Page 39 of Luck Be Mine (The Defenders #3)

? Desperate is as Desperate Does ?

Cait shoved her hair away from her face and waded further into the water. Dread iced across her skin in agreement with the temperature of the water. “Please, let me find him.”

She paused waist deep and did a full sweep.

Hunt popped out of the water twenty yards in front of her.

“Hunt!” Her scream carried over the sounds of the water. He twisted, searching for her, but she dove in and swam straight for him.

The waves fought her progress.

Ten feet away, she heard his shouts. “What are you doing? These waters are rough.”

She slowed and treaded water, her clothes weighing on her. “What am I doing? What are you doing?”

“I needed some think space.” One long stroke put him next to her.

She shivered, the chilly water sapping her warmth. “You’ve sealed yourself off from me.”

Hunt’s face twisted. “What do you think I’m doing?”

She put a hand to her chest, unable to catch her breath. Her eyes filled heavy tears. “Killing yourself?”

“No.” There was a frayed edge to his voice.

“Reckless, then?”

“No, I’m thinking.”

Disoriented, she glared at him. “Well, you can think with me floating right here. You don’t come up, I’ll find you.”

Confusion and pain flooded his eyes. “I’m hurting you.”

“We’re all hurting, Hunt. Bax made a choice. He chose to be a SEAL, knowing the risks. He acted on it. You don’t get to blame yourself for something you would have done exactly the same way.”

“Honey.” He tipped his head back and stared fiercely at the sky.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, the truth ripping free.

“I’m here.” His low voice trembled through her.

“No, you aren’t.”

His jaw clenched. “It could have been me. I was right beside him. Just an operational quirk he went first. What if you…”

“Don’t you dare play a what if card. What if IQS had snapped my neck? Two feet away. Two seconds.” Her voice broke.

He drew back. “I can’t help thinking you’d be better off without me.”

“So that’s it? You erase five years because life happened?” Shivers wracked her.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it? You’ve been shadowboxing with this idea for years. Now you’re trying to make it stick?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to lean too hard on you.”

“Like I leaned on you when I was hurt? It was okay for me, but wrong for you?” The cold bit at her, and she kicked away, stroking for shore.

“I’m pulling you down, Cait,” he yelled.

She turned, swallowing hard. “Then I go down with you. To the bottom. Together.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I want.”

Pain ripped through her. “Wow. There’s a statement.” She fought the waves into shallow water.

Hunt trailed her. Not to save her, to argue. “I don’t want you sacrificing for me.”

“I would. In a heartbeat. As you would for me. Has it changed?”

“No. I love you, Cait.”

“Except when it gets hard and you make excuses. Thanks. Clarified my position. Do the hard stuff, frogman. Straighten this out in your head.”

“I’m trying.”

“If this is the result, I don’t know what to think.” She let all of it show: the hurt, the anger and the tears. “When I was injured, you were there. I won’t do any less for you. But I learned no one was coming to save me. Not even you. I had to save myself.”

She hit soft sand and went for her shoes.

Hunt cleared the water and grabbed his shirt. “I wouldn’t do that to you, to us. Commit suicide. I wouldn’t.”

“How would I know?”

Fear locked her throat. With nothing left to say, Cait climbed to her car. Yep. Blew up her marriage. Like she predicted.

§§§§§§§§§§

? A Choice ?

He followed her home — sand rubbing in his swim shoes and the smell of the ocean’s sour salt clinging in his mouth and nose.

He popped the glove box and grabbed his phone out of habit.

Twenty-three texts. Seven missed calls. When he was home, he answered. He gave her his schedule. He didn’t leave her dangling.

Truth slammed him, brine-hard.

Cait hated swimming.

She’d come for him. A SEAL. Into the rough water.

I go down with you. To the bottom. Together.

He’d broken faith. Cracked the foundation they’d built. Breached trust.

The reality rose like Poseidon from the deep and hit him square. Would he give up the good from the last five years? No.

“For a smart man, Travis Hunter, you can be a damn fool.”

There were other ways to work this out without taking down his marriage. Other team members did it.

Follow her. Or lose her. That’s the choice.

Pulling in the driveway, relief washed through him.

We go home. Rule #3. He followed it. So did she.

Cait parked her SUV in the garage. She got out and stared at him, her surgical clothes and hair in sad shape. Worse, the beaten look on her face pierced him.

She thought he was hedging on their marriage, making excuses to not fully engage. Was he? The idea roared through him. His job had a risk. But couldn’t he be vulnerable for his wife? He would never leave Cait, but his messed-up head was an enemy.

He followed her into the house. Normally, she would have stopped in the kitchen, pulled things from the fridge, and started to cook.

She didn’t.

Doogie wasn’t cooking either, not that they needed any more food.

Voices from the family room suggested someone had woken Carter.

Cait went through the living room in a succession of soggy footsteps. Those nights he’d stayed behind his workroom door rose to haunt him, but he pushed on.

The afternoon light was dim in the bedroom, the blinds turned to mute the brightness. Cait shed her wet clothes in the middle of the bathroom floor. The deep burgundy color of her scrubs was like a splash of blood across the tile. The shower turned on. The door was ajar, but it wasn’t inviting.

Hunt wanted a shower, but given everything, he wouldn’t assume getting in with her was okay. Instead, he went to the guest bathroom, stripped his clothes, and showered in ninety seconds. Towel around his waist, he returned to their room and donned a pair of shorts and a plain white T-shirt.

Cait was still in the shower. She’d worked all night, did some hours at QM, and spent the afternoon looking for him.

He pulled the white comforter back on the bed, perched on the side, and waited.

Does she even want me here?

He rubbed both hands down his thighs and blew out a breath. His body felt tight, on edge, like it couldn’t quite remember how to rest.

She finally came out with a pink towel around her body.

Her splotchy face told him she’d cried in the shower.

Her tears cut deep.

Hunt held out his hand. “I’m tired of not sleeping with you. I shouldn’t have taken that step. I’m sorry.”

“Fix it then.” She dodged back in the bathroom and returned sans towel with her old gray Berkeley night shirt on, freshly washed and clinging to her curves.

It was one of hers, not his. The burn deepened.

“It’s going to get messy.” He left his hand stretched to hers.

She finally took it. “It already is. I don’t care how much sleep I lose. I want us back.”

“Me, too.” He settled on his pillow, waiting.

Her hesitation left him bleeding.

She eased onto the bed, the tentative moves not working for him. He gathered her like a lifeline and coaxed her on top of him. Her skin, damp. His hands, dry. The distance between them taut.

She finally relaxed against him. Thank God.

She hadn’t asked him to come back.

She showed up and made it impossible for him to stay gone.

They didn’t make love which slashed their norm to pieces, but her weight on him brought back good memories. He would bank on their healing power.

Because he’d forgotten the good.

He’d ripped out her heart.

Now he had to figure out how to fix it.

§§§§§§§§§§

? The Therapist’s Door ?

Dr. Ian McIvers had a corner office on the second floor of the building next door to Operations.

Close, but not too close. His waiting room was like every other doctor’s office.

Grays, greens, and blues in the furniture, the walls, and the carpet.

The waiting room was windowless because the doctor’s actual office had a bank of windows that looked over a copse of tall, green trees.

Hunt sat in one of the chairs, silently coaching himself into calm.

From an early age, he learned the hard way to self-protect.

It was the only strategy he’d had to stay alive with abusive parents.

Talking to a person who was secondary in his life didn’t come easily.

He trusted Doogie. He trusted his team. He trusted Cait.

Hunt had sore spots inside like anyone, but he’d die to protect his.

Having to open up rubbed fight or flight instincts the wrong way.

SEAL training taught methods for how to overcome the instinct, and he settled back to get comfortable in his discomfort.

Because his life had slopped over hard on Cait.

She slept. He held her. They ate. She wasn’t talking.

She slept again. He finally got a few hours, too.

He made her breakfast. She went to the hospital for her shift.

She kissed him goodbye, but the hesitation was still there.

So yes, God dammit, he’d pour his guts out on the therapy room floor.

Because he needed to be operational, but he also needed to fix this so he wouldn’t hurt Cait again.

Every door opened with some type of noise.

Though muted, Dr. McIvers’s office door was no exception.

He gave the man the once over. At six-foot three, Ivers, as the team called him, had a lean runner’s body layered with muscle, sandy blond hair cut close, and wire-rimmed glasses covering intense gray eyes.

Clean-shaven, he had a face where smiling only accentuated the lines.

It was a plus he was former military in a civilian contract with the Navy.

He was Hunt’s age, a marathon runner, and he always kept coffee in his office.

Hell, the man might be as reluctant for this session as he was.

“Lieutenant Commander? Are we staring each other down or are you coming in?” McIvers’s dry tone settled raw nerves.