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Vice took a sip, smug. “Operationally spicy.”
Trigger sighed into his black coffee. “I hate all of you.”
Hitch, voice low. “So… are we doing it?”
She frowned. “Doing what?”
Hook’s eyes gleamed. “Sailing.”
Nash groaned. “You said we were waiting until next weekend.” He looked at her, offering her an out.
“Schedules change,” Trigger said. “Weather’s perfect.”
Vice reached for his coffee. “Besides, if Grace can’t handle sailing with us, how’s she going to survive the cookouts?”
Grace tilted her head. “Sailing. As in… water?” The memory of that plunge off the bridge came back to her, but for some reason, when she looked at Nash, all she could see was a man who had saved her. She wouldn’t be alone on that boat. She would be with five men who knew water like it birthed them. No fear. No panic. No damn problem.
Hook’s grin widened. “Don’t tell me. You can crack government encryption, but you can’t swim?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I float. Sometimes. In bathtubs.” Their laughter made her smile. Nash’s anxiety turned to a proud grin.
Trigger blinked. “Jesus.”
They met at the marina twenty minutes later, the air brisk and sharp enough to make her grateful for her fleece-lined jacket. The sky stretched pale and bright overhead, the kind of blue that promised clarity, and absolutely no forgiveness if you screwed something up on the water.
Nash helped her out of the SUV, brushed her hair back from her face with one gloved hand, and murmured, “You ready for this?”
Grace raised a brow. “Five SEALs. One sailboat. This is either going to be a tactical bonding exercise or the start of a Hallmark hostage movie.”
Nash grinned. “Stay low. Don’t volunteer. If Vice tries to assign you a station, run.”
The boat itself was sleek and long, too shiny to be for work, too lean to be for luxury. Vice’s boat, apparently, which he’d namedNo Comment. Grace didn’t ask.
The docks creaked under her boots as she stepped onto the weathered boards, the wind cutting sharp and cool off the water. It smelled like sea salt, pine sap, and poor decisions wrapped in yacht-club swagger.
Hook stood on the dock already, wearing wraparound sunglasses and a sweatshirt that readWind Whispererin faded letters. He tossed her a life vest with a grin that said chaos was imminent.
“Ever sail before?”
“I float in bathtubs, remember,” Grace said dryly. “But I do so without a life preserver.”
“You’ll fit right in,” Hook said cheerfully, like drowning was a team sport.
Trigger was already on deck, inspecting the rigging with the focused intensity of a man who’d clearly been betrayed by rope before. His brow was furrowed. The lines were tight. He still looked personally offended.
Hitch didn’t say a word. Just handed her a pair of gloves like he was issuing a death sentence and pointed at a coiled rope near the stern, one she wasdefinitelygoing to mess up.
Then came Vice.
Boat shoes. Aviators. Smugness in human form.
Hishair, dark, thick, and loose. It curled just enough to make him look unreasonably dangerous, like a pirate who’d sold his soul to Armani. The wind kept lifting strands across his cheekbones, and somehow it made him lookmore lethal, not less.
She was 98% sure he’d sunk a boat before. On purpose.
“Grace,” he said, all relaxed posture and weaponized charm. “You’re on winch duty. Just wait for the call.”
She blinked. “The call?”