At the airport entrance, Clint pressed a wad of bills into Flynn’s palm. “Remember the bank where you’ve got your account?”
Flynn nodded, the glow of this man and his M&M settling inside his gut. He would carry their love with him and warm himself when nights got lonely or long.
“When you land, you call us. We’ll be fretting.”
“Yes, sir. My first call.”
“All right. Now git, before I change my mind and lock you in the shed.”
Flynn grinned. “Why d’you reckon I asked you to drive me? M&M would’ve bloody done it for real.”
Clint’s laugh rolled deep and sharp. “That wife of mine is a pistol. Reason I married her.” He patted his shirt pocket with a grin. “That’s why I keep the key right here.”
Flynn chuckled, stepped out, and shut the door. One last look, one last nod, and Clint drove off.
His chest felt heavy as he turned toward the terminal, each step away from McAllister Ranch like tearing out roots. But as he straightened, something else lit inside him, a spark, bright and restless. He was ready to find his way, to face something hard enough to shape him into the man he wanted to be.
One like Clint.
Bear woke earlier than normal. Habit. He didn’t have to report to base until Monday, when the new recruits would pick up helmets and gear for six months of the hardest training rotation in the world.
His body ached, but not from sore muscles or strain.
It was her.
She made him burn and hurt and want to break something.
Not with you.
The words hit him again like a blow to the solar plexus. He closed his eyes. The memory of her mouth, her skin, her breath still lived in him. She was torture he couldn’t satisfy by any simple, physical means. He lay there as his dick hardened, pulsing with an intensity no other woman had ever stirred. It wasn’t just the need to have her. He almost wished it was. There were plenty of ways to fuck away want.
But not with Bailee Thunderhawk. When her heartbeat had synced with his, the hunger had turned into something deeper, body, soul, and mind trying to find a place of peace. He couldn’t.
He threw the sheet back and swung out of bed. Nothing good came from dwelling on rejection. He gathered the clothes he’d discarded the night before, and her scent hit him so hard he had to stand there and wrestle with the want rising through him. Fuck. He wished he didn’t have this downtime.
He tossed the clothes into the hamper and forced himself to move.
A hot shower, cold at the end. A towel dragged across his hair. Jeans. T-shirt. Boots. Ritual, not relief.
He stepped into the living room and froze. Something in the air felt displaced, the faint scent of mint and lemon that didn’t belong. He needed to feed his horse, so he opened the front door.
Mateo “Zorro” Martinez sat there like he owned the place, ankles crossed, boots on the railing, a glass of iced tea sweating in his hand.
“Damn,” Bear muttered. “You breaking and entering now? Adding that to your skill set?”
Zorro didn’t flinch, didn’t even look up. “Door was unlocked.”
“The hell it was.”
He took a long sip, ignoring the protest. “I was thirsty and you keep the good stuff in the fridge—lemon-lime mix, crushed ice, real mint. You ever leave the Teams, you could tend bar.”
Bear grunted. “Bartender? Right now, I’m thinking more like a bouncer. Get off my property.”
“That’s not very neighborly, amigo.” Zorro’s tone didn’t shift a note.
“You’re outta your damn mind.”
Zorro finally tilted his head, that half-smile easing into place. “Nah. Just observant.” He tapped the side of his glass. “You and Bailee flirted through that pool match, talked at the bar with your body language screaming, danced like it was your last one, and left together. You drove her home, didn’t you?”
