Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 33213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
She swallows. “And what do you think they’ll say?”
I smirk. “That you caught the captain.”
She laughs—shaky, disbelieving, too soft. “You are impossible.”
“Maybe.”
I brush past her, slow enough she feels every inch of heat between us.
“But I’m yours for now,” I add without looking back.
She inhales sharply.
“And you,” I say, glancing at her over my shoulder, “are mine to help.”
Her lips part. Her cheeks flush. The spark between us roars. And for the first time since meeting her, I know with absolute certainty:
This fake engagement won’t stay fake for long.
Chapter Seven
Briar
Ilearn very quickly that a fake fiancé doesn’t behave the way Saxon Cole behaves.
Fake fiancés don’t show up on your porch three evenings in a row like it’s a second job. They don’t bring bags of groceries. They don’t fix things without being asked. And they definitely don’t make your daughter look at them like they hung the moon.
But Saxon does all of it.
And the worst part?
I let him.
The first night he shows up after shift, he stands on my porch in uniform pants, a black T-shirt that should be illegal, and a bag of food in one hand.
“I didn’t ask you to come,” I blurt before my brain can edit.
“You didn’t have to,” he replies, stepping past me into my house like he belongs here. “You hungry?”
My stomach growls at the exact second Junie barrels in from the living room yelling, “CAPTAIN SAXON!”
He lifts her with one arm like she weighs nothing. “Hey, kid.”
Junie beams. “Are you my mom’s fiancé for real?”
My lungs stop working.
Saxon doesn't even blink. “For now.”
The confidence. The absolute lack of hesitation. It hits me so hard I nearly drop the mail in my hands.
Junie squeals and squirms out of his arms. “We’re making macaroni pictures! Come on!”
He sets the groceries down on the counter and follows her without even checking with me. Like he’s been doing this his whole life. Like he’s been in my house a hundred times.
Like this isn’t fake.
“Where’s your glue?” he asks Junie.
“In the red bin!”
He crouches beside her at the coffee table, big body folding into her tiny world so seamlessly it’s unfair. I stand in the doorway watching them, glued to the floor. He glances over his shoulder at me—just once, quick, but enough to steal every breath I have. Like he knows what he’s doing. Knows exactly how it affects me.
He goes back to helping Junie glue noodles into the shape of what I think is meant to be a dog but honestly looks like a potato with legs.
“Perfect,” he tells her, tone deep and warm.
I melt. Right to the damn floor.
The next night, he brings a toolbox.
“I don’t need anything fixed,” I say as he walks in.
“Your cabinet hinge is loose.”
“How do you know that?”
“You don’t shut it right.”
“That’s just how it is.”
“No,” he says simply, “it’s not.”
He pulls the hinge apart, tightens something with rough, capable hands, and closes it.
Click. Perfect.
I cross my arms. “You can’t just go around fixing things in my house like you own it.”
He looks up at me, eyes steady. “If this engagement’s gonna look real, I need to be here.”
My heart thuds. Loud. Annoying.
“You could just tell people we see each other sometimes.”
“No,” he says calmly. “They’d never believe it.”
“Why not?”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “I don’t see you sometimes.”
I go hot all over.
“Junie wants you,” he says suddenly, breaking the tension before I combust. “She’s got another macaroni project.”
“Oh God.”
“Brace yourself.”
I don’t get the chance. Junie drags him down the hall like she’s recruiting him for a covert mission. And he follows. Again. Like it’s becoming routine.
The following night, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that Saxon Cole is the kind of man who decides something needs doing—and then just… does it.
And apparently, what needs doing is spending evenings at my house.
Tonight he’s in a charcoal hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders, and it should not be legal for a sweatshirt to look that good on a man.
He holds a grocery bag up in a silent greeting. “You got food?”
“Yes.”
“Edible food?”
“I can cook.”
“Uh-huh.”
I scowl. He smirks.
Then he walks right past me.
“Where’s the light that's flickering?” he asks.
“What light?”
He jerks his chin toward the hallway. “The one that buzzes like a pissed-off bee.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“You don’t listen.”
I bristle. “I listen.”
He pauses mid-stride, turns toward me slowly, and gives me a look that steals the air from my lungs.
“Yeah?” he murmurs. “Then listen now.”
I hate him. Not really. But kind of.
He fixes the hallway bulb in ten seconds, then tucks Junie into bed with that gravelly voice that should be classified as a weapon.
“Goodnight kid,” he says, smoothing her blanket with surprising gentleness.
“Night Captain Saxon,” she mumbles sleepily.
He closes her door halfway and steps past me into the kitchen.
I follow because apparently my legs belong to him now.
And that’s when everything shifts.