“I’m sure I can help out,” Mia said evenly. “Don’t worry about transport—I’ve hired a car to get around. Gives me flexibility.”
Claire raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “Perfect. I’ll send youthe details—dates, location, call sheet. It’s only three days, then you’re back to your rosé and books. Thank you, Mia. You’re saving my sanity and my marriage.”
Mia gave a small smile. “Happy to help.”
Claire stood, stretched, slung her bag over her shoulder. “Right. I’m officially off the clock. Don’t make me regret trusting you two to behave.”
She winked—and walked out.
The door clicked shut.
Lucas exhaled slowly. “Nice cover.”
Mia zipped her bag the rest of the way. “Separate places. Separate stories. No one suspects anything because there’s nothing to suspect. Officially.”
He stepped closer—close enough to catch her scent, feel the warmth off her—but didn’t touch. Not here.
“You’re good at this,” he said quietly. “Covering.”
“It’s not lying,” she replied, though her voice wavered just a fraction. “It’s… protecting what’s ours.”
He nodded once, jaw locked. “I know.”
They left separately—him first, her ten minutes later. Professional caution. Always.
???
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mia
She flew in alone, took a taxi from the airport, arrived at the gravel drive just as the sun dipped low and golden.
Lucas was waiting on the terrace—linen shirt open at the throat, barefoot, a glass of rosé already poured for her.
She dropped her suitcase the second the driver pulled away.
He met her halfway—lifting her clean off the ground, legs wrapping around his waist, mouth on hers like they’d been starved for months instead of weeks.
“Missed you,” he murmured between kisses, carrying her inside.
“Show me.”
They barely made it past the front door.
* * *
The summer became their private universe—days bleeding into nights of skin and heat and quiet possession.
Mornings tangled in sheets—slow, sleepy sex that turned urgent when one of them shifted just right. He’d wake her with his mouth between her thighs, tongue lazy and deliberate until she came shuddering awake, fingers twisted in his hair, whispering his name like a prayer. Afterward they’d lie there, limbs heavy, talking in low voices about nothing and everything.
One morning, sunlight slanting through the shutters, he traced the faint scar on her knee with his fingertip.
“Farm bike,” she said softly. “Fourteen. Thought I could jump the ditch like Dad used to. Landed sideways, gravel everywhere. Mum grounded me for a month—wouldn’t let me near the bike again. Dad just shook his head and went, ‘Next time wear boots.’”
She gave a small laugh that faded quick. “They were always careful with me. Miracle kid, after years of nothing. Treated me like I might vanish if they blinked. That crash freaked them out more than they ever said.”
He kissed the scar, slow, lingering. “I like your scars. They tell stories.”
