Page 329 of The Romance Adventure

Though I’ve never broken into my own home—never really had one either.

Running through possibilities, I opt for the kitchen window. Like many homes in the Keys, especially the more modern ones, the houses are elevated above the ground in the event of flooding. But I can roll the trash bin under the kitchen window and climb on top.

Where’s my gear when I need it? Oh, that’s right, back at HQ in Intherness. However, I never leave home without a few essentials. Unfortunately, my lock-picking set isn’t one of them. But a handy little magnetic device that will allow me to work the window lock from the outside is among my toiletries.

Digging through my suitcase, I locate it. Then, in the rain, I position the trash bin under the window. It’s slippery, but I manage to climb on top of it. Precariously balanced, I slide the tool into the gap between the top and bottom of the window.

Thunder cracks, sounding like it’s smashing the ocean in two. Lightning comes next and we all know how that works with water.

Heart in my chest, I have a choice: wait out the storm under the front entryway or get inside and hide.

I opt for the latter.

Tapping my chin, a ladder would come in handy, but I’m not about to dig through the storage shed for what may as well be a lightning rod. Instead, I return to my perch atop the trash bin and try to open the window again.

We had hurricane-rated glass installed when we moved in, and it is stubborn. Either that or we paid for the extra reinforced window frames and I didn’t realize it.

Once more, thunder and lightning split open the sky. I jump and then cower, praying I’m not found dead in a trashcan.

“They say the third time is the charm. Come on,” I mutter under my breath.

Only, it’s not. The window won’t budge. Even though the rain is relatively cool, perspiration beads along my hairline. Very rarely do I get stressed out like this. I’m typically calm under pressure, but add lightning to the mix and I turn into a nervous wreck. I’ve taken courses to manage my response and desensitize myself to various situations, such as if I were taken hostage, trapped with a bomb, or abducted, but this is next level.

Ready to smash the window, from behind me, a male voice says, “Put your hands where I can see them.”

I squish my eyes shut because I only now realize how this must look. Lifting my arms, I obey, but before I can turn around to reveal my identity, I lose my balance on the slippery lid of the trash can. On its two wheels, it tips backward. I extend my arms to grab onto something solid, in this case, the windowsill.

In my line of work, I’m trained to respond like a cat and land on my feet or do parkour moves. The objective is to avoid landing half inside the trash can. I’m not sure how it happens, but it’s like I left all my skills back in Europe and am suddenly a klutz. Then again, that might help me keep my cover a moment longer.

Like a discarded banana peel tossed into the bin, I call, “It’s just me.”

My husband moves lightning fast at the same time as lightning flashes, so I can’t be sure, but I’m afraid he had a weapon pointed in my direction. Glad to know he’d defend us against trespassers, I guess.

CJ rushes to help me out of the bin.

With a frown, I say, “You could just close the lid. Staying in here until the storm passes wouldn’t be the worst.”

Here’s the truth. I can hold my own in the face of some of the world’s worst criminals. But when it comes to my husband, I’m like a little kitten. If he rubbed my belly, I might even purr.

Helping me out, he says, “I wouldn’t think of it. Let’s get you inside.”

Not going to lie, it feels good to be in his capable hands as he lifts me out. To feel the weight of his arm around me, shielding me from the storm and the world’s bad guys—at least in my mind.

But the real bad guy in about five minutes is going to be me. I can’t let this continue. Not with the lies, not with the secrets. The only way is to push CJ away.

For me, married life is a fantasy and until I retire, I have to leave it behind. These thoughts batter me along with the rain as we walk toward the front entryway.

When we get inside, CJ says, “Jolie. You almost gave me a heart attack. What were you doing up there?”

He draws back from me and shakes his head, sending beads of rain dropping onto his shoulders. His sandy blond hair is slightly longer than when we last saw each other and dips to his ears. He’s tan, toned, and his blue-green eyes subtly change to match the color of the ocean.

“I was locked out. What do you think I was doing?” My tone is sharp, sharper than I’d like, but it’s necessary. I have to push him away.

“What about your key?”

Playing the role of a travel-weary wife, I cock my hip and say, “I don’t know. I probably misplaced it somewhere in my luggage.”

“Maybe you’d like to take a shower and get warmed up. I’ll make us something to eat. I’m so glad you’re home.” He pulls me in for another hug and I deeply inhale his sea breeze scent.