All Chapters of Undercover Hearts: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

SophiaJamie makes me coffee before I can ask for it. It's somehow the perfect temperature and already sweetened exactly the way I like it.We're sitting in his living room, bathed in the kind of warm morning light that makes you feel like everything's going to be okay. It's a lie, obviously, but one I’m willing to believe for a few hours.My phone buzzes on the coffee table. It's Claire.Nothing weird in the files. No malware, no worms. You’re clean. Digitally, anyway.Damn. I was hoping to find a neon sign pointing at my mystery intruder.Sorry, babe. You’ve either got a ghost or a Grade A hacker who knows their way around a system.Jamie reads my expression as I set the phone down. "So? Bad news, worse news, or 'we regret to inform you that your laptop is now a haunted toaster'?"I laugh, but it’s a low one. "No leads. Whatever happened, there’s no digital trace."Jamie makes a sympathetic noise and pats my knee vaguely. We fall into easy silence, the kind that only comes with peop

JamieWhen Sophia walks through the front door, there are two things she notices right away. The smell of garlic and basil, and me, dancing in socks to Whitney Houston.I catch her staring and execute a flawless twirl with the wooden spoon still in hand. "Welcome home, darling! I've made enough pasta to feed a family of seven and also us."She smiles, the kind that reaches her eyes. A little tired, a lot grateful. "You always know how to raise the bar for hospitality.""Please, I was born to host. Also, you’ve been working yourself into the ground and spiraling in three different emotional directions. The cure is pasta."She drops her tote on the hook by the door, kicks off her shoes, and sighs the sigh of someone who finally gets to exhale. "You should be declared a national treasure.""Tell Sullivan that. I’m still waiting for my journalist’s medal of valor."The pasta is nearly done, and the sauce, a Jamie Torres Original™ blend of tomatoes, basil, red wine, and enough garlic to wa

MarcusI’m standing awkwardly in the hallway outside Sophia’s apartment, a paper bag in one hand. My brain is furiously overthinking every decision I’m making.What am I going to say to her? Why am I here? I can’t let her know that I’m aware of the safety concerns. And after my spectacularly bad judgment after our one and only night together, I’m not at all sure that she’ll let me across the threshold.The door opens and Jamie stares at me questioningly.He leans against the frame like he’s been waiting to ambush someone, sleeves rolled, eyebrows already halfway up his forehead. "Well, look who the cat dragged back.""Hey," I say, offering the bag like it’s a peace offering. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d bring some good coffee and almond croissants."He eyes the bag. "Bribery? I respect that.""Sophia home?""We’re packing up some of her stuff. She’s staying with me for a few days. Come in, I guess. Wipe your shoes. Try not to look so intense."I step inside and am hit wi

JamieI swear it wasn’t meant to be a setup.Okay, maybe a little.But when Jules invited me and my "plus one" to this artsy outdoor brunch-slash-gallery thing in Brooklyn, and her girlfriend Lucie suggested we make it a triple date, it only made sense to ask Sophia and Preston. They’re dating. Kind of. And I’m not not invested in Sophia ending up with someone who doesn’t ghost her or fill her life with unsolvable crime syndicate conspiracy plots.Besides, Preston is charming in a "boy-next-door who also maybe owns the block" kind of way. Like, if a golden retriever was born in loafers and a bespoke linen blazer.So now we’re here.A sun-drenched courtyard filled with mismatched patio furniture, hanging string lights, and the smell of rosemary waffles and mimosas thick in the air. Jules is already laughing at something Lucie said, their knees knocked together under the table. Sophia is seated across from me, wearing oversized sunglasses and a breezy floral sundress that makes her lo

SophiaI’ve moved Jamie’s ironing board to the far wall of the spare room and repurposed it as a makeshift investigation hub. There’s twine stretched between thumbtacks, color-coded index cards, copies of articles, and pages of handwritten notes pinned in a messy constellation that somehow makes perfect sense to me. If this were a crime drama, now would be the moment the camera zooms in and ominous music plays, until I reach a sudden conclusion when something jumps out at me.It’s a real pity I don’t live in a crime drama, because I’m fucking sick of being stalled on this story.Platinum. Bainbridge. Pemberton. Stafford. Liberty-Anne. Marrin.My pen taps against my bottom lip as I stare at the newly added name. Victor Marrin. It’s underlined in red ink and circled twice. Marcus mentioned him briefly the other day, and I haven’t been able to get him out of my head since.I tug another document toward me. A photocopy of a business registration record Claire helped me obtain offline,