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She wandered down the path to the beach, stopping just short of the shore.

Her polished, clean boots were nowhere near lake-ready.

‘Wading in boots is a hard no,’ she muttered, toeing off her footwear and socks and tossing them onto the ground by a worn leather bag.

Scuffed at the edges, it had seen years of travel, yet the high-quality finish, stitching, and brass fastenings reeked of luxury handmade craftsmanship.

It leaned against a picnic basket nestled beside a table, both resting on a thick woven outdoor mat.

Two snug, cushioned chairs sat angled at the waves.

A few feet off, a sleek barbecue unit gleamed in the sunlight, half rugged field gear, part gourmet-grade, smoke wafting from its sealed lid like a promise.

She stepped barefoot onto the soft lakeside sand, cool and grainy, and cupped her hands to her mouth. ‘Anything biting?’

The man in the water, waist-deep and motionless, tilted his head, his hair hidden under a cap.

‘Can’t hear you.’

The rumbled rasp rippled over the air in her direction. ‘Come closer.’

She rolled her eyes and stalked forward, her steps light, cautious, but curious.

She sighed in delight when her feet hit the water, staring at the delicious sensation of waves rippling around her ankles.

‘Anytime today.’

She jolted at the rasped chiding and pushed forward through the gentle lapping surge.

The sunlight glinted across the lake, bouncing off the ripples around him.

As she neared, her breath caught in her throat.

Her blood, inexplicably, sang.

It was him.

Fokk!

The same man who leaped from nowhere to save her from a warhead.

Who’d crouched on her racer like a kinetic god. And saluted her with his damn fingers like she wasn’t going to be dreaming about that for the next century.

Also, her wolfish rescuer, who glimmered between human and spectral form when he whisked her away from the limpet explosion in the Lombardi debris field.

Now here he was, fishing without a care in the universe, with the ease of a man who owned his future, water lapping against his bare, sinewed waistline.

He wore a sleeveless vest and shorts that showed off sculpted muscles that flexed with each rhythmic cast of the rod. The hands that’d caught a missile gripped the line with practiced control.

His inked skin shimmered in the sun, glyphs of violet, black, and gold curling over his arms like living calligraphy.

A Signet-marked cap shaded his eyes.

Still, she spotted the curve of his smirk, the same smug, sensual flick of the lip that haunted her since their last encounter.

His dark amethyst hair was damp at the tips and loose around his temples.

He didn’t look back at her.