“That’s not what she . . .” Sawyer turned and Zoe froze, a big chunk of filet hanging in midair. He was glaring, so she plopped the steak into her mouth before he could stop her.
Then she moaned because she couldn’t help herself. “Oh, that’s so good.”
“For the love of—” Sawyer was grinding his teeth, which couldn’t be good for oral health. And possibly spying.
“Is something not to your liking, Mr. Michaelson?” the waiter asked, confused. The entire table was watching, as if this was the most exciting part of the cruise so far. “You did request the vegan, gluten-free, sugar-free, lactose-free, low-sodium option, is that correct, sir?”
Zoe had a brief moment of panic, wondering exactly how many guns Sawyer might have stashed under Mr. Michaelson’s suitcoat.
“Oh!” she exclaimed with her mouth full. “Trust me, y’all. You do not want to see this man on gluten!”
He looked like he had other uses for her steak knife, but Sawyer managed to grin and hand the plate back to the waiter. “It’s a special occasion. Just bring me what she’s having.”
“Right away, sir,” the waiter said as Sawyer grabbed a piece of asparagus off Zoe’s plate, and she couldn’t help but look up at him, savoring the warmth and comfort and safety of being Mrs. Michaelson, wondering if it might be better than being herself.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Him
“Well then he said, what’s the use of having an emotional support goat if it’s not going to be in the wedding?” Mrs. Michaelson said and Mrs. Michaelson’s new friends laughed and laughed and laughed, utterly enchanted.
She’d been telling stories for two courses, so it was a relief when she paused to take a sip of the very pink drink that Lorenzo, her new BFF-slash-waiter, had brought her. But then she took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “But what we didn’t know is that no one had fed Beatrice yet that morning, and that”—dramatic sigh—“is why I don’t have a wedding ring.”
Zoe held up her bare hand and a chorus of boos and oh nos echoed around the table.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if Sawyer hadn’t felt her leaning against his side—fitting them together like a puzzle. “But I told him, you don’t have to worry about someone trying to steal me on our honeymoon because it’s gonna be so obvious that I”—she booped him on the nose—“belong”—boop—“to—”
In a flash, he grabbed her wrist and tugged until she was sprawled across his lap, resting in his arms. Close. So close. Entirely too close! There was no tactical reason for them to be that close, but he didn’t trust her not to boop him again. And if she did, well, he wouldn’t be responsible for what happened. But that didn’t change the fact that their lips were inches apart and her tongue was peeking out to swipe at a spot of wayward chocolate.
He’d almost forgotten they weren’t alone until the traitors of table seven started tapping their glasses, chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
He should have let her pull away—lose herself in her second helping of chocolate mousse—but she needed to learn her lesson about life in deep cover. That any lie you tell becomes your truth. So he leaned closer.
He could feel her breath on his lips when he whispered, “You did this to yourself, Mrs. Michaelson.”
Then he kissed her. Because covers. And lessons. And, really, they’d almost kissed once already. This wasn’t that much different than the street. Except in all the ways it was. Because, this time, she tasted like chocolate and she smelled like raspberries, and she was a soft, pleasant weight against his chest. And that dress was serving her breasts up like they were his actual dessert, so he stopped fighting and let himself taste her, feel her, breathe her in until her fingernails scraped against his scalp and she gave a sharp little intake of breath. His lips parted and her tongue peeked out and . . .
“Well, someone’s having a real honeymoon,” Marc muttered, and Sawyer jerked away. But Zoe was still blinking up at him, and he couldn’t tell if she was mad or disappointed. The band began to play and people were starting to dance, but Zoe just sat there, staring.
“What?” he asked, but she was quiet for the first time since he’d known her. Her fingers brushed against her lips and there was a dazed look in her eyes. “Your head okay?”
“Who . . . who are you?” The other couples had all taken to the dance floor and the brothers had dozed off on the other side of the table, so Sawyer and Zoe were more or less alone when she said, “Where did you grow up? How long have you known Alex? When did you become”—she cast her eyes around in a textbook example of what not to do—“a spy? Why did you become a spy? How—”