It was as if they’d crossed an invisible line—the one he made abundantly clear could never happen.
Buddy gently rolled off her, but not without pulling her along, tucking her against his side. He stared at the ceiling, his chest lifting and falling in rhythm with his calm breaths. She tilted her head to look at him, his throat moving like he was swallowing words he couldn't say. This—lying together, breathing the same air—this was what scared her. They'd just stripped each other down to nothing. No pretense. No walls. And now she was supposed to just... what? Pretend it didn't change everything?
His hand found hers, fingers interlocking, the gesture so tender a lump formed in her throat.
"Fallon," he began, his voice tight, and she could hear his struggle. Could see the conflict in his eyes.
“Yes?" she answered, her voice barely above a whisper, her heart pounding fiercely.
His expression was serious, searching, filled with an odd reluctance. "I don't... I don't know what this is," he admitted, his grip on her hand tightening. The intensity of his statement hung in the air, an unspoken possibility, a whisper of what could be.
His words echoed in her ears, a silent confession that mirrored her thoughts. He was confused. Lost. Much like her.
She squeezed his hand, a silent comfort, and swallowed the knot in her throat. “I don't either," she confessed, "But, whatever it is, or isn’t. I… I don’t… It’s not…” her words trailed off, not finishing her statement. How did she tell him she didn’t want a temporary relationship? That she wanted to take a risk? Put herself on the line? Her mouth went dry. She’d never told a man how she’d felt about him. It had always been about sex. That was it. That was all her relationships had been based on, except for maybe Trent.
“Yeah. I know,” he whispered. For a moment, he looked like he might say something else, his grip tightening on her hand. But instead, he pulled her into an embrace. An understanding comfort. Wordless reassurance. She wrapped her arms around him, closed her eyes, and waited for sleep. Whatever they were to each other would unfold at its own pace—or it wouldn’t. And she had to accept that.
Chapter Sixteen
The Aegis Network field office in Calusa Cove felt too small for the size of the storm he’d dragged into it.
Buddy stood over the conference table—an ugly, government-issued slab of laminate that had seen too many late nights—hands braced on either side as he stared down at the mess he’d made. Not three neat folders. Multiple stacks. A full eighteen months of his life represented in paper. The Simon Court case files he’d printed when no one was looking, the photocopied reports he’d had no business keeping, his own cramped handwriting crammed into margins and across legal pads. Screenshots from databases he wasn’t supposed to access anymore, emails from old contacts who’d told him not to use their numbers again, favors called in from people you didn’t want to owe twice.
It looked less like an investigation and more like an autopsy.
Simon’s operation. Tannette Runon. The nameless deceased victim. Tessa Blake. Fallon. Three timelines, a dozen cross-references, and one ugly pattern he hadn’t been fast enough to recognize. Every page on the table was another reminder that someone out there was playing him like he was still green—making moves he should’ve seen coming, twisting his failures into weapons, and picking at the people he’d allowed himself care about like they were loose threads he couldn’t afford to have.
Dove perched on the edge of the table, boot tapping the leg like she was doing the two-step while simultaneously crushing peanut shells.
Sterling strolled into the office carrying a tray full of coffee mugs and a bag of something that smelled like apples and cinnamon.
“You’re late,” Buddy said.
“Got you coffee with oat milk, an apple fritter, and some news.” He set the goodies on the table, snagged a mug for himself and plopped down in his chair. He leaned back, lifted his legs, his feet landing on his desk with a loud thud and he crossed his ankles, all while smiling.
Sometimes Buddy wanted to strangle the man.
“Start talking before I send you to Mallor’s Landing to help Trent while he’s laid up, just because I can.”
“That’s rude,” Sterling said. “Even for you.” He lowered his feet and stood. “Okay,” Sterling leaned over the table and tapped a page listing shipping records from three different ports. “So—the compound under Tannette Runon’s fingernails? We finally found a match.”
Buddy lifted his head. “I’m listening.”
Sterling grinned without humor. “There’s a legit marine-manufacturing company in Fort Lauderdale that produces a custom epoxy-silica mix used for sealing compartmental bulkheads in mid-size commercial boats. Exactly the kind used in smuggling operations. They keep meticulous records so that I couldn’t trace it to anything.”
“So, how do you know it's our company?” Buddy asked.
“That’s where it gets fun.” Sterling lifted a pen and twisted it between his fingers. “Everything is above board. Inspections clean. Taxes filed. Employees real. You’ve even looked into this company before. Bluewater Restoration.”
“I remember them.” Buddy shuffled a few pages until he found the one he was looking for. Something else with fucking Blue. It never ended. “We never did speak with the owner—actually, no owner listed, but the VP of operations was a paranoid sort. They had so many freaking checks and balances because they once had a break-in, and their compound was used in a gun run.”
“Well, that’s because Bluewater Restoration is owned by a clusterfuck of LLCs stacked like nesting dolls. Took me three hours just to untangle the shell trail.”
Dove snorted. “Took me five seconds to bet money it’s dirty.”
Sterling nodded. “One of those LLCs? EJV Industries. Same LLC that’s also listed as a part-owner of the Blue Heron Touring company out of Lauderdale. The one tied to the partial plate that appeared to be following—or at least looking at—Fallon.”
Buddy’s heart lurched once—hard. “You sure?”
