"Don't need one." Trigger's bandaged hand slides more firmly around me, pulling me back against him with unmistakable possession. "Got something more permanent instead. I play for keeps, needed to make sure everyone knows it's not coming off."
Heat floods through me. Not embarrassment, though I wish it were, because this somehow feels worse. I like his words too much.Permanent. Playing for keeps.I like the solid weight of him at my back, the way I fit against him. Logic abandons me completely as my head swims, and my body makes the decisionmy brain can't, and I lean back into him. Just slightly, just enough, and he notices.
I hear the sharp inhale he draws in, feel the way his chest expands against my spine, and then the unmistakable and devastating feel of his hard length pressing against my ass.Fuck.We're both frozen, caught in this moment that's spiraling far beyond the carefully constructed lie we're supposed to be selling. His fingers dig into my hip, not to pull me closer and not to release me. It's like he can't decide which impulse to follow.
Rohan's gaze flicks between us, but whatever response is forming dies as the heavy double doors at the far end of the room swing open.
"Dinner is ready," a butler announces.
The spell breaks, and the room stirs to life around us as guests head toward the dining room. But Trigger holds me back, his grip firm, keeping me exactly where I am for one more second.
His mouth drops to my ear, his voice low and rough. "You're a good actress, sweetheart." The words are edged with something dark, something that sounds like accusation and want tangled together. "For a minute there, you actually had me believing you liked my touch."
His hand begins to retract from my waist slowly like he's savoring the way I feel as his palm drags across my dress, leaving a trail of heat that makes my stomach tighten. By the time his hand falls away completely, I'm wound so tight I might shatter.
"No more leaving my side tonight." It's not a request. His hand wraps around mine possessively before he threads his fingers through mine and leads us toward the dining room. And I follow, because what else can I do? My words at the bottom of the stairs and now this… He knows. He knows I wasn't acting at all.
"A new face. You must be Trigger," a woman with rich, dark hair flowing in waves down her back and striking eyes greets us before we take our seats.
"I am," Trigg answers, releasing my hand to shake hers. "And you are?"
"Daruka." Her eyes sparkle with curiosity and confidence. "But you may call me Dar."
Well, that's unexpected. Trigger never mentioned that Dar was a woman, but her studied gaze now makes sense. He didn’t know, and she’s watching for a reaction. She wants to see if her gender makes a difference to him.
"This is my wife, Asha,” Trigger responds, not missing a beat. If the revelation that his new business partner is a woman—and a stunning one at that—rattles him, his expression betrays nothing.
"Pleased to meet you." I extend my hand. "Your home is incredible."
"Thank you." Her hands envelop mine with surprising warmth, holding on longer than needed. "I want all my guests to feel welcome in my home." Before I can process it, she slides past Trigger and wraps her arm around me. "Come, sit here beside me." She guides me toward the head of the table, and I catch a glimpse of Trigger over my shoulder. His expression is unreadable, and I'm officially a ball of nerves. I expected to be a side character on this trip, an afterthought, not center stage.
"So how has Spain been treating you?" Dar asks as we settle into our seats. Her voice has a smoky quality, accented but impossible to place. "Well, I hope?"
"We haven't seen much yet." Trigger claims the chair to my left, his hand finding mine under the table with practiced ease before resting our joined hands atop. "Just arrived last night."
His callused palm is warm, and his touch quickly settles my nerves, and I resent it. I don't like feeling dependent, like he'ssomehow my medicine. I've been alone my whole life; letting people in has never worked out for me. People you let in eventually leave, or worse, they stay and ruin you. He might feel like safety now, but we both know the truth: we're oil and water.
"Last night?" Dar's dark brow arches as Rohan materializes at her side, setting a glass of burgundy wine before her. "Where are you staying?"
"A place in the city. The Alhambra," Trigger answers.
"Mateo." Dar's voice cuts through the low murmur of conversation at the far end of the table, where ranch hands have begun gathering. Mateo’s head snaps up immediately. "Drive into Granada. Collect our guests' luggage from the Alhambra." She doesn't ask; she commands. "If you leave now, you'll return before they retire to their suite."
"That's really not—" Trigger begins.
"You are guests in my home." Dar leans forward, and I notice for the first time the thin gold chain disappearing beneath her collar. "Not just any guests, special guests. You will stay here. What better way to understand the land than to live on it?" Her eyes lock with Trigger's, and something unspoken passes between them.
Trigger's hand tightens around mine—a silent apology or warning, I can't tell. "Thank you. Your home is beautiful. We'd be honored."
"Good." Dar claps her hands once, and servers materialize from hidden doorways, carrying platters that smell of saffron and charred meat. "Now we eat."
The first course arrives, bowls of salmorejo so cold and smooth they might be velvet. Dar launches into a story about the property, something about water rights and a decades-old dispute with a neighboring ranch that she resolved with what she calls "creative negotiation." Her hands move as she talks,graceful and empathic, painting pictures in the air, and Trigger nods along, seemingly enamored.
I've sat through enough business calls with my father to know how to handle myself. Give me profit margins and distribution logistics, contracts, and projections, and I can hold my own. I'm good at that, the clean lines of numbers, the clear terms of deals. But this isn't that kind of dinner. There's been no talk of acreage or breeding programs, no discussion of timelines or investment structures. Instead, Dar asks about the property's history, tells stories about her grandfather, and asks Trigger about growing up in Kentucky. Personal stories. Family. Trust.
This dinner is about bonding. About proving we belong at this table, not as business partners, but as people worth knowing. Worth trusting. Which means I'm not here to negotiate terms. I'm here to sell a lie. To perform convincingly as Trigger's wife so that these strangers will want to tie their legacy to ours.
"So, Asha," Dar says, spearing a piece of steak and studying me with those warm, calculating eyes. "What is it that you do?"
