Chapter 11

The fluorescent lights of the NYU drama studio hummed like a trapped insect. Nathan—currently occupying every curve and contour of Arabella Montclair—sat rigidly in a semicircle of black-box theater seats, trying to remember how to breathe normally in a corset top.

Why in the name of all that is sane and bureaucratic does a Belgian heiress major in Drama Arts? The thought hammered against the inside of his skull. She’s got titles. She’s got vineyards. She’s got a trust fund that probably has its own trust fund. Shouldn’t she be studying International Finance or How To Look Disdainfully At Peasants?

Professor Llewellyn, a man with a voice that could declaim Shakespeare across a football field and a sweater vest that screamed “mid-life crisis at the drama department,” was pacing before them. “Theatre is not mere entertainment!” he boomed, gesturing wildly. “It is the crucible of the human condition! The mirror we hold up to nature, albeit a mirror with really good lighting!”

Nathan nodded along, feeling the unfamiliar weight of Arabella’s chest shift with the motion. It was still the most bizarre sensation. He’d spent the morning consciously not looking down, because every time he did, a wave of cognitive dissonance and a flicker of something else—awe, maybe?—would short-circuit his brain.

“Nathan!” a hissed whisper came from his left. Zoe, one of Arabella’s trio from yesterday, was elbowing him in the ribs. Or rather, she was elbowing the prosthetic flesh covering Arabella’s ribs. The sensation was muted, weird. “Earth to Bella! Stop daydreaming about Jake, you horndog.”

“I wasn’t—” Nathan began, pitching his voice into Arabella’s practiced, lightly accented register.

“Professor wants us to form groups!” Zoe cut him off, rolling her eyes. “For the mid-term project. Keep up.”

Nathan blinked. Groups. Right. He looked around as the other students began to clump together with the easy familiarity of people who’d shared trust falls and emotional breakdowns over monologues. He felt a cold sweat start beneath the dermal sheath at the small of his back.

Professor Llewellyn clapped his hands. “Quiet, my fledgling Thespians! The assignment: each group will select and perform a twenty-minute scene from a popular play. Not your obscure German expressionist nonsense. Something the common man knows! I want passion! I want recognition! I want your grandparents to weep with nostalgic joy!”

A few students chuckled. Nathan’s smile felt glued on.

“Groups of four! Go!” Llewellyn bellowed.

Zoe instantly latched onto Nathan’s arm. “You’re with me, obviously,” she said, as if conferring a great honor. She beckoned over two other students: a mousy guy named Ben who looked perpetually surprised, and a girl named Anya with severe bangs and an intense stare.

“Great. Fab. Perfect,” Zoe announced. “Now, what play? Grease? Too done. Chicago? The professor hates Bob Fosse, says he’s ‘too wristy.’” She tapped a manicured finger against her chin.

Ben squeaked, “What about Romeo and Juliet?”

“Ugh, Shakespeare,” Zoe groaned. “So much iambic pentameter. So many tights.”

But Professor Llewellyn was sweeping past their cluster. He overheard Ben and stopped, a gleam in his eye. “Ah! The quintessential tale of youthful passion and poor communication! Excellent!” He pointed a dramatic finger at their group. “You! Montclair’s group! You shall do Romeo and Juliet! Act Two, Scene Two. The balcony scene. But!” He held up a forestalling hand. “I want a modern twist. A fresh take. Montclair, you’ll be Juliet.”

Nathan’s blood ran cold. “Me?”

“Well, of course you, darling,” Llewellyn said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “With that face, that poise? You were born to be tragic and beautiful on a balcony. Ben, you’re Romeo. Anya, you can stage manage. Zoe, you’ll be the Nurse. Provide some comic relief. Work on it!” He whirled away to assign Cat on a Hot Tin Roof to another group.

Nathan sat frozen. Juliet. He had to play Juliet. A romantic female lead. While disguised as a woman. While being a man. The layers of absurdity made his head spin.

Zoe was already groaning. “The Nurse? I have to wear a pillow stuffed up my shirt? This is so unfair, Bella. You get to be the star again.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” Nathan muttered, the words slipping out in his own dry, masculine cadence before he could stop them.

Zoe’s head snapped toward him. “What did you say?”

“Jet lag,” Nathan recovered swiftly, pressing Arabella’s delicate fingers to her temple. “It makes me… morbid. Let’s just get the script.”

*

Across campus, in a stark lecture hall that smelled of chalk dust and despair, Luke Copeland was dying a slow, academic death.

Disguised as Allison Reed, he slumped in a hard plastic chair, his chin propped in his hand. The math professor, a Dr. Evans, was droning on about multivariate calculus, his voice a hypnotic monotone. To Luke, it sounded like, “Blah blah partial derivative blah blah gradient field blah blah go to sleep forever.”

This is torture, Luke thought, his eyes glazing over. Federal prison would be more fun. At least there’s weightlifting. He shifted, the unfamiliar snugness of Allison’s jeans and the soft press of the sports bra a constant, low-level distraction. He’d mostly gotten used to the body—it was a nice body, athletic, strong—but the situations it put him in were brutal. Yesterday, basketball. Today, advanced math. What was next? A seminar on feminist poetry?

He let his gaze drift across the rows of students, mostly guys with laptops open to games hidden behind lecture slides. Then his eyes snagged on a figure sitting alone near the back exit.

It was him. The skinny guy with the glasses. The same one who’d been staring from the bleachers during basketball practice.

The guy was looking right at him. Not at the class, not at the professor. His eyes were fixed on Luke—on Allison—with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.

A jolt of alertness shot through Luke’s boredom. Okay, creep. What’s your deal?

As if sensing the weight of Luke’s attention, the guy flinched. He quickly looked down at his notebook, scribbling something furiously. But it was too late. Luke had seen it. The stare wasn’t curious or admiring. It was… analytical. Assessing.

What do you want with me? Luke thought, his FBI training kicking in. You’re not checking out the merchandise. You’re… inspecting it. Who are you? Friend of the real Allison? Someone from the threat network? Just a weirdo?

The professor called for a problem to be solved on the board. Luke didn’t volunteer. He kept his head slightly tilted, his peripheral vision locked on the back row. The guy didn’t look up again for the rest of the hour. When the bell finally rang, he was the first out the door, slipping away like a shadow.

Luke gathered Allison’s backpack, a new purpose cutting through the boredom. We’ve got a watcher, he thought. Time to tell Nathan. And maybe do a little watching of my own.

*

The main hallway between classes was a river of backpacks, laughter, and shouted plans. Nathan, flanked by Zoe, Tori, and Sasha, was being swept along in their current.

“—so I told him if he doesn’t get the VIP table at Lavo, it’s over,” Tori was saying, examining her nail polish.

“As you should,” Sasha nodded sagely.

“Bella, you’re so quiet,” Zoe said, nudging Nathan again. “Still thinking about your big theatrical debut?” she teased.

“Thrilled,” Nathan said flatly, using Arabella’s voice to mask his inner panic about embodying Juliet. He was just nodding, letting their chatter about clubs, outfits, and minor social slights wash over him. He understood maybe one word in three. It was like listening to a podcast in a foreign language while heavily sedated.

He was scanning the crowd on autopilot, a habit from his training. Look for patterns, for outliers, for threats. His eyes passed over clusters of students, a janitor pushing a cart, a poster for a vegan bake sale.

Then he saw him.

Near the large double doors of the humanities building entrance, leaning against a pillar, was a guy. He was tall, well-built, with artfully messy brown hair and a smile that seemed to generate its own light. He was dressed in expensive casual wear—a soft-looking sweater, dark jeans. And he was looking right at Nathan.

No. He was looking right at Arabella.

Their eyes met across the crowded hall. The guy’s smile widened from ‘happy to see you’ to ‘ecstatic.’ He pushed off the pillar and started moving, cutting through the crowd with the confidence of a shark.

Nathan’s stomach dropped to the floor, which felt very far away in Arabella’s heeled boots.

Oh no. No, no, no. It’s tonight. Dinner is TONIGHT. This is not happening.

But it was. The guy—Jake—was weaving toward them, his arms opening for a hug. He was early. Horribly, catastrophically early.

“Babe!” Jake called out, his voice warm and carrying.

He reached them in moments. Before Nathan could formulate a defense, a protest, or even a coherent greeting, Jake wrapped his arms around Nathan’s waist and pulled him into a tight, enthusiastic hug, lifting him slightly off the ground.

“Whoa—!” Nathan gasped, the air forced from Arabella’s lungs.

Jake set him down, his hands still on Nathan’s hips, and leaned in, eyes closing, lips puckered for a kiss.

Pure, unadulterated instinct took over. This wasn’t a trained response; this was the primal reaction of a straight man whose personal space was being invaded by another man’s lips.

Nathan’s hands came up and planted themselves firmly on Jake’s sweater-clad chest. He shoved. Hard.

“Whoa, hey!” Jake stumbled back a step, his expression morphing from amorous to bewildered. The students flowing around them gave the scene a wide berth, a few snickering.

“Jake! What are you… you’re early!” Nathan spluttered, trying to recover, his voice an octave higher than Arabella’s usual tone.

“I was excited to see you!” Jake said, his handsome face a picture of confused hurt. He rubbed his chest where Nathan had pushed him. “Since when do you have a push-up bra made of concrete, Bella?”

Tori, Sasha, and Zoe were a rapt audience of three, their eyes wide. “Aww, you guys are so cute!” Sasha cooed, completely misreading the violent rejection as playful teasing.

“Jake, you shouldn’t surprise her like that,” Tori said, swatting his arm. “She’s an artiste now. She’s fragile.”

“I’m not fragile, I’m… surprised,” Nathan corrected, smoothing down Arabella’s top. His heart was hammering. This was a disaster. The boyfriend was here, in broad daylight, expecting Affectionate Arabella, and he’d just been given Aggressively Heterosexual Nathan.

“You said dinner was at eight,” Nathan pressed, trying to regain control.

“I know, but my meetings ended early, and I just had to see my girl,” Jake said, his smile returning, though it was now tinged with caution. He reached out slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal, and took Nathan’s hand. “What’s wrong, babe? You seem… tense.”

“Drama class,” Zoe supplied helpfully. “She has to be Juliet. It’s very stressful. All that dying.”

“Oh, is that it?” Jake’s face cleared. He brought Nathan’s hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. Nathan fought the urge to yank it back. “My little Shakespearean tragedy. You’ll be amazing.”

The physical contact was making Nathan’s skin crawl, and not just because of the disguise. It was the intimacy of it, the assumption of access. Jake’s thumb was stroking the back of his hand.

“We’re so jealous, Bella,” Tori sighed dramatically. “Jake is, like, the perfect boyfriend. Who just shows up?”

“A stalker,” Nathan muttered under his breath.

“What was that, babe?” Jake asked, leaning closer.

“I said it’s… a shocker,” Nathan recovered weakly.

Jake laughed, a rich, easy sound. He slung an arm around Nathan’s shoulders, pulling him close into his side. Nathan went rigid, every muscle in the prosthetic body locking up. He was now trapped in a half-hug, pressed against Jake’s firm, male frame. He could smell Jake’s cologne—something woody and expensive.

“I’ll walk you to your next class,” Jake declared, beginning to steer them down the hall. “We can catch up. I want to hear all about this play. Maybe I can help you run lines.” He winked. “I’d make a great Romeo.”

Nathan’s mind was screaming. He shot a desperate, wide-eyed look over his shoulder at the trio of friends, who were waving with dreamy smiles.

“Bye, lovebirds!” Zoe called.

“Text me the details of the drama!” Sasha added.

Nathan was marched down the hallway, glued to the side of Arabella Montclair’s utterly clueless, maddeningly affectionate boyfriend. He had hours until the supposed dinner. Hours of this. Every glance, every touch, every term of endearment was a fresh lesson in humiliation and panic.

This, Nathan thought, as Jake nuzzled his hair and asked if he’d done something different with it, is a special, new level of hell. Quantico never prepared me for this. He was a federal agent, disguised as a woman, being publicly courted by another man while assigned to play Juliet. The irony was so thick he could choke on it.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a new fear sparked: How on earth was he going to get through an entire dinner?