No one wants to read pages of jargon and legal fluff.
Reverse psychology 101.
Thankfully, he doesn’t take the bait—doesn’t even glance at the paper. Instead, he clips his helmet’s strap shut under his chin, his eyes unreadable beneath the shadowed visor.
And I can’t help noticing the way his arms shift, biceps coiling under that black T-shirt like rope pulled taut.
Whatever he is, he’s built forsomething.
Fuck. If he was my stalker, I would be more than happy.
No. What am I thinking?
He’s a creep. He’s a predator.
But a hot one…
“Yeah sure, carry on.”
He holds the door like a gatekeeper to hell, eyes flicking over me with quiet scrutiny as I step into the lion’s den.
I did it!
Holy fuck.
I’min.
Now all I need to do is act like I’ve done this a hundred times and didn’t spend last night googling ‘how to pretend to be a broadband engineer.’
He lingers just long enough to point out the router—tucked neatly in the hallway, like it’s posing for a showroom ad—then his biker boots thump off down the corridor, leaving me a pocket of air to breathe in.
“How long have you guys been having issues?” he calls from somewhere deeper in the house. The words slice through my mental fog, and I scramble to respond with something vaguely convincing.
“Not long,” I say, carefully modulated. “About a week or so—we’re just running routine diagnostics for anyone who hasn’t flagged it, just to make sure coverage is still stable.”
Plausible.
Casual.
Technically full of shit.
I’m trembling now, fingers fumbling inside my jacket for the camera.
Breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
The little black dot is slick between my hands. I tuck it into the artificial fruit bowl—a crime against both taste and realism—and angle it toward the hallway just as I hear his boots returning.
My mouth is dry as sandpaper, heart battering its way up my throat, but I drop down beside the router like I’ve found my calling in tangled cables.
I poke at wires with all the purposeful finesse of someonedefinitelyqualified.
He reappears, silent, watching, but I keep my head down.
Just another day in the field.
“All sorted?”
