Читать книгу Faking It - Stefanie London - Страница 11

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.”