53. Maya again
53
MAYA AGAIN
The Hawaiian shirt should have been ridiculous. It was obviously borrowed—probably from Christian, given the slightly tight shoulders—and clashed spectacularly with Ronan’s borrowed board shorts. But somehow the tourist-casual outfit looked like something that belonged on a magazine cover. His dark hair was still damp from a shower, curling slightly at his neck, and his easy stride showed no trace of his recent injuries.
Christian followed right behind him in an equally outrageous outfit.
A matching pair in more ways than one. The resemblance between the two seemed even stronger now. Same mouth. Same gorgeous eyes. Same over-the-top magnetism.
Maya downed the rest of her drink. This was exactly why joining Knight Tactical would be the worst kind of torture.
“Holy tactical beefcake,” Izzy muttered, earning an elbow from Zara. “What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”
Ronan stopped to high-five Jack’s toddlers as they blazed past, then got waylaid by Griffin near the makeshift bar. Maya watched him laugh at something the boss said, his whole face lighting up in a way she’d rarely seen during their mission. He looked ... lighter. More at peace.
“So?” Izzy cocked her head, zeroing in on Maya with sniper precision. “You gonna join us at Knight Tactical or what?”
The words stuck in Maya’s throat. How could she explain that her dream job had somehow become complicated by a man who’d barely let her past his walls? That the thought of seeing him every day, watching him slowly heal and maybe eventually open his heart to someone else, felt like signing up for daily surgery without anesthesia?
“I ... need to think about it some more.”
Izzy and Zara exchanged a look that contained volumes. Then Zara wrapped her in a fierce hug that smelled like gunpowder and expensive perfume. “Men,” she said firmly, “are idiots.”
“Copy that,” Maya managed.
She felt the exact moment Ronan noticed their group. His stride hitched slightly as he approached, and that magnetic pull she’d been fighting since day one kicked in like a riptide. The others melted away with suspicious efficiency, leaving them in their own pocket of space despite the crowded room.
“You look ...” His eyes tracked over her borrowed dress, leaving heat in their wake. “Amazing.”
The word hung between them like smoke signals neither of them knew how to read.
The music faded with a deliberate slowness, and Maya watched Deke step onto a chair, his massive frame silhouetted against the twinkling lights. The room hushed without him having to say a word.
“Before we get too deep into celebrating,” Deke’s deep voice carried easily, touched with the gravel of emotion, “I’d like us to take a moment. For Marcus.”
The silence that followed felt sacred. Maya glanced at Ronan, standing close enough that she could feel the heat of him, yet he somehow remained miles away. His jaw was tight, but his eyes were clear.
“Tank ...” Kenji started, then had to clear his throat. “Tank once told me the meaning of life was good barbecue and better friends. Then he corrected himself and said it was actually proper trigger discipline, but the barbecue thing was a close second.” Scattered laughter mixed with sniffs.
Others stepped forward, sharing pieces of Marcus. The way he’d volunteer for the worst watches so younger operators could sleep. His terrible jokes and worse singing and unfailing loyalty.
“He showed up at my door at 3:00 a.m. once,” Kenji offered quietly. “Said he knew I was having nightmares about that op in Manila. Brought coffee and sat with me till dawn.”
Maya felt tears spill over. She wasn’t the only one. Zara was openly crying, Axel’s arm around her shoulders. Izzy stared straight ahead, jaw set, fragile as glass. Even Griffin looked suspiciously bright-eyed.
“If you’re the praying type,” Deke said finally, “now would be the time.”
Maya wasn’t surprised to see heads bow—these people faced death too often not to have wrestled with faith. But she wasn’t prepared for the way Ronan’s eyes closed, his lips moving slightly in silent words. There was no hesitation in it, no self-consciousness. Just the simple devotion of a man who’d found his way back to believing in something bigger than himself.
Her heart ached with pride and loss all at once. He’d come so far from the broken man she’d first met, letting down walls brick by careful brick. Learning to trust again, to pray again, to let people in again.
Just ... not her. Not in the way that mattered.
“To Tank.” Griffin raised his glass.
“To Tank,” the room echoed.
Ethan let the silence hold for a heartbeat longer, then eased into something slow and sweet. Couples gravitated together, seeking comfort in connection. Maya watched Victoria draw her father onto the dance floor, saw the admiral pull his wife closer.
Victoria laughed at something Maya’s father said, her head tipping back with unguarded joy. He looked younger somehow, the lines of grief softened by new possibilities. They moved together with the easy confidence of people who knew exactly what they wanted.
Maya’s throat tightened. She’d always thought her father would be the one struggling to move forward, to find happiness after loss. Instead, he was dancing with his heart wide open while she?—
Ronan’s hand touched her elbow, and her skin hummed like a live wire.
“Dance with me?”
It was probably a mistake. But then, her heart had been making mistakes about Ronan Quinn since the beginning.
She turned into his arms, and it felt like she was coming home. His hand settled at her waist, warm through the silk of her dress. She caught the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with leather and gun oil—a combination that should have screamed danger but instead made her feel impossibly safe. Their bodies remembered this dance, falling into rhythm as naturally as breathing.
His heartbeat steady under her palm. The subtle flex of muscle as he guided her through a turn. The slight calluses on his fingers where they intertwined with hers. Every point of contact sent sparks racing along her nerves, and she found herself drawing closer, drawn by the gravitational pull that had always existed between them.
The music wrapped around them like a cocoon, and Maya let herself forget about everything else—the mission, the danger, the complicated history. For these few precious moments, there was only the dance, only Ronan’s arms holding her like she was something precious and breakable and essential all at once. His thumb traced small circles on her back, probably unconsciously, and she had to fight to keep from shivering at the intimate gesture.
As the song ended, she eased back from Ronan’s embrace, needing space to breathe. To think.
Turning down her dream job because of a man felt like something out of a bad romance novel. The kind where the heroine sacrificed everything for love and somehow it all worked out in the end.
But this wasn’t a romance novel. This was her life, and seeing Ronan every day … that wasn’t sacrifice. That was self-destruction.
“Ronan!” Christian’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Blair’s dying to hear about that time in Kandahar with the goat.”
Ronan’s hand dropped from her waist abruptly, like he’d suddenly remembered himself. He took a half-step back, creating a chasm between them that felt wider than the actual space. “I should probably ...” He gestured vaguely toward Christian, leaving the sentence unfinished.
“Right.” Maya wrapped her arms around herself, missing his warmth already. “You should …”
He nodded once, sharp and military-precise, then turned away without another word. No promise of another dance. No lingering look. Just the straight line of his shoulders as he walked away, each step methodical as if he were forcing himself not to rush.
She watched him disappear into the crowd, tall and remote and more untouchable than ever. The music pulsed around her, celebration in full swing, but she barely heard it over the hollow echo in her chest. That’s what she got for letting hope creep in— just another reminder that some distances couldn’t be bridged, no matter how close you stood.
Maybe she could stick with NCIS and request a transfer. San Diego had openings. Or Pearl Harbor—Hawaii was about as far as you could get without leaving the country entirely. She could start fresh somewhere new, somewhere without ghosts of almost-love haunting every corner.
But she already knew the truth. There was nowhere far enough to escape her own heart.
Star appeared at her elbow with another glass of sparkling lemonade. “You okay, honey?”
Maya accepted the glass, watching the bubbles rise like all her broken dreams. “I will be.” She took a slow breath. “I just need to figure out what’s next.”
The party swirled on around her, full of joy and possibility and future plans. She just had to find the courage to choose her own.
Alone.