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When he doesn’t answer, I lower my voice, jut out my chin, and mimic having muscled arms. “I go to church sometimes, and I’m a glorified lifeguard. I’msomuch better than everybody else.”

He folds his arms and leans back in his chair. “I never said I’m better than everybody else.”

I scoff. “No, but you keep reminding me ofmyfaults. It’s a sure way to draw attention away from your own.”

He narrows his gaze. “I know what my faults are.”

“I’m listening,” I say.

With a head shake, he pushes his chair back. “I’m taking a shower.”

He abandons his half-eaten food and makes for the door. A surge of panic rises in me as I think of him in the bathroom.

Jumping to my feet, I block his exit. “I need to go first.”

“Why?”

Usually, I could think of a myriad of reasons, but my brain seems to be on the go slow. “Because… ladies first,” I say slowly.

He shifts his weight to one leg and folds his arms across his chest. “You’renota lady.Ladiesdon’t cheat, steal, and lie.”

My shoulders tighten at the insult, but I edge toward the bedroom door, blocking him from entering. “There you go again, pointing out my faults without acknowledging your own.” I take a step backward.

A tiny vein pops in his neck, but he doesn’t move.

Too easy.

I take another step.

“You’re going to have to confess to all your crimes. You must know that,” he says.

Another step closer. “Maybe. But I don’t need to confess them toyou.”

He lets out a loud sigh.

I risk a quick glance to check where the furniture is.

“I am still law enforcement, and I am trying to help you.”

I’m halfway into the room, and he still hasn’t moved. “I never asked for your help.”

His gaze travels to the ceiling, and he mutters something I swear must be a prayer. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me either. But here we are.”

The bathroom door is so close now, that if I stretched out my fingers, I could touch it. “You could let me go, make up a story, and no one would be the wiser,” I say.

His eyes snap to me, and a deep crease appears on his forehead. In seconds he crosses the room and breezes past me. “My parents taught me not to lie, and I’m not going to start now,” he says.

The door closes in my face before I can think to close my mouth.

Mick

Frustrated—and still hungry—I avoid looking at her underwear drying on the rail, leave my gun in easy reach, and shower as fast as I can. Every second away from her is a risk I’d rather not take. But the woman is an argumentative menace. The conflict is messing with my ability to reason.

As a rescue swimmer, I’ve dropped into Gulf waters whipped by storm surge, hoisted fishermen off sinking trawlers, and braced against rotor wash with seconds to spare. I’ve trained to keep a level head in chaos, stay focused, and stay sharp.

But none of that prepared me for this.

The reasonable thing to do would be to call this Luke guy, tell him I’ve had enough, and walk out the door. Drive straight back to Tampa, check in at Air Station Clearwater, and let someone else untangle this mess.