Faking It / Forbidden Sins. Stefanie London
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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.
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