He flipped the eggs, pretending to take offense. “You wound me, Agent Durand.”
“Not yet,” she said, but the sharpness lacked bite.
He studied her a beat longer. The tension around her eyes hadn’t eased. Beneath the sarcasm, she still looked pale, her right hand red where the flare had burned her.
“Let me see your hand.”
“I’m fine.”
“Viv.” His tone softened. “You were half a second from being charcoal last night. Humor me.”
She hesitated, then sighed and held out her hand. The skin across her palm was pink and tender, the edges raw. He cradled it, turning it so the light caught the damage. Her breath hitched.
“Not too bad,” he murmured, reaching for the first-aid kit. “Could’ve been worse, but need to keep it clean and dry.”
She watched him smear the cool salve across the burn, his fingers steady, careful. “You always this gentle with your field partners?”
He looked up, eyes catching hers. “Only the ones who almost get blown up.”
For a second, neither of them moved. The air between them charged again, like it had in the flare’s aftermath—too close, too fragile.
Then Blake capped the ointment and stepped back, breaking the spell. “You’ll live.”
Vivian pulled her hand back, flexing her fingers. “Guess I should thank you.”
“You just did.” He turned off the burner and set two plates on the table. “Eat. You’ll need it.”
“Because?”
“Because you need your strength for our plan.”
She frowned. “You think Dan’ll tell you anything?”
“He’ll tell me something,” Blake said, sitting opposite her. “People always do if you listen right.”
Vivian arched a brow. “And I’m supposed to hear something when I drive to the lighthouse?”
He hesitated, not liking the answer but knowing she’d ask anyway. “No, stick to the plan. You do a drive-by while I keep Dan busy. A look—windows, approach, who’s watching. Don’t get out. Don’t draw attention.”
She sipped her coffee, eyes over the rim, assessing him like she always did. “You think I can’t charm the truth from someone without blowing my cover?”
“Let’s face it, you’re the best shot with a gun, I’m the best with my winning personality.”
Her mouth quirked, but her eyes stayed wary. “Be careful, Blake. Dan could be playing you.”
“I’m always careful,” he said, grabbing his coat from the hook.
She face-palmed then winced at the pain in her hand. He had a sudden urge to kiss it, so he threw open the back door and stepped out for the cold to bite against his face, because Vivian wanted nothing from him except to leave him for a promotion.
The docks stretched quiet and gray, the water still. Too still.
As he made his way toward Dan’s shack at the end of the pier, Blake couldn’t shake the thought that Vivian was right about one thing: leads always seemed to fall into his lap. But not without a cost.
And the way last night went, he had a feeling they were already paying it.
The wind off the harbor cut sharp, carrying the bite of salt and old fuel. Blake shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked the dock, boots crunching ice against wet planks. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries echoing through the still morning.
Dan’s shack sat at the far end, a weather-beaten box with a rusted stove pipe and peeling blue paint. Inside, the air smelled like coffee grounds, oil, and the faint sourness of bait. Dan sat behind a small counter, tightening a valve on a propane heater.
