Any time a drill involving live rounds went off book, everything stopped. We walked the whole damn thing back, replaying every step, every move, and every decision until we isolated the error. Once that protocol was finished, I tasked my men with disassembling and cleaning every firearm in the building.
Twice.
No one was enjoying a holiday weekend—myself included—until the lesson was clear: know where your shot is going to land before you shoot it.
By the time I hit the road, I was fivehourslate. Five fucking hours, and if Shannon wasn’t already on a flight back to Boston, she was going to bitch up a storm until I put her mouth to work. The girl got off on tearing assholes and busting balls, but I didn’t allow myself the time to consider how much I enjoyed that.
The hotel she selected near the outskirts of Taos, in Ojo Caliente, was nestled against an ancient hot spring. The interior was all cowhide and antlers, all day. I suffered through an extensive explanation of the on-site spa services and farm-to-table dining options before the front desk attendant handed over my room key. If I’d known where Shannon was, I would have saved myself this annoyance and worked some magic on the lock.
“Just tell me which room,” I said. I was too fucking impatient for this. Once I had the key, I took off in the direction the attendant pointed.
And now, five hours late to our rescheduled weekend, she was nowhere to be found.
Her designer luggage was parked in our room’s closet, and her phone charger was plugged in beside the bed, but she was gone. I stood in the center of the room, staring at the untouched bed while I ran through the possibilities. She didn’t go into town; too sleepy and deserted at this hour. She didn’t go to the gym; she was an early bird.
That left the restaurant, and it didn’t take more than a quick glance to spot her hair when I burst through the doors.
She was seated at a rustic bar overlooking the hot springs with her back to me, her laptop to her left, and a margarita glass to her right.
And two guys standing beside her, laughing and gesturing as if they were old college pals.
Fuckers.
I stood in the doorway, watching from a distance. Her hair was tucked behind her ear, smooth and styled into precise waves, and I wanted to mess it all up. The dark purple v-neck sweater and long gold chain studded with small stones—my guess was diamonds—showed off her creamy skin. I wanted to touch her and haul her back to the room, but I also wanted to admire the way she handled those guys.
Shannon was intelligent and gorgeous and really fucking intimidating, and every fool with a pick-up line was drawn to her. They didn’t notice her patronizing nods or bright, fake smiles. They didn’t hear the poison-laced honey when she said “Oh, that soundsfascinating” or “That’s anamazinglittle story.”
She could handle them, of that there was no doubt. She could handle everything.
But that didn’t mean she had to, and when the fucker leaning against the bar placed his hand on her knee while he laughed at the other fucker’s comment, nothing could have stopped me from intervening.
“And this guy damn near falls off the boat trying to reel in his marlin,” The One I’d Kill First said, gesturing to The One I’d Kill Second. “And it was a small one, just a pup—”
“Excuse me, boys.” I stepped between those assholes, took Shannon’s face in my hands, and whispered, “I am so sorry I’m late, peanut.”
There was a fiery glint in her eyes before my lips met hers, a blend of anger and amusement. Her teeth sank into my tongue when it pushed past her lips.
Okay, mostly anger.
In a move only a few steps above licking her neck or pissing on her leg, I locked my eyes on Shannon, snatched her glass and drained the sweet liquid. It was clear signal for the fuckers to peddle their marlin stories elsewhere.
“If I could have gotten a flight back to Boston tonight,” she said, a whisper so soft I almost missed it. Her shoulders were stiff, and her hands still folded in her lap. “Believe me when I say I would have.”
“Did Air Traffic Control not take your call?” I asked, rubbing my knuckles down her spine. “Those bastards.”
She looked good, better than I remembered. Deployment had a strange way of eroding memories, turning some unrealistically perfect or morphing others into dim, faded artifacts. Somewhere in the last ten weeks—seventy-one days, if anyone was counting—I lost the sharp force of her. Maybe it was my mind’s way of tricking me into believing this girl wasn’t creeping her way into my everything.
“Come,” I said, holding out my hand to her.
She didn’t take my hand. Of course not. She took her precious time wishing the marlin idiots a happy holiday, signing the check, closing her laptop and placing it in her bag, and then wrapping her scarf around her neck before scooting off the chair. She didn’t reach for me once, and it was obvious she was making me work for the right to touch her.
She wasn’t high maintenance; she was complicated. It was probably a good thing. Shannon was too smart, too fearless, too much fire to let just anyone in her company. She needed to bewon, and that was no easy feat.
I pointed up at the night sky. “A lot of stars out here,” I said.
“Suck my dick,” she murmured.
“Does that mean you’ll stop, breathe, and notice the stars while I’m sucking your dick? Or do I have to suck your dick first, and then you’ll be ready for stars?”
