Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
“Okaaay,” Quinn said, drawing the word out. “Both of you come here and look at what I’ve done. To make your surprising new and very close relationship believable, I’ve put together a fake background for Royce, including shots of you together.”
“How close?” Royce asked, focusing on the part currently making his pulse race.
“You’ve moved in with him, so it’s going to have to be believable.”
Believable meant touching. Kissing. Pretending to be in love. The last part would be the hardest. Royce had been in love. So deeply, his Michael had felt like an extension of his body. Losing him had shredded what had been left of his sorry soul already. Even pretending to feel that emotion would be a challenge, and it didn’t matter how beautiful the man was.
“Do you feel you can do this?” Marc asked, his voice soft. “I see doubt on your face. This has to be believable. You’ll be fooling my family—one of whom lives in my home. You’ll be with me twenty-four hours a day, and that includes sleeping in my bed at night.”
“I can do this.” Royce met his gaze, keeping his own steady until Marc nodded. He would be schooling him on where he’d be sleeping, though. In his room maybe…but certainly not in his bed.
Marc sat next to Quinn, and Royce walked around to Quinn’s other side, so he could see the computer screen too.
“I’ve set up some fake articles about Royce—your last name will be Costas. I kept it Greek because you’re so obviously Greek, and it needs to be believable.”
Royce felt Marc’s eyes on him again, but he didn’t look back. Yes, his father’s family was Greek, but his American mother had taken him far away from his family when he was young, so he didn’t feel any connection to that part of his heritage. Other than the thickness of his hair and his height, he looked exactly as his father had at his age.
Quinn continued. “You aren’t one for social media, so you don’t have Facebook, Twitter, things like that. You work in clay. You and Marc met through your art because he owns several art galleries.”
“I’m not going to have to sculpt, am I?” He knew his dismay was obvious, but he didn’t have an artistic bone in his body. He looked at Marc. “Unless you’re up for displaying stick figures and misshapen, geometric shapes in your gallery, this isn’t going to fly.”
The corner of Marc’s mouth turned up. “Artists can be flighty and eccentric. All we have to say is, you’re not ready for anyone to see your work, which is why you don’t have a website or other things online.”
Quinn nodded. “The fake articles I’ve put up are about you selling a couple of high-dollar pieces to private collectors, and there’s one with your picture manipulated to look like you were in Paris with Marc two months ago.”
“Wow,” Marc murmured, staring at the screen. “You’re good.”
“You can’t believe every picture you see in the media these days. Professionals can change any background and make it look legit.” Quinn scowled. “It’s hard to tell what’s real anymore and unfortunately, a lot of people don’t question what they’re seeing.”
The back door opened, and a flushed Geoffrey came outside, followed by a smiling Sven, who came forward to clap Royce on the shoulder. “How are you? You’ve been gone for weeks now.”
Royce nodded. “I was on a job in DC, then took another in Georgia. Just got back yesterday.”
“So no days off?”
“Nah. I traded out with Dom, so I’ve got three weeks coming in a couple of months. Thought I’d work on that house I inherited from my aunt.”
Sven nodded with a grunt.
He planned to let Rowe use the place as a safe house when needed. It had worked more than a year before when they’d had to protect one of Rowe’s closest friends, Ian Pierce. It was also a good place for him to be alone. There were certain times of the year he was better off not being in anyone’s vicinity, and the three-week stretch he had coming up was one of them.
He refused to think about why right then. It was time to focus on the job.
Sven settled on the couch across from them, and Geoffrey immediately curled up next to him and slid his hand under the bottom of his shirt. He just rested it there—it was something Royce had seen him do often. The man seemed to get comfort from touch, and Sven was all about giving his boyfriend comfort. He tucked Geoffrey under his arm. They made an interesting picture—both blond but complete opposites in every other way. Sven, who’d told him he’d been named for his uncle in Norway, wasn’t only tall, but broad and overly thick with muscle, while his boyfriend seemed tiny next to him. In personality, however, Geoffrey was the larger of the two, his smart-mouthed frankness overpowering the quiet giant at his side.