Faking It. Stefanie London
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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.