Chapter 2
I can hear the music before I reach the door—low country rhythm— and laughter spilling through the cracks in the wood. Echo Valley’s Wild Cantina never changes. It’s loud, warm, a little gritty. Not my scene. Not anymore. But I’d walk that sticky floor every damn day if I knew she was in there.
Freya.
She’s back.
I like to think I’m pretty good at dealing with loss. Lost my parents. Lost brothers in the SEALs. Hell, I lost my wife and my best friend in one go—though that was the easy one by comparison. They deserved to be cut out of my life.
But from the moment I told Freya about the LAPD Academy openings to the minute she left, a part of me—even knowing how amazing it would be for her—wanted to take it back.
I’d never be so selfish as to take away someone’s purpose, but part of me hoped she’d find some in those few stakeouts we had together, as I had.
I loved her being there. The way her mahogany eyes glowed with intrigue and curiosity.
The way she could hold those binoculars longer than I could, eyes fixed, sharp and unblinking.
The scent she brought into that warm, already dewy truck cab made me think of the place more like a bedroom than a workspace.
To top it off, she wasn’t just intrigued—she was intriguing. She was a survivor. Filled with gratitude for life that most people take for granted. Still looking at the future wide-eyed and determined.
I’m not that old, but some of that youthful hope has drained out of my veins over the years, and being around her made me think…maybe the world isn’t done surprising me.
That was a feeling I really liked being around. It did something to me. After the SEALS, after years in captivity, and admittedly, becoming somewhat jaded thanks to that, Freya breathed life into me. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed feeling alive until then.
But there’s a fine line between being alive and being restless. I got the impression she was both and knew she was still searching for her purpose. A purpose I was certain this tiny town didn’t hold for her.
I’d already learned the hard way what happens when you commit to an unfulfilled woman.
They leave.
They stray.
They ruin your ability to trust.
And that’s why even long distance with Freya wouldn’t be an option for me.
I take the old, metal handle in my grip.
I shouldn’t let these thoughts resurface. Freya’s probably completely moved on and is consumed by her new, intense, and fast-paced life in LA.
Shit. I get it. I love a fast-paced life.
I just thought maybe my next chase should be a little smaller.
Maybe a kid.
But since I don’t think I can let myself get deep with a woman anytime soon, that seems unlikely.
Why does being near Freya always drum up these deep questions I’m so good at keeping buried?
I steady myself, exhale, and pull the door open. Warm air rushes out—tequila, citrus, fried food, the faintest trace of something floral. For a man who lives by control, it’s ridiculous how fast my pulse picks up.
Inside, string lights sway overhead, and somehow, even with thirty-odd people here, my gaze lands on the cutest fucking black curls in the world. Curls as vibrant as her broad smile. Everything about her bouncy hair and vivacious curves says live a little.
She’s at the bar with an empty pint glass in her hand, beside Lara, looking right at me…and for a second, I can’t move. Six months gone, and she still looks like the kind of temptation you don’t survive twice.
Her eyes find mine across the room, and the noise drops out.
For one suspended beat, she’s the only thing I see.
My lungs forget what they’re for.
She’s not in uniform—thank God, I might blow right here.
She’s wearing jeans that hug that peachy ass of hers and a red, flowy, sleeveless top, casual, effortless.
Her legs are a mile long because she’s wearing platform heels, and I love that she’s not afraid of her height.
She must be six-one in those, and she is owning it tonight.
There’s a poise to her posture—confident, a little loose at the edges.
Pride burns somewhere deep in my chest.
She did it.
Gabriel spots me, gives a small nod that says finally. I nod back, shake off the tension, and step toward Freya at the bar. Every step into the charged space, the air grows thicker.
“Hey,” she says brightly but quietly at the same time.
“Hey yourself.” I move closer. Too close, maybe, but it’s that damn gravity. Or maybe it’s because I want to hug her. Hugging would be normal.
I open my arms, and she steps straight into me.
Her breasts are warm, full, and soft on my chest. Her hand slips inside my jacket, palm flat against my back, fingers spread. Heat explodes everywhere. There’s suddenly pressure in my goddamn jeans. It’s a full-body response I have to lock down hard just to stay upright.
Her red, silky tank is sensual on my palm; it’s so thin, I can feel the bumps of her bra strap. Her neck smells like vanilla.
When she pulls back, her curls brush my jaw, and I have to let her go first.
Because if I don’t, I won’t.
She lifts her empty glass. “You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
If she only knew that after I sludged through that San Jose traffic, I got myself a speeding ticket. Being late to this celebration wasn’t my plan.
I call the bartender, Hudson, over casually, as if I’m at any old two-for-ones on Friday and not having waited six months for Freya to get back to this very spot.
I’ve been looking forward to this night like a kid gasping for Christmas because being around Freya is an occasion all on its own.
I thought six months would put some of this fire out for me.
But every time I checked in on her progress, even though they were just texts here and there, seeing if she was alright or needed a pep talk, just those few lines were enough to keep me reeled in on how amazing she is.
I need a drink.
Especially because that low-cut top of hers shows more cleavage than I ever had to resist on those coat-covered stakeouts.
Hudson throws his hand over the bar to fist-bump me. “What’s your poison?”
“A beer for me.” I turn to Freya. “Can I get you another…?”
The glass in her hand isn’t her first—condensation rings mark the bar like little time stamps.
“Let’s do a shot?” she asks brightly.
Wasn’t my plan, but I’ve never been good at telling Freya no.
Hudson doesn’t even ask me if I want one because this is effectively a Mendez party, and that means tequila is on tap. He pours us two. Freya and I clink glasses and down them in one go. Then, her gorgeous, full lips pucker around that lime and suck. I never wanted to be a citrus fruit so badly.
The tequila burns away any remaining nerves and, somehow, when she perches on a stool. I take off my jacket and lean on the bar, as close to her as I can get without being on top of her. We’re back to where we left off. It shouldn’t feel this easy after all this time.
“LA treating you all right?” I ask.
She picks up the empty pint glass she had in her hand when I arrived and sips though it’s nothing but ice in the bottom. The straw lingers on her pouty bottom lip.
She sets down the glass.
“It’s…a lot. Sirens, traffic, too many people who think they’re starring in their own movie.” Her laugh is humorless. “Still, go big or go home, right? My mom might not be so impressed if it wasn’t big-city crime.”
Freya mentioned more than once that her mom is her hero. Impressing her was something she never thought she’d do. She felt mediocre by comparison, especially after what happened at her last job.
Despite feeling unqualified to approve on behalf of a district attorney, I do. “The LAPD is a grueling academy. I’m sure she knows that.”
“You should have seen me in the three-hundred-meter sprint.” She laughs, shaking her head at herself.
The sound sticks with me, settling somewhere in my rib cage.
She beams wide, but her eyes are half-mast. “Not a good look, me running like that.”
So why does my mind immediately disagree?
Freya has curves. Real ones. And even though I know she was dressed appropriately at training, my brain rewrites the memory anyway—those curves in motion, slow and lethal, like something pulled straight out of Baywatch.
Christ. This woman is the definition of voluptuous.
She shakes her head. “Thank goodness before I left here I started going to the gym at Monarch Hills with Lara. High school basketball was a long time ago, and my body felt it. But…” She flexes her arm. “Look at these guns now.”
I squeeze her bicep and struggle to take my hand back. “Impressive.” She’s damn cute like this. So proud of herself. Confident. I love it for her.
“I saw you were top of your class with your scores, too.” I try to get my mind to think of anything but touching the rest of her body now.
She slaps my arm playfully. “You were checking up on me?”
“Maybe.” I shrug.
Her eyes narrow. “You did not.”
I let the silence answer. Of course, I checked up on her.
Her laugh is bright and disbelieving, and she reaches across to place her hand on mine. “That’s either really sweet or mildly obsessive.”
I throw her a crooked smile. “Let’s go with sweet.”
She takes her hand from mine, picking up her glass again for another nonexistent sip, looking up at me coyly with the straw still in her mouth; the sultry look in her eye tells me that wasn’t her first tequila shot or her first pint of whatever.
All the playful smacks, the way she hugged me, that look in her eye… It’s spelling trouble.
“You ever miss it, Anton?” She says my name like it’s her favorite word, and my dick twitches. “The adrenaline?”
“Sometimes.” I take a pull of my beer. “Then I see what it does to people who don’t walk away from it.”
“You haven’t really walked away yet. Not for real,” she says. “You’re still protecting people.”
“I’m not in the thick of it like you are. Not anymore.”