Than nodded, something settling in his chest, firm, rooted.
“What scent would she choose?”
“Eucalyptus and mint,” Than answered without hesitation. “Both are grounded in our culture.”
Fly grabbed the bottle, dropped it into the cart. “We’re done. Let’s go before Bear sends out the cops to find us.”
They rounded the last aisle and spotted Shamrock waiting at an empty checkout, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Fly eyed him and frowned. Than didn’t even have to say it. “He looks way too innocent.”
“We ready to go, lads?” Shamrock grinned.
Fly pushed the cart forward as the cashier started ringing items. Shamrock sidled up beside him. “Is that all you got for steaks?”
Fly nodded. “Why?” he asked warily.
“Bear said pick up something for dinner. Bet he wants to grill. You know, man code. More steaks. Go.”
“Keep an eye on him,” Fly said.
He disappeared, and Than sighed when Shamrock set no less than eight bags of chips on the belt along with three kinds of dip. “Shamrock,” he muttered. “Is that where you disappeared to? The chip aisle?”
“Aw, come on. You know you want some. The List Nazi needs a comeuppance.”
Than laughed softly. “He is a little uptight.”
“Yeah, right?” Shamrock winked at the cashier. “Get these rung and bagged ASAP, darlin’”
She blinked. Did as ordered. Maybe it was the accent. Maybe it was the mischief. Maybe it was just him.
Fly returned with more steaks. The cashier looked between the three of them and asked, “Are you guys military?”
Shamrock didn’t miss a beat, “No, darlin’. We’re a boy band. SEALed Fate.”
Than and Fly held it together until they were through the sliding doors. Then they broke. Fly doubled over laughing. “You crazy bastard,” he wheezed.
Than laughed harder. He had no idea how crazy. Shamrock shoved down the tip of an open Cheetos bag.
Bailee watched Bear. Not because she wasn’t concerned, she was, but because she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
He wasn’t pacing, but he was agitated. It startled her, deeply, how easily she recognized it now. The tilt of his shoulders. The stillness in his hands. The way his jaw flexed, then stilled again, like he was grinding down some internal storm. The way he didn’t move was louder than most people shouting.
Her heart jumped. Eighteen months of torture. The last month, worse than all of it after the way they’d parted.
But now, clean, warm, her body still humming from the way he’d taken her like she was the only thing left in his world, she just wanted to absorb him. Every line of him. Every breath.
Later, she wanted to take her sweet time and fuck him again. All over again. Breathe him in until the ache dulled.
He stood at the window, half-shadowed by late afternoon light. He’d changed while she was in the bathroom. Now he wore worn jeans that hugged his thighs, a faded charcoal T-shirt that pulled across his chest, soft at the collar from too many washes. His hair was loose, dark waves falling around his face, still damp at the ends from the bath. It curled against his jaw, that stubborn mouth, the strong, grounded weight of him impossible to look away from.
She had never really let herself think about him as a man before.
Too dangerous.
But she’d lost that resolve that night at the bar.
When she saw him outside the job, quiet and off-duty, all coiled power and barely leashed heat, she knew she was in trouble.
