JESSA
The two big things on my mind are not stacking up in anything resembling priority order. Not a normal, rational priority, at least.
Because I should be fairly fixated on the fact that the cold-blooded killer next to me just threatened to bring that campaign of violence to my parents’ doorstep. He was being serious—literally, deadly serious.
And yet I’m more preoccupied with the fact that that same killer’s hand is on my lower back, resting right above my ass. With just the lightest of pressures, he reminds me that I have a role to play. His touch sends shivers racing up and down my spine.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Anton asks, looking at me with concern that’s so sincere it takes me by surprise.
“Sorry,” I say. “This is just… really surprising. You never expect to find the police at your door, you know?”
Both cops give me guilty smiles. “We have to check things out when we get a call like that, miss,” the younger one says apologetically. “But it’s clear that nothing is amiss here.”
“Exactly right,” Anton says, pouring them both generous cups of coffee. “Can I offer you something to eat? My girl is an amazing chef.”
He glances at me as he talks. The pride in his eyes is unmistakable. It’s almost enough to make me forget that we’re playing pretend right now.
“Is that right?” Officer Lewiston asks, looking at me with a paternal smile.
“Amazing, I’m not so sure, but I’m definitely a chef.”
“She’s modest,” Anton insists. “Jessa here is like the Picasso of the kitchen. Her bacon-wrapped shrimp is to die for.”
I do a double-take, though his face betrays nothing. I made the bacon-wrapped shrimp as an appetizer for the dinner I served on his yacht the night we met.
“Where do you work?” Branagh asks.
“A catering company,” I explain. “They hire out their chefs for events and stuff.”
“That’s how we met, actually,” Anton says. I give him a questioning frown. Is he really going there? He turns to me. Apparently, he is. “Isn’t that right, honey?”
I force a smile onto my face. “That’s right.”
“Best night of my life.”
Officer Lewiston looks between us with a fond smile. “That’s a nice story. Something to tell the grandkids one day, huh?”
“Definitely,” Anton says without missing a beat. “I’m looking forward to it.”
His hand is draped carelessly around my shoulders now. The weight is surprisingly comfortable. Dane wasn’t one for public touching. No hand-holding, no squeezing my thigh when we sat next to each other, no wrapping his arm around my waist.
It bothered me at first, but then I felt silly for it. Wasn’t it more important that we spent our nights and mornings together? What did it matter if he didn’t want to be openly affectionate? That didn’t count for much in the greater scheme of things.
But as I stand there with Anton’s arm around me, I realize how much I was leaving on the table. Being touched, being claimed—it does something to me that words can’t reach. Makes something in my chest unclench just the tiniest bit.
“Have we upset you, ma’am?” Officer Lewiston says, his tone softening.
I try to shake off the introspection. It’s neither the right time nor the right place, and it’s especially not the right man.
Raising my eyes to the officer, I smile as pleasantly as I can. “I’d be lying if I said I’m not a little shaken up by all this.”
He looks me right in the eye, and I realize that I’m starting to make him suspicious again. Apparently, Anton can feel this, too, because he gives me a subtle squeeze on the shoulder that could easily be mistaken for support.
Is it completely weird that I do actually feel comforted by the gesture?
God, I need to find a fucking therapist.
“Ma’am, is there anything you want to tell us?” Officer Lewiston asks, even as he accepts the coffee from Anton.