Mother Nature’s latest tantrum had left a real mess in its wake, which Jackie had been working to clean up for almost five hours now. It was one of those tasks with no end in sight, when all you could do was the next thing before you, one after the other. At least it would keep her occupied while she waited for the roads to clear and her path to freedom to open up.
Selena squealed with laughter in the distance. Sloan was with her on the beach, alternating between making his security rounds of the resort and playing with the girl and kitten, Mimi, who had returned unscathed the morning after the storm. Jackie smiled. Her daughter’s happiness was the best sound she’d heard in ages, and Sloan was worth his weight in gold, if only for his babysitting abilities.
There’d been a time when she’d dreamed of having a husband to share her life with again, a man to be a father to Selena, to help Jackie pick up from even the biggest storm. But there was no one to help her, no one to share this journey, and in that moment she felt the absence of a man in her life more acutely than she had in years.
It’s worse because Bill’s gone now, too.
“Hey, can I help?”
Razorback stood a few yards away, his fatigues replaced by khaki shorts and a running shirt that made him look like a plastic manikin in a department store window. Real men didn’t have bodies like that, did they? “You didn’t sleep long,” she said.
“Almost five hours. That’s all I need.” He bent and picked up an armful of broken fronds, the muscles of his forearms standing out in relief. “Where are you putting these?”
She pushed her hair out of her eyes, enjoying the sight he made. “To the left of that dune. You don’t have to help, you know. I’ve got this.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” He smiled, the gesture transforming his face from formidably strong to handsome and kind. He filled his arms completely and brought the detritus to the pile. “Leave yours here,” he said when he returned. “I’ll bring them over with mine.”
They fell into a rhythm, each collecting branches and palm fronds, with Razorback carrying them to the dunes. Together they worked far more quickly than she’d been able to alone, a satisfying clearing taking shape between the resort pool and the tall grasses that separated them from the beach.
She moved toward the pile, her arms full, just as he was scooping up the rest of the branches. “Here,” he said, opening his arms just enough for her to press her bundle into his. His hand touched the length of her upper arm as she pulled away, an electric tingle traveling up to her neck, down her spine, and settling in her pelvis.
Holy moly.
She stepped back. “Thanks.” He turned and walked toward the dune, her eyes lingering on his backside and the strong stride of his steps. She blew out air and went back to the work at hand, suddenly realizing she knew virtually nothing about this man. When he returned, she set about rectifying that. “Tell me about your life in New York.”
“What do you want to know?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. The usual stuff. Are you married?”
“Divorced.”
“How long?”
“Two years.”
“Shortly after your time with the SEALs.”
“That’s right.”
There was a story there. One that likely involved an emotional landmine, if she guessed correctly. But didn’t divorce usually come from some kind of explosion?
“You?” he asked.
“Widow.” It was her standard response, usually spoken in her most heavily accented Spanish. People asked far fewer questions when they thought you might not understand.
“I’m sorry. How did he die?”
“Car accident. Where do you live?”
“Upper East Side.”
“Brownstone?”
“Yes.”
“Nice.”
“It keeps out the cold. You don’t like answering questions about your husband.”
