I abandon that thought as we move on to logistics: venue, surveillance, and proximity. Behind the glass, I catch Arden’s shadow shift, just barely. She’s still there. I’d bet good money she’s caught every word.
“I’ll handle the details and prepare her for the onslaught of cameras and carefully practiced smiles,” I mutter to my brother.
He doesn’t want her near me or anyone else in this city. Certainly not in Hollywood. I can see the concern written all over his face.
Nate drags a hand through his hair. “Once you bring her into this world, you think she’s just going to walk away like nothing ever happened?”
“She’s not staying.” I assure my younger brother. “Once this is done, she’ll go back to Vegas.”
It’s a promise I don’t entirely believe, but it’s enough to keep him from pestering me further.
Nate studies me for a second longer. Then he exhales again. “She’s here to help us with a problem; she’d better not become one.”
I nod, because that’s what he needs to see.
Through the glass, I watch as Arden sets her coffee on the counter and turns toward her room.
I don’t know how much she heard.
Whatever it was, it must have been enough.
Chapter 15
ARDEN
I didn’t hear the entire conversation, just fragments. Names. Places. I gathered enough information to let me know this event matters, but not nearly enough to tell me why.
Most of it blurred together the second it left their mouths. There was just one thing that stood out.
Arden’s coming with me.
He spoke the words with an ease that told me the decision had been made long before he bothered to say it out loud. Locke stated it like a fact. Nate responded with concern for his brother’s reputation, disguised as strategy. I wasn’t a person in that conversation; I was a pawn.
And Nate’s face? Tight-jawed and overly cautious, his gaze constantly assessing. It’s clear that he sees me as just another liability.
Fair enough. I know I’m not here because anyonetrustsme. I’m here because I’m “useful,” as Locke put it.
Honestly, his suspicion tells me more than his approval ever could. Men like him don’t waste that kind of scrutiny on people who don’t matter. Whatever his reason, I don’t have time to dissect it now.
And whatever this week holds, I have a feeling I won’t have a say in any of it.
Two days later, I’m sitting at Locke’s kitchen counter while he makes espresso like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The week hasn’t been difficult, but it hasn’t been comfortable, either. There’s a constant awareness between us, like the air ishumming with electricity. Every time we end up in the same room, it feels intentional, even when it’s not.
Apart from that, it’s almost like a vacation. Luxury estate, top-tier amenities, and apparently a personal barista.
“You've seriously never had espresso?” He’s staring at me like I have two heads or something. “You've never had a latte? Cappuccino?”
I shake my head. “I never knew what to order, so I just stuck with regular coffee. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?”
“No,” Locke huffs. “That’s unacceptable.”
I arch a brow. “Unacceptable?”
“We’re fixing it. Right now.”
He pours milk into a silver pitcher and places it under the steam wand. His movements are practiced and precise. I watch as he tilts the pitcher just enough for airy foam to form on the surface.
