Page 26

26

CHASE

Honor covers little Laramie in what feels like endless kisses. I smile at my Huckleberry. Can’t blame her, this is the first time she will be apart from her daughter.

“She’ll be fine,” my mother assures Honor, cradling Laramie in her arm. I swear the little girl is probably ready to call her Grandma.

As Honor walks toward me, she glances at my old SEAL mate.

“Don’t take your eyes off them,” I tell Buck. He’s standing in as my double, keeping watch while I give Honor the final surprise of our getaway.

“I’ve got ya, Chief,” he replies.

We drive to the marina, the crisp scent of salt and ocean filling the air. At the dock, I sweep my arm toward the thirty-foot yacht glinting in the sun.

“There she is. Santa Sophia,” I call out. My chest swells a little. It’s not just a boat—it’s part of my life, part of my family.

Honor takes a moment, her eyes trailing the sleek lines of the hull and the polished wood of the deck. “It’s magnificent,” she says, a genuine smile lighting her face. “It looks like it’s brand new.”

“Mom keeps it in top shape,” I reply, leading her down the dock. “She takes it out to Catalina sometimes, or even down to Mexico. But today, it’s ours.” I hop aboard and start unloading our bags, stowing them neatly. “Ready?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

I start untying the stern line, looping it loose from the cleat. The sun’s warm on my back as I move methodically, my hands steady from years of doing this. Behind me, Honor watches, her arms crossed but not impatient.

“Need help?” she asks, her tone casual but her expression far from it.

“I’ve got it,” I say over my shoulder, tugging at the bowline. But she doesn’t back off.

“Come on. I can do more than stand around looking pretty,” she insists, stepping closer.

I sigh, half-amused, half-reluctant. “Fine. Take that fender and stow it.”

She doesn’t ask where; she just grabs it and secures it with practiced ease. Then, before I can stop her, she moves to the port line and begins coiling it. I pause mid-motion, watching her work.

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?” I tease, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.

She glances up, her expression coy. “Don’t be silly. This is my first time outside Montana. And we all know Montana isn’t exactly known for its coastline.”

There’s something in her smile—something faintly guarded—but I let it slide. There’s a story there, no doubt, but I’m not about to push and ruin this moment.

I refocus on the task at hand. The last line comes free, and I fire up the engine. With a grin, I tap the helm. Hello, princess.

We ease out of the marina. The water stretches ahead of us, open and inviting. Santa Sophia slices through the waves with an effortless grace.

“It’s beautiful,” Honor says, sweeping over the view.

“It is,” I say, though my focus is entirely on her. “Come here.”

She steps away from the window, and her hip meets mine. My hand finds its place on her ass. I spread my palm beyond the sweep of her tailbone, my fingertips tantalizingly close to her entrance. She stifles a moan as I observe a twitch in the front of her jeans.

That’s a curve built to ruin a man. Warm and supple, sexy as sin. I can still recall her reaction when she first tasted me there, and I certainly haven’t forgotten how my cock responded to her.

I clear my throat. With my flawless sailing record, now’s not the time to make Santa Sophia my debut disaster.

As we glide past the turn of Coronado, I gesture toward the shore. “That’s where I trained as a SEAL.”

Honor’s eyes light up with curiosity. “Really? And your friend Buck trained there too?”

“Yes he did. He was in my team.”

“What was it like?”

“Grueling,” I admit, the memories flashing. “They push you past every limit you think you have—and then some. It’s all about breaking you down until the only thing left is grit and instinct.”

She tilts her head, her gaze lingering on me like she’s trying to picture it. “I can’t imagine you breaking. You survived a dance with me, after all.”

I chuckle. “Everyone breaks at some point. The real test is whether you can pull yourself back together.”

She glances down, her voice quieter, more deliberate. “And if I break? Would you help me?”

“Count on it.”

Her eyes lift, and I can’t stop the words from tumbling out. “I love you, Honor.”

She leans into me, her silence heavy with meaning. Whatever she’s feeling, I’ll give her all the time she needs. But keeping those words inside any longer? That wasn’t an option.

I drop the anchor and set us up for fishing, the ocean calm and the sun casting its golden glow. Honor’s helping, moving through the steps like she’s done it a hundred times. She casts her line with the kind of precision that takes practice, and when she reels in a beautiful mahi mahi, I can’t help but grin.

“Look at that! You’re a natural,” I say, holding up the fish for her to admire.

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s subtle, the way her shoulders hunch just slightly, her gaze lingering on the water a bit too long. She’s quieter than usual, and while she’s never exactly loud, there’s a weight in her silence that pulls at me.

“You okay there?” I ask, trying to keep it light.

“Yeah,” she says, not looking at me.

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle all the gory stuff—filleting, chopping, peeling. You just sit back and watch me reenact Jaws with a fisherman’s knife,” I say, hoping to get at least a snort out of her.

She does laugh, but it’s a pale imitation of the real thing.

I step closer, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not feeling seasick, are you?” Her skin is a shade lighter than normal, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“No,” she brushes me off. “I’m fine. Come on, let’s make dinner.”

I get to work prepping the fish. “How do you want it cooked?” I ask, glancing over at her.

She pauses, dropping a pair of grilling tongs. “Any way you like.” She inhales. “I’m easy.”

Dinner’s ready not long after, but the weight between us hasn’t lifted. She picks at her food, barely eating, and the quiet feels oppressive. It’s like the ocean’s swallowed the Honor I know and left this distant shadow in her place.

“Please,” I say, leaning forward, my voice low. “Did I do something? Say something wrong?”

She shakes her head, her fork hovering mid-air. “I’m fine,” she insists, but the words are brittle.

After dinner, I suggest she take the wheel, hoping the act of steering the boat might distract her, might unknot whatever’s tightening her up inside. “Want to drive us to a good spot to anchor for the night?”

To my surprise, she steps up. I stand beside her, my hand brushing hers as I guide her through the controls, keeping my tone light. “All right, here’s the throttle. Easy does it.”

I study her for a moment, the way her hands settle on the wheel. It doesn’t take long before I’m just standing there, watching. “You know,” I say with a teasing grin, “you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“Well,” she says, her hands steady on the wheel, “I learned a thing or two about boats from my dad.”

“There you go!” I say with a grin. “I’d like to meet him.”

Her hands freeze, and she snaps, “He’s dead.”

The words hit like a gut punch, and I feel my grin falter. “Oh. Gee, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says, too quickly to be convincing. She focuses on the compass, her jaw tight, and we lapse into silence.

“Am I still on the right track?” she asks.

“Absolutely, skipper,” I reply.

Out of nowhere, she huffs, lets go of the wheel, and bolts to the back of the yacht. My heart lurches as I watch her go, her shoulders shaking.

“Honor!” I throttle back the engine until the boat slows to a stop.

I stride to the back of the yacht where she’s leaning against the railing, her arms wrapped tight around herself. “What’s going on? Did I say something? Do something? Just tell me.”

She shakes her head, her gaze fixed on the horizon like it holds some kind of answer. The sound of the waves slapping against the hull fills the void.

“I can’t, Chase.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?” I press, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “If this is about the ‘love’ thing, then I’m sorry. Maybe I rushed it. You can forget I even said it.”

She releases a hard breath, her knuckles whitening as she grips the rail. “That’s not it.” Then she shakes her head, changing her mind, “Well, it is. But how can I forget you ever said it?”

“Sorry, Honor. It was stupid of me. Please. I swear, I’ll keep it to myself, never bring it up again, and treat you like I’ve always had. I’d rather do that than to lose you.”

“Okay, then. Let’s just stick to you being my hired muscle.”

Anger and disbelief surge in equal measure. “Honor,” I say, my voice low but firm, “Am I just that to you? A hired muscle? Not even a friend?”

“I want to go back,” she says flatly.

“Fine,” I reply, my mind scrambling. “We’ll turn back to San Diego. If that’s what you want?—”

“No,” she cuts me off, her voice trembling. “Well, we pick up Laramie, and then—I want to go back to Montana.”

Her words hit hard, like she’s trying to put a continent between us. Her eyes are blazing with something I can’t name but feel in my own bones—pain, guilt, rage. She doesn’t even try to bury it.