny white diamonds that glimmer under the artificial lighting.

The ring is unusual and pretty, like Anderson.

“I guess I’m not doing it right.” Clearing my throat, I slide off my chair and drop down to one knee. “Detective Senior Constable Hannah Anderson, will you—”

“Fletcher!” she squeaks, and several people outside the meeting room snap their heads in our direction. She gives me a shove and I fall to one side, laughing and landing on my palm. She snatches the ring box out of my other hand and shoves it into her pocket. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“What? I thought I was being nice.”

She shakes her head as though I’m the biggest idiot this side of the Yarra. Which, to be fair, might be true. “Couldn’t you find one of those gumball machines and get me some crappy little trinket? I’m going to freak out wearing this.” She pats her hand over the pocket containing my mother’s ring. “This is...real.”

“Yeah, it is. Topaz or some shit. And we’re going to be tracking a band of jewellery thieves. Ever think of that? Might be good to have a sparkly conversation starter.”

Her expression tells me it was a good call but there’s no way in hell she’ll say it aloud. Anderson—sorry, Hannah—doesn’t like to admit when other people are right.

“We should meet early on Monday morning. I’ve arranged for Ridgeway to drive a van with some boxes to the apartment building.”

“What’s in the boxes?”

“Nothing much. Files and stuff. But we have to look like we’re moving in.”

I grin. “It’s a new adventure for us. Newlyweds getting their first place together. You’ll have to practice looking excited.”

“I don’t know if I have it in me,” she drawls. Then she stands. Even with me sitting and her standing, she doesn’t have much height on me. What did I call her back then? Pocket Rocket. “Monday morning. Seven a.m.”

“Seven?” I groan. “Who moves into a house that early?”

“People who are excited to be living together.” She picks up her coffee cup. I’m already imagining how strange it’s going to be to see my mother’s ring on her finger. For some reason, it doesn’t repulse me as much as it should. “Don’t be late.”

“Seven a.m. it is, my darling wife.”

She rolls her eyes again and I contemplate warning her that the wind might change. But this time I hold my tongue. I’ll have many hours ahead of me to drive her nuts. Gotta take the perks of the job wherever they come. I pull the file out of my backpack and scan the summary page containing the key details of our assignment. Seven a.m. at 21 Love Street, South Melbourne.

Love Street? Sounds like the perfect place for a fake marriage.

CHAPTER TWO
Hannah

OWEN’S LATE. I’M shocked...not.

I bounce on the balls of my feet, trying to ignore the strange feeling of the ring on my left hand. The big stone chafes me, reminding me constantly that it’s there. It’s irritating. Like the man who gave it to me.

It’s also insanely beautiful and makes me feel like a princess, but I’m not telling a soul that little piece of information.

“Have you got a coping strategy in place?” Max Ridgeway leans against the small van parked in the loading dock of the place that will be my home until this assignment is over.

21 Love Street is the kind of place I would never actually live. It’s one of those “boutique” apartment complexes—only six stories in height, with a grand foyer and all the trimmings. It’s not meant for people like me, people who grew up with a family crammed into a house without enough bathrooms to go around. Sure, this place isn’t the most expensive building in the city...but it’s well beyond my means. And we’re going to be living in one of the penthouse suites.

So yeah, you could say I was feeling a little out of my element. And that was before my “husband” arrived.

“A coping strategy?” I ask.

“To avoid homicide.”

I laugh in spite of the strange churning in my stomach. “No. I need one, though. Any tips?”

Max adjusts the dark cap covering his thick brown hair. He’s dressed in plain clothes, like me. Civilian-wear. Old jeans and a hoodie. Blundstones. He skipped his morning shave, too. Now he looks like a furniture removalist instead of a cop.

“Don’t take things too seriously.” He winks. “That’ll only give him fuel.”

Max gets along with both of us. He’s good at his job and I respect him a lot. His wife, Rose, gave birth to their daughter, Ruby, about six months ago. Now he spends most of his free time at home with his adorable family, so I don’t see him as much as I used to.

He was in Manhattan for a while, when he met Rose, working with Owen in the private security field. They’re pretty tight. Have been since we were all in the academy together in our early twenties. But I don’t hold that against Max. He didn’t have anything to do with “the diary incident.”

I check my watch. “Owen is going to be late to his own funeral one day.”

“You’ve got the wife act down pat.” Max’s eyes sparkle. “Although I hope you’re not planning to accelerate his funeral.”

“Ha,” I say drily. “That’s entirely up to him.”

A cool wind whips past me, ruffling my hair. Today I left it down and it feels like the first time in forever that I’ve ditched my standard scraped-back style. But it’s all part of the act. Anything to help me get into character. For the foreseeable future, I am not Hannah Anderson. I am not the only girl in a family of rough-and-tumble boys. I am not awkward and shy and trying so hard not to let other people see it.

Last night, I sat down with all my files and a cup of tea to work on my story, so that when I arrived at 21 Love Street, I would be Hannah Essex. Lady of leisure, newlywed, a woman obsessed with shiny, material things. A pretty magpie.

My polar opposite.

I wonder if my boss is screwing with me, pushing me into the deep end to see if I sink or swim. I could think of a dozen other female officers who would be way more convincing than me. Who are prettier and look like they could belong in this world.

Meanwhile I burned my thumb while straightening my hair this morning so I’d look like Owen’s wife, instead of his poodle.

“Party people.” Owen announces himself with a whoop, sans apology for his tardiness—as expected—and slaps a hand down on Max’s back. When he leans in as if to kiss me, I place a hand on his chest to stop him getting too close. “That’s a chilly greeting.”

I chide myself. He’s right, of course. We have to be in character now, even if I want to strangle him with my scarf. “The concierge manager is due to meet us in ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” Owen looks at his watch. “I thought you said seven a.m.”

“I did. And I booked the move-in for eight, knowing your lazy ass wouldn’t be here on time.” I shoot him a smug grin. “So you’re early.”

“She got you there.” Max chuckles and heads to the back of the van. “I’ll start getting these boxes out now and we can load them straight onto the flatbed.”

“I’ll help.”

I resist the urge to join in and speed up the process. Hannah Anderson is a hands-on person who can lift a box with the best of them. However, Hannah Essex is worried about her manicure. I glare at the pearly pink polish I applied last night. I’d toyed with the idea of fake nails to compensate for my terrible nail-biting habit, but I have to draw the line somewhere. The last thing I need is a nail flying off while I’m chasing a perp.

“Mrs. Essex?”

For a second the name doesn’t register, but then my brain kicks into gear and I smile at the man and woman approaching me. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Welcome to 21 Love Street.” The woman is older—late sixties, maybe seventies—with a genuine smile and a neatly pressed uniform of white shirt and grey slacks. “I’m Irma and this is my colleague Dante. Looks like you’re all ready to move in. I understand you’ve already picked up your keys and access cards.”

“Yes.” I stick my hand out to shake Irma’s and then turn my smile to Dante, who’s about my age. “Nice to meet you both.”

“Dante will set the elevator to freight mode and make sure you get up to your level okay,” Irma says. “Let us know if you have any questions at all.”

I give my thanks and wait while Owen and Max finish unloading our boxes onto the flatbed trolley. Owen is wearing a pair of fitted jeans and a simple V-neck grey jumper that sits close to his body. A heavy silver watch decorates one wrist. The neat, casual outfit is at odds with Owen’s overlong dirty-blond hair, which seems to be permanently two weeks overdue for a haircut. The thick strands kink and curl at the back of his neck. At one point in my much younger, much stupider years I’d fantasised about running my hands through it, about kissing his full-lipped, smart-ass mouth.

“She can hardly keep her eyes off me.” Owen looks smug as hell and I realise I’ve been caught staring.

“Newlyweds?” Dante asks with a knowing smile. I want to punch them both.

“We’re so very in love.” Owen walks toward me with that careless rolling-hip gait that makes women adore him. I can’t walk away. Can’t break character. “Isn’t that right?”

“It sure is.” I tip my face up to his, aiming for a loving look while hoping he can hear the obscenities I’m screaming at him in my mind. As he lowers his lips, I turn my face so the kiss catches my cheek. Nice try, Fletcher. “And I’m also madly in love with this apartment. Are we ready to go up?”

Owen chuckles. “My wife, the drill sergeant.”

“Tell me about it,” Dante says as he leads us through the loading bay into the building via a room where recycled waste is kept. I make note of my surroundings, mentally jotting down details about building access points. “I’ve been married for two years now. My wife is about to have our first baby.”

“That’s sweet.” I try to sound like I mean it. But my mind is on the job...well, it should be. And it should definitely not be occupied with the enticing way Owen’s butt looks in those fitted jeans.

Dante leads us to a bay of elevators, one of which is open and protected with heavy-duty fabric. “You’re good to go. Shouldn’t take more than three or four trips, by the looks of it. I have to stay in the loading bay to make sure we don’t end up with any traffic jams, so I’ll see you when you come back down for the next load.”

Max, Owen and I squeeze into the elevator with the trolley and boxes. The door slides shut.

“The whole team is taking bets on who strangles who first,” Max says as we rise up to the top floor. “Money’s on Anderson, ten to one.”

“Ten to one?” Owen’s lip curls in disgust. “Traitors.”

“It’s better odds than you deserve,” I mutter, my thumb rubbing over the ring on my left hand. I can’t stop touching the damn thing. It’s driving me nuts.

The other thing driving me nuts is the smell of soap on Owen’s skin—creamy and warm, like sandalwood with a hint of vanilla. I don’t remember him smelling that good in our academy days. Though, to be fair, I don’t know if many guys in their early twenties shower as often as they should.

I should not be thinking about what Owen looks like in the shower.

The glowing green numbers count up to level six. I really need to get a hold on my imagination—because this assignment is going to be difficult enough without giving him any indication that I still harbour an attraction to him. And I don’t. He’s awful and childish and irreverent and not the kind of guy I would ever marry because I like serious men who do...serious things.

Ugh. I’m no good at lying, even in my head. I train my eyes on the glowing numbers. Maybe if I don’t look at Owen, I won’t get affected by whatever hot guy voodoo he’s using to mess with my head.

When we reach our destination, the elevator opens with a cheerful ping.

“Apartment 601.” I exit with more speed than is necessary. As I march toward the front door, I dig the key out of my bag. “Home sweet home.”

The apartment is bigger than anywhere I’ve ever lived, including my family home that housed five of us. Even though we’re only six floors up, we have a lovely view of South Melbourne made even prettier by the buttery morning light. The apartment itself has been staged by someone who knows the fine line between style and comfort, and there’s a mix of textures—light, warm woods and soft grey fabric and faded gold metals—that make me feel instantly at ease. The neutral tones are brought to life with a few pops of colour, including a vibrant sunflower yellow chair and a canvas splashed with shades of teal and lavender.

“This’ll do,” Owen says as he walks in. Max follows with the trolley. “Not really my style, but it looks like we have money.”

No kidding. I spot a Herman Miller Eames chair in the corner of the room, and it looks like the real deal. Those things cost more than what I paid for my first car. I dated a guy once—very briefly—who owned one of those chairs. Talked about it like the damn thing was his child.

“I’ll get the next load of boxes,” Max says. “And I’ll make conversation with the concierge guy, see if I pick up anything interesting.”

Owen nods. “Good idea.”

The second the door swings shut behind Max, my body is alight with awareness. The tingling sensation of being watched is an itch beneath my skin. At one point, I’d craved this with all my being—a moment alone with Owen.

“We’ll have to make sure we don’t damage any of this furniture,” I say in a desperate attempt to keep my mind where it belongs—on work. “Budget won’t accommodate eight grand for a chair.”

“And how do you think we’re going to damage the furniture, huh?” Owen walks up beside me, and I feel his presence right down to my toes.

“Not like that.” I don’t need to spell out that sex isn’t part of playing man and wife for this job. Owen might be a larrikin, but he’s not an asshole. In fact, the one time he had the chance to take advantage of our situation—the time I asked him to—he declined due to “personal ethics” and I never quite got over the humiliation. Even thinking about it now makes my stomach churn. “But I do remember one young recruit who managed to break both a dining chair and a bed frame in one evening.”

“Harmless fun.” He slings an arm around my shoulders and I force myself not to lean into him. “It’s been a long time, Anderson. I missed you while I was in New York.”

I snort. “I didn’t think about you once.”

“Liar.” He laughs and his delicious scent fills my nostrils again. Damn it. How does he smell so freaking good? “You ready to take the bad guys down?”

“Absolutely.” This time my response is genuine. I love my job and I’m damn good at it. “They won’t even know what hit them.”

CHAPTER THREE
Owen

IT TAKES LESS than a day for us to argue about every little thing—our approach for gaining the trust of the people in the building, where to set up discreet surveillance...what flavour pizza we should get for dinner. She wanted Hawaiian. Gross. Pineapple does not belong on pizza.

We compromise and get Thai food instead.

“We should be talking to people already,” Hannah argues. Her dark hair started the day floating around her face, brushing the tops of her shoulders, but now it’s pulled back into a messy little knot. “You think they want to pay us for sitting around? That might be how things work in your cushy world, but we’re wasting taxpayers’ dollars right now.”

“Sorry, I was under the impression you were a detective senior constable, not the chief commissioner.” I spear a piece of duck and make sure I get some coconut rice on my fork, as well. Damn, it’s good. “And cushy, my ass. My job keeps me fit as a fiddle, and don’t think I didn’t notice you staring earlier.”

When some women blush, it’s like a delicate pink flush over their cheeks. Hannah’s blush goes everywhere—over her cheeks and nose, down her neck and under the edge of her simple black T-shirt. But my favourite bit is how it colours the tips of her ears.

“I have to stare. It’s not often I see a class-A idiot in the flesh,” she snaps.

The defensive comeback bounces right off me—I’ve been called worse. No-hoper. Slacker. Troublemaker. I saw my eleventh-grade science teacher in my first month of being a constable and her eyes almost popped out of her head. To say most people didn’t expect me to do much with my life is an understatement.

Have you done much with your life? Really?

I promptly ignore that inconvenient thought and file it away where it belongs: in the corner of my mind marked “shit not to think about.”

“You’ve got such a way with words, Anderson.”

“It’s Hannah, remember? You can’t mess that up.” Her cheeks return to their usual colour as she tucks into her Pad Thai. “Now, back to work. We’ve got to get out and talk to people.”

“Have you ever met a newlywed couple who wanted to become BFFs with their new neighbours the second they got married? No, they want to fuck like animals and not leave their apartment.”

She rolls her eyes. “You would think that. How many times have you been married?”

“Zero. But if I did get married, I wouldn’t make hanging out with the neighbours my first priority.” I reach for my Coke. “However, I do agree we can’t sit in here all night.”

“Then what?”

“We go for a romantic evening walk in the garden.”

She looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “A romantic walk?”

“It will give us a chance to scope out the property, look for anything out of the ordinary and find some surveillance points.”

“And then we can talk to anyone we come across?”

I sigh. “We don’t need to talk to them yet. It’s not a good idea to come across too eager.”

“Is this some weird guy logic?” She narrows her eyes. “Like needing to wait three weeks before you call a girl after a date?”

I raise a brow. “If he’s waiting three weeks, he’s not interested.”

She stabs at her dinner like she’s trying to make sure it’s dead. Either that, or she’s imagining it’s me. “I’m talking hypothetically.”

I would usually take the opportunity to stir her up some more, but for some reason I don’t want to talk about Anderson’s dating life. It makes me feel a little stabby myself, so I move the conversation on. “If we come on too strong, we might tip them off. We need to seem interesting, so they come to us.”

“And by ‘seem interesting’ what you really mean is ‘seem rich,’ right? We need to make ourselves a target.”

“Exactly. And it needs to be subtle. We can’t look like we’re trying to get anyone’s attention.”

She makes a sound of frustration that’s music to my ears. Winding her up is way too easy. “So we have to attract attention without looking like we want it, and we have to avoid talking to people so they want to talk to us? Doesn’t that seem a little counterintuitive?”

“No, it seems like the right way to do things. Trust me, I know how these guys work. Last time—”

“Yes, last time you brought down a crime ring almost single-handedly. I remember the bragging.” She shakes her head and scoops up a pile of noodles with her fork. “Why did you move to New York, anyway? It seemed like you were on the rise, and then suddenly I hear you’ve taken off.”

Speaking of things to file under “shit not to think about...”

“I’m a free spirit, baby.” I use the smile that comes naturally to me—the one that’s been convincing people for years that I don’t give a crap about anything. “I go wherever the whim takes me.”

She shakes her head and concentrates on her meal. In the silence, I watch her. I liked Anderson the second we crossed paths in our first week at the academy. She’s smart—if a little traditional in her approach to things—and she’s calm in a crisis. I’ve seen her outrun some of the fittest men I know to take down a bad guy. I’ve seen her talk herself out of dangerous situations and I’ve seen her stick up for some of the most vulnerable people in the communities we serve. Despite my teasing, I respect her a hell of a lot. She deserves to be a detective.

And I can’t take my eyes off her.

“Who’s staring now?” She smirks at me with a self-satisfied expression that’s a flashing cape to a bull.

“You have a little something...” I lean forward to point at an imaginary spot on her cheek and when she moves I flick her nose with my finger.

“You’re such a child,” she says, rolling her eyes. But that doesn’t stop her dabbing at the imaginary spot with a napkin. “Fine, let’s try it your way tonight. Romantic walk in the garden...but we might want to bring a bucket in case I need to puke from the pressure of pretending to be attracted to you.”

“Who’s the child now?” I mutter, stacking the empty containers and stifling the grin that wants to burst forth. If I’m going to be back in Australia, then at least I have some fun to distract me from the growing list of things I don’t want to think about.

CHAPTER FOUR
Hannah

THERE’S A SURPRISING amount of garden space out the back of 21 Love Street, considering we’re in South Melbourne. From what I’ve read on the building, this used to be a big warehouse lot that was rezoned to accommodate residential construction. The original building was torn down, but instead of filling the space with a huge apartment tower, they went for quality over quantity. It makes for a nice change from the other massive towers popping up all over the city, which are slowly blotting out the light in increasingly cluttered streets.

There’s a shared barbeque area with tables and chairs adorned with striped cushions. A curved path leads to a communal vegetable garden already budding with zucchini and thick bushes of thyme and mint. I take a moment to crouch down and breathe in the enticing scent. A lemon tree fills one corner, bursting with yellow fruit. Several lemons lie on the ground, half-consumed by some creature who must have stumbled across the bounty.

That’s when I notice a small single-door gate next to the tree. Between the darkness of the evening sky and the fullness of the lemon tree, it’s somewhat concealed.

“See that?” I turn to Owen. “It would be pretty easy to slip in and out here at night without being seen.”

The sky isn’t too dark yet—but soon it will be. There aren’t many lights in the garden, beyond the barbeque area and the entrance to the building that houses the indoor swimming pool. This part of the yard is shadowy and private.

“I’m assuming it’s locked,” Owen says, taking a closer inspection. “There’s a latch and a padlock, so it’s not accessible with the key cards.”

“That means it’s not for resident use. What’s behind it?”

Owen jumps up and wraps his hands over the edge of the fence, hoisting himself up. I suck in a breath at the sight of his muscles bulging beneath the sleeves of his jumper. He’s always been fit, but the last few years have filled his body out in a way that sets off a warm burn in my stomach. He’s broader in the shoulders, fuller in the arms, rounder in the butt. But his waist is still sharply defined in that delightful V shape that tells me he hits the gym regularly.

“An alleyway,” he confirms and I nod, hoping he hasn’t caught me looking again. “We’ll take a look down there tomorrow, see if there’s any evidence of people hanging around.”

“So there’s four ways into the property that I’ve seen—front entrance, car park, loading bay and this door.” I tick the options off my fingers. “I doubt they’re hauling bags of jewels and cash in and out via the front door. If we’re talking about the kind of money that Ridgeway mentioned...they’re not sneaking that through in a gym bag.”

“And the car park has as much surveillance as the front entrance. There’s cameras all over,” Owen adds. “In the loading dock, too. This might be a hand-off point.”

We know jewels are coming into this building thanks to a diamond cuff that had been fitted with a tracker. Unfortunately, the person who’d stolen the cuff from the small exhibit where it was being shown as “bait” had done a good job skirting the surveillance cameras. After that, the trail went cold.

The current estimation is that the thieves lift the items and bring them to 21 Love Street where a jeweller strips the gems out. Then the gems are sold either individually or in lots and residual metal from the settings and chains is sold to a gold buyer who melts it down.

By that method, there are no pieces of evidence floating around which might provide a trail back to the operation. It’s smart. And while it might not provide the same kind of cash as other criminal activities—such as drug production or trafficking—it’s a good place for would-be criminals to cut their teeth. The larger worry was that the Romano crime family had a new figurehead. This case wasn’t simply about stopping theft. It was about gathering information so we could go after the bigger problem. But there wouldn’t be budget for a task force unless we could prove that the Romano crime family was back in action.

“Someone’s watching us,” Owen says quietly.

The words cause goose bumps to ripple over my skin as my brain switches to high-alert. It’s like the air has dropped a few degrees, and suddenly I’m conscious of every little detail around me—the whisper-quiet sound of footsteps on grass, the scent of cigarette smoke coiling into the air, the shifting shadows of the lemon tree as a breeze causes the leaves to shudder in the wind.

“Kiss me,” he says.

“What?” I resist the urge to turn and look at whatever he can see behind me.

Owen’s fingers encircle my wrist and he pulls me closer, further into the dark shadow of the lemon tree. “We’re a newlywed couple out for a romantic stroll...so let’s look romantic.”

Shit. I have no idea what he can see and I hate being the one in a vulnerable position. But protecting the cover always comes first—before my comfort zone, before my own desires. Only now, the cover and my desires converge, and I wind my arms around Owen’s neck. He takes a step back and hits the fence, allowing me to pin him there.

We don’t have to kiss, not really. Holding my head close to his would have been enough to maintain our position as horny newlyweds, but my lips part before I can logic my way out of doing what I’ve dreamed of since I was a fresh-faced academy trainee. I press my mouth to his and his fingers tighten at my waist, pulling me closer. His lips are firm and his grip is confident and his tongue slides along mine in a way that makes my knees buckle. God, he tastes even better than he smells—like earth and man and a hint of spice. Delicious.

My fingers drive through his hair, fisting the lengths so I can hold myself upright. I don’t protest as his hands slide down my back and cup my ass, because there’s not a single cell in my body that doesn’t want this. I’ve kissed a few guys before—some of them weren’t bad. One or two were good kissers.

But Owen is a master. He kneads me in a rhythmic way that makes my sex throb, like he’s simulating the tempo of fucking. But it’s the moment he yanks me up an inch and jams me firmly against him that takes my breath away. He’s hard as a rock and his jeans do nothing to conceal the thick, curved length of his cock as it digs into my belly. That isn’t part of our undercover script.

Because kisses can be faked and affections can be feigned, but a hard-on tells me that maybe I’m not the only one who’s super into this right now. And that’s a terrifying thought, because it’s easy for me to hate Owen for rejecting me all those years ago. For teasing me about my crush on him. It’s easy for me to write him off as someone who’s totally wrong for me.

But unfortunately, I’ve never stopped lusting over Owen Fletcher. Now the floodgates have been opened and I have to live with him as man and wife. Screwing your co-worker isn’t exactly a great career move.

But something tells me that I’ll be going to bed with this kiss on my mind every damn night until we either crack this case, or until I give in to the feelings that have been haunting me for the past decade. Right now, as I writhe against him, I’m not sure which option I prefer.

CHAPTER FIVE
Owen

HANNAH FEELS LIKE heaven in my hands, but she kisses like the devil. Dark and sinful and so tempting my mere mortal brain has no hope of withstanding her. When I pulled her toward me, I hadn’t expected her to respond with such enthusiasm. The kiss was a legitimate action to maintain cover and within the boundaries of our work.

The wood in my jeans was not.

I’d been prepared to keep my hands at ten and two—high school dance style—until the second she’d rubbed against me, purring like a kitten and taking a lit match to my decency. The sound coming from her mouth scrambles my brain, making me think of long sweaty nights and the feeling of thighs clamping down on my head. My fantasy woman always has dark hair and dark eyes, and it didn’t occur to me until right now that Anderson could be that woman. She has been that woman...more times than I will ever admit.

But Anderson is a family woman. A heart-and-soul kind of woman. A forever woman. And that means we’ll never be anything more than friends.

Her lips work against mine, her tongue sliding into my mouth as she presses herself against me. Grinding. I’m pinned to the fence, my body temperature skyrocketing. I want nothing more than to spin her around so I can use the fence to brace her back while I drag her legs up and encourage her to lock her heels behind my back.

But this is work. And this kiss is veering into the space where one of us is taking advantage of the situation—only I don’t know who.

“He’s gone.” I whisper against her lips. It’s dark outside and I can’t see the details of her expression, but I feel the effects of the kiss in the puffiness of her lips. In the quickness of her breath.

“Well,” she says shakily. “That’s a relief.”

“Yeah, I got the impression you thoroughly hated that.” The teasing comes easily, naturally. It’s like breathing for me. Like walking.

But what I really want is to tell her that she’s got me hot and bothered. That I’ll have to scrub this memory from my mind if I have any hope of keeping my focus on the case. But my focus is no better than a crystal glass thrown against a brick wall. It’s thousands of irreparable glittering shards. I want to punish that sweet mouth of hers and haul her over my shoulder so I can take her straight to my bed.

“What now?” she asks.

I want to stay in this bubble forever—me and her. That kiss. The feel of her subtle curves against me. “We take the show back to the apartment.”

“What?” she squeaks, stepping back suddenly. No longer covered in the shadows of the tree, the moonlight bounces off her face—off her wide eyes and lush mouth. I bet the tips of her ears are bright red.

“We’re newlyweds who’ve gotten distracted by a kiss and now we’re heading back home to finish what we started.” I grin and step forward, causing her to back up. “Do you have a problem with that, darling wife?”

She rolls her eyes and turns, heading back across the garden. In a few strides, I catch up to her and sling an arm around her shoulders. I’m surprised to find a smirk on her lips. “I think if anyone thoroughly enjoyed that kiss, it was you, by the way,” she says.

Our footsteps fall in time. “What powers of deduction did you use to figure that out?”

“You’re going to make me say it?” She shakes her head. There’s more light overhead now as we approach the barbeque area and her ears are definitely pink. “It was pretty bloody obvious.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She opens her mouth to respond, but we’re interrupted by a group spilling out of the building and into the shared barbeque area. There are three men dressed in casual attire, laughing and carrying food. Two of the men look to be brothers and all appear to be in their early thirties.

“You’re new.” One of the brothers points a pair of tongs in our direction. The others wave and set themselves up around the barbeque. “Level six, right?”

“Word travels fast.” I stick my hand out. “Owen. This is my wife, Hannah.”

The W-word rolls off my tongue far too easily and it stirs something uncomfortable in my gut.

“Dom.” The guy is built like a bear and has a grip to match. “That’s my brother, Rowan, and our mate Matt.”

“We moved in today,” Hannah says, her smile a little too wide. I reach for her hand and squeeze—hoping it looks more loving and less like the warning it is. Rule number one of being undercover, never offer more information than you need to. “This morning, actually. We’ve been unpacking all day.”

She’s nervous. Hannah is like a fountain when she’s nervous, which normally I am all about. But now is not the time for verbal diarrhea. I squeeze her hand again.

“It’s a great building.” Dom nods. “Ro and I moved in about two years ago.”

If it’s true, it doesn’t really seem to fit the timeline, since the activity only started up within the last six months...but that’s a big if. Could be part of their cover story. I’ll get my hands on the building management documents and corroborate that information.

My eyes drift to the two men firing up the barbeque. They’re laughing and joking. Matt is dressed in all black and he could very well have been the shadowy figure who interrupted us in the garden.

“How did you all meet?” I ask.

“Matt went to high school with us. He’s a chef.”

Rowan looks up from the barbeque and grins. He has a cavalier air about him, like he’s a bit of a joker. “You wouldn’t know it with the way he butchered this meat. Looks like it was done with a hacksaw.”

“I can’t work magic with shitty tools,” Matt grumbles. Unlike Rowan and Dom, he’s fair-haired and has sharp grey eyes.

“What do you do?” Hannah asks, looking up at Dom.

“Ro and I run the family business, an art gallery.”

I have to actively conceal my surprise. Dom looks more like a bricklayer than the owner of a gallery—though admittedly, I know as much about art as I do about bricklaying. Zip.

“I run all the events,” Rowan says, wandering over and handing his brother a beer. “Deal with the temperamental artists and mingle with the buyers.”

In other words, he’s a professional party boy. Could be a good cover, getting to mix and mingle with all the big players in Melbourne and making connections. Maybe he scopes out the targets.

“And I make sure my brother doesn’t blow all our profit on champagne and canapés.” Dom grins. “You should come and visit us sometime. I’m sure we have something perfect for your new apartment.”

“That would be lovely.” Hannah brings her hand to her chest, so the stones on her engagement ring wink in the light. The gesture is subtle—authentic—which is why it’s perfect. I watch Rowan and Dom carefully, noting the way their eyes drift down to Hannah’s hand. “We were saying today that we’d like something special for the bedroom. Our old pieces don’t feel quite right anymore.”

That’s my girl. She’s finding her feet in the role now, which I know to be far from her real “true blue Aussie” life. I’ve met her family—her dad was a sergeant before he retired. Nice bloke. For some reason, watching Hannah in action brings back the surge of attraction I’ve been trying so hard to keep under wraps. What can I say? Capability gets me hot.

“Isn’t that right, Owen?” She looks up at me with those luminous brown eyes and I wonder how in the fuck I am going to get to sleep tonight.

“Yes, dear.” I say it with just enough of a patronising tone that I get a chuckle from Rowan. It makes me feel like a class-A dick, but it’s part of the act. Still, I can practically hear my grandmother scolding me. “Whatever you’d like.”

“We’ve got an opening for a new artist later this week. Why don’t you join us?” Rowan looks back to where Matt is throwing the steaks onto the grill. The sound of searing meat hisses into the night air. “I’ll put an invite into your mailbox.”

“We’re number six-oh-one,” Hannah clarifies, looping her arm through mine. “It’s nice to meet you. Enjoy your barbeque.”

The men turn their attention to their dinner and Hannah leads me inside the building.

“What do you think?” she asks as we’re in the elevator.

“Not much to go on, but the gallery thing is unexpected. They don’t seem the type.”

“Agreed.” She bobs her head. “And I know what I’m doing, okay? You don’t have to freak out every time I open my mouth.”

“You seemed a little nervous.”

“I wasn’t.”

I would call bullshit, but I cut her some slack. Hannah’s nerves only ever come from wanting to do a good job. This position means everything to her. She told me week one of our academy training that she was going to make detective by thirty-five and she’s a couple years ahead of schedule.

It’s a tough job and competitive to even get the opportunity. She’s probably thinking about all the things that could go wrong.

“If I seemed nervous it was more likely revulsion,” she adds. But her clipped tone is all bark and no bite. “From kissing you, I mean.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Anderson,” I reply. “So long as you look the part when we have an audience, that’s all that matters.”

The way she kissed me is playing on my mind, however. It wasn’t the kind of kiss I expected, and she could easily have kept it low-key. Faked it.

But that wasn’t faking it, for either one of us.

I’ll have to do my best to ignore the burning chemistry and hope she’ll do the same. Because I have a feeling if Hannah asked me to fuck her senseless tonight, I’d have a really hard time remembering why it’s a bad idea.

CHAPTER SIX
Hannah

DAY TWO OF my fake marriage and I’m already questioning why I didn’t put up more of a fight when Max suggested bringing Owen back for this operation. I should have nipped it in the bud. But oh no, I had to go and think the golden boy’s shine might have worn off with absence. Mistake number one.

Mistake number two was not pushing the brother-and-sister undercover plan harder. But like any good public servant, I fell into line.

Mistake number three was kissing him. Well, kissing is kind of a soft description. I basically dry humped him against the fence.

Cringing, I shake my head. Last night I acted out of line—unprofessional. Owen made it clear years ago that he wasn’t interested and yet I threw myself at him the first chance I got. Pathetic. He’s probably having a good laugh about it.

But what about the fact that he was hard enough to drill holes?

Natural physical response. Endorphins. Adrenaline. Pick a reason.

It’s like the universe has designed the perfect situation to test me. This morning I burned my toast while getting lost in my imagination. Getting lost in a fantasy starring him. How am I supposed to do my job when I can’t even make a bloody piece of toast without screwing it up?

Ugh, don’t think about screwing. Don’t think about screwing. Don’t think about screwing...

“Whatcha thinking about?” Owen walks into the kitchen, a pair of tracksuit pants riding low on his hips and a white T-shirt clinging to every muscle in his chest. His blond hair is damp, which makes his blue eyes even brighter.

It’s borderline disgusting how attractive he is.

“I’m thinking about the case.” I busy myself by putting the dishes away from our dinner last night. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Amusement dances in his voice. “By the way, this arrived. I noticed it when I came back from my run this morning.”

He’s holding a crisp white envelope in the kind of paper that usually signifies something fancy—weddings, galas, charity balls.

He grabs a knife and slips it under the seal at the back, slicing the envelope open. Inside is a single piece of paper. It’s grey and industrial-looking, with rough edges and an asymmetrical shape but the fancy gold-and-white font screams money.

“A personal invitation from Galleria D’Arte to join Dominic and Rowan Lively in presentation of artist Celina Yang.” Owen looks up. “It’s a cocktail party tomorrow night.”

A cocktail party. Great. Unfortunately, the work budget doesn’t extend to fancy wardrobe purchases, and I’m pretty sure Owen doesn’t own a tux. Or is a tux more black tie than cocktail? I have no earthly idea.

“What should I wear?” I bring my thumb up to my lips, ready to bite down until I remember that I need to look the part. No more biting my nails.

“Cocktail dress?” Owen supplies less-than-helpfully.

“I don’t own any.” I have one dress that might pass at a nice restaurant since it’s black and simple. The last time I wore it was to a funeral. And if it passed muster at a funeral, does that mean it’s no good for a cocktail party?

Damn it. When it comes to outrunning the bad guys and clipping on handcuffs or diffusing a tense situation, I’m at the top of my game. But I don’t do parties and dresses and high heels. How am I going to convince anyone that I’m a trophy wife?

“You go. I’ll pretend to be sick,” I mutter.

“Do we need to go shopping?” Owen places the invitation on the kitchen counter and leans his forearms against the sleek marble. “We can get you something to wear.”

“That’s not an appropriate use of the budget and you know it.” Maybe I can slap on some fake leaves and pretend to be a potted plant, Scooby-Doo style.

“Don’t worry about the budget.”

I sigh. “Of course I worry about the budget. There are more important things to spend that money on and I can’t be seen taking advantage of the situation to fill out my wardrobe.”

“I’ll cover you.” When I raise a brow, Owen shrugs in that careless way of his. “I’m a consultant and I have expenses. No big deal.”

“I’ll pay you back,” I say. The thought of him footing the bill for a dress feels totally and utterly wrong, but if I’m being honest my five-year-old Target dress isn’t going to cut it for an upper-crust gallery event.

“Stop worrying about the money.” He turns and heads toward the spare room, which he’s graciously taken so I can have the master suite with the more private bathroom. “Go grab your things.”

We catch the tram to Collins Street, where the designer shops sit like glittering beacons of unattainable style. The only time I come to the “Paris End”—aka the section with all the fancy stores—is to have the odd drink with friends. But Owen whisks me into the Gucci store like he’s done it a thousand times before.

We bypass the shoes and bags and head into the quieter part with the clothing. “This is excessive,” I say under my breath. “Can’t we go to Myer?”

Department stores are a little more my speed. And I’m already wondering what kind of payment plan I’ll need to buy a dress here. I love my job, but it isn’t for the thickly padded pay cheque.

“You need to grab everybody’s attention. We’re drawing them to us, remember?”

We walk into a room with huge screens playing footage from a runway show. The models are wearing strange, avant-garde creations and they all look terribly unhappy. Biting down on my lip, I glance around the store.

I walk over to a simple dress in emerald green with a ruffle draping from one shoulder all the way to the hem. It’s not my style, but it looks like something my undercover alter ego might wear. But when I glance at the price tag, I almost faint.

“We need to leave,” I say under my breath as a well-heeled sales assistant approaches us. “Please.”

“Hannah, it’s fine.” Owen touches my arm like we really are a married couple and that only makes my stomach swish harder. I’m going to send myself into life-long debt for a cocktail dress.

“Can I help you?” The woman has a cool confidence that I immediately envy. But maybe I could learn a few things from her to help bolster my persona.

“My wife is looking for a cocktail dress,” Owen says when I remain stubbornly quiet. “We’ve got an important event to attend.”

The woman’s gaze sweeps over me, assessing my size and shape. Her fingers drift over a rack of clothing, and she pushes the hangers to one side to reveal a hot pink monstrosity that looks like some cruel fashion joke. When she notes my expression, she immediately moves to another rack.

“What kind of an event?”

“A gallery exhibition.” I can barely find my voice. I hate feeling so out of my depth, and over such a stupid thing, too. I’ve had a gun pointed directly at my face and yet I’m scared of a few metres of silk?

“Ah, so you might want something artistic.” She taps a well-manicured finger to her chin. “How daring are you?”

Not very. Not even a little bit. “Uh, I’m probably more classic than daring.”

“She’s very daring,” Owen says, his gaze scorching me from the inside out. “My wife doesn’t see it in herself, but I do. She’s got a spark like nobody else.”

Does he really see that in me? Or is it part of the doting husband act?

My head and heart have been a jumbled mess ever since Owen set foot back in Australia. I thought I’d gotten over it all—over the desperate desire and humiliation. Over the way he’d looked at me, with clear eyes while mine were glassy with champagne, as he’d told me that he wouldn’t sleep with me because he valued our friendship. The humiliation had burned me to ash, and it made his act now all the more painful to swallow.

Because despite the time that had passed, I still wanted it to be real.

The woman’s face lights up as she pulls another garment from the rack. It appears to be a blazer made of reflective black material. “Is there a pair of pants to go with that?” I ask.

She ushers me to a changing room. “It’s a dress made to look like a blazer. It’s classic and daring, to suit both what you see and what your husband sees.”

When she closes the door behind me, I stare at myself in the mirror. Even with the flattering gold tones of the change room and the specially engineered lighting, I don’t love what I see. I’d never call myself ugly, but I wouldn’t say I’m anything special to look at, either. Brown hair, brown eyes, eyebrows that could do with some TLC. I’ve always viewed my body for what it can do—for speed and strength and agility—rather than looks. And I’ve told myself over and over when relationships fizzled, that it was because men are intimidated by strong women.

But now I wonder if I’m a bit...boring. Unsophisticated.

“How’s it going in there?” Owen’s honey-smooth voice jolts me out of my negative thought spiral and I shuck my jeans.

“This is my worst nightmare,” I admit. Somehow, without having to face him, it’s a little easier to be honest. “I can’t afford anything in here and I feel like a little girl playing dress-up.”

The silence stretches on for a beat more than is comfortable.

“Firstly, the dress is my treat. And secondly...” The lock rattles lightly and I can tell he’s leaned against the door. “You need to stop being so hard on yourself.”

I raise a brow at my reflection. It’s the most un-Owen-like thing he could have said. I’m down to my bra and undies now, and pulling the blazer/dress thing off the hanger. It’s surprisingly heavy, and I notice it’s covered entirely in glimmering beads.

“You deserve to be where you are because you work harder than anyone else. Because you’re smarter than anyone else. Maybe more people should be like you, rather than you trying to be like someone else.”

The statement warms my heart, kindling an old fire. I can’t help the goofy grin that stretches my lips as I slip into the dress. The sales assistant was right—it is the perfect mix of classic and daring. The long sleeves and padded shoulders give a structured, powerful vibe and the short hemline and plunging neck are sexy as all get-out. But the fact is I am a girl playing dress-up. Because I would never wear this dress, and I would never be with a guy like Owen who flits from one thing to the next, always chasing a new whim.

I like him. I always have. But I need to remember what I told myself all those years ago—it’s a good thing he rejected me. Because a guy like him would chew me up and spit me out. I need to find a relationship where I’m an equal partner, where the other person is invested as much as I am. And unfortunately, I’m always more invested than the other person.

When I open the change room door, Owen’s eyes widen. “Wow.”

He’s looking at me like it’s the first time he’s seen me. But I don’t want to have my She’s All That moment right now. Because this transformation is a lie—like the ring on my finger and the apartment we’re sharing. I’m never going to be the “after” picture in some “ugly duckling to swan” advertisement.

I’m not sure I want to be, either.

“Thanks.” I swallow my awkwardness. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be back in leggings tonight.”

I refuse to let his reaction affect me. If there’s any attraction here, it’s not because of who I really am. I can’t afford the delusion that there will ever be anything between us...no matter how much I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.

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