13. Chapter 13
Cole
The boat is not a date. It is distance from a potential predator. Better sight lines and more control. Water is easier to read than a boardwalk crowd. Fewer blind corners or people stepping too close with phones in their hands. Fewer places for someone to stand and watch Kara without being seen.
That is the logic I give myself. But it does not explain why I check the cooler twice, pack extra water, and make sure the clean towel in my gear bag is soft instead of the rough one I usually keep for bait, sweat, and engine grease.
Kara comes out of the bedroom wearing a loose white cover-up, sunglasses pushed into her hair, and a tote bag over one shoulder. The red swimsuit beneath the cover-up flashes at the neckline when she moves.
I look at her face and … only her face.
“So,” she says, “is this boat ride therapy homework or a tactical maneuver?”
“Both.”
“Do you ever just call things fun?”
“Not when they involve clients.”
“Right,” she says. “Client.”
I should be relieved she understands, but I’m not.
*Scene Break
Bluefin Marina is busy. Flags snap in the wind. Charter captains load coolers onto boats. Tourists drift down the docks in sandals and sun hats, already sunburned in places they will regret tonight. Kara stays close without being told. I notice that too.
My boat is in a slip near the end of the dock, a twenty-four-foot center console that has never once cared about looking pretty. It’s practical, fast and reliable. It has good visibility and twin outboards. There is enough storage for medical gear, spare clothes, and supplies I hope I don’t need.
Kara pauses at the edge of the dock. “This is yours?”
“Mostly.”
“How does a boat become mostly yours?”
“Sloane borrows things when they’re useful.”
I step aboard first and do the check by habit. Deck. Storage. Lines. Radio. Fuel. Nothing out of place. When I hold out my hand, Kara places hers in mine. It is small and warm. She’s being careful … and trusting. That should not move through me the way it does.
I help her step down into the boat, then release her as soon as she has her balance. She notices. Kara notices more than she lets on.
Once we clear the marina, Kara’s demeanor changes in increments.
The first few minutes, she holds the rail with both hands and watches every passing boat.
Then the channel opens wider, the water turning from marina-dark to green-blue, and her shoulders lower.
I notice the wind does what I cannot. It pulls her out of her head.
Her hair whips around her face, and she laughs under her breath as she tries to trap it with one hand. The sound is small, almost surprised, like she had forgotten her body still could.
I keep the speed steady and the ride smooth. For one clean stretch of water, she is not checking her phone.
The lighthouse rises behind us, red and white against the hard blue sky.
From the water, The Beacon looks almost cheerful, which is funny considering how many weapons, radios, and hard conversations sit inside it.
Farther down the shoreline, High Tide Pavilion is visible above the dunes, then the colorful line of rental cottages, and her rental is within sight line view.
Kara points toward it. “That’s mine.”
“For now.”
“It looks peaceful from here.”
“Most things do at a distance.”
She looks at me and frowns. I wish I hadn’t said it. Or maybe I don’t.
I take us farther from the busier traffic, toward a shallow sandbar where the water clears enough to see rippled sand beneath the surface. I cut the engines and let the boat drift. The sudden quiet settles around us, broken only by water tapping against the hull and the thin cry of gulls overhead.
Kara exhales. “This is better.”
“You approve?”
“I know you’re doing your job,” she says, looking out over the water. “But this is better.”
I don’t answer because I don’t trust whatever might come out. She removes her cover-up and folds it on the bench beside her.
I look toward the horizon. Respect is part of the reason. Survival is the rest.
“Redhead problem,” she says after a minute.
I turn back. She is holding out the sunscreen, her expression more practical than playful. More vulnerable too.
“I can get most of it, but not my back.”
There is no good reason for this to feel like a test. It is sunscreen. Sun protection. Basic care. She will burn if she misses the places between her shoulders and along the edges of the suit.
I take the bottle. “Turn around.”
Kara does.
Her back is pale beneath the sun, freckled across the shoulders, the red straps of the swimsuit crossing high between her shoulder blades. Her hair falls over one side of her neck, bright as flame.
I pour sunscreen into my palm and hesitate for a couple of seconds.
Then I touch her. I spread the sunscreen across her shoulders first, keeping the pressure even and practical.
The sun is strong. Her skin is warm. The boat rocks gently beneath us, and every movement makes me aware of how close she is.
Too close, yet in some way … not close enough.
I work down the center of her back, then out toward her ribs where the suit curves around her body. My thumb brushes a freckle near her shoulder blade, and I catch myself noticing its shape. A tiny brown star. Ridiculous thing to notice. Worse that I know I’ll remember it.
Years ago, Elena used to ask me to rub lotion between her shoulders before we went to the beach on the rare weekends I was home. Back then, I thought home was a place I visited between deployments and assignments. My obligations always seemed urgent enough to outrank whatever she needed from me.
She finally told me the truth while standing in our kitchen with a suitcase by the door.
“You don’t come home, Cole. You report in.”
She had been right. I could cross an ocean for an extraction.
Stay awake forty-eight hours with a rifle in my hands.
Stand between a client and a weapon without asking what it would cost me.
But I had never learned how to sit across from a woman who wanted ordinary things and promise I would still be there next Tuesday.
Elena wanted a life. I was good at missions. Those are not the same thing.
Kara shifts slightly beneath my hands, and the memory breaks.
“You okay?” she asks.
I remove my hands from her back and cap the sunscreen.
“Done.”
She turns, studying me through her sunglasses. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
“It’s what I answered.”
Her mouth tightens, but not with anger. Something softer. “Cole.”
I set the sunscreen on the console. “You’ll need to reapply later.”
The deflection is obvious. She lets me have it. That may be worse than pressing.
We drink water in the shade of the small canopy, the boat drifting slowly while the island sits bright and unreal in the distance. Kara leans against the rail, one hand wrapped around the bottle, her hair a wild red tangle the wind refuses to leave alone.
“Do you ever get tired of being needed?” she asks.
I look at the water instead of her. “Being needed is simple.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No.”
“Then answer the question I asked.”
I could tell her no. I could tell her work is work. I could tell her I chose this life and I’m good at it. All true. None of it the truth.
“Yes,” I say. “That doesn’t mean I know what to do when I’m not needed,” I add.
“Maybe you don’t have to know all at once.”
I laugh once, low and humorless. “That sounds like something a therapist would say.”
A smile slips through before I can stop it. She sees it and smiles back, and for a second the air between us eases. Then my phone buzzes in the dry box near the console. I pull it out and check the screen. It’s Sloane.
Patrol saw unfamiliar rental car near Sandpiper road. Plate pending. May be nothing. Stay alert.
I read it twice, then lock the screen.
Kara watches me. “Bad?”
“Not sure yet.”
“That answer is getting old.”
“I know.”
She straightens. “Do we need to go back?”
“Yes.”
She does not argue. She reaches for her cover-up and slips it on, the ease from a moment ago folding itself away. I hate watching that happen. I hate that fear can reclaim her so quickly.
I start the engines. On the way back, I keep the speed controlled, but there is no avoiding the wind.
Kara stands near the console with one hand braced on the rail, eyes on the shoreline as we cut across the water toward the marina.
Even quiet and worried, she is beautiful in a way that gets under my skin.
I have protected people because it was my job. I have years of training and enough hard-earned experience to know danger’s language better than most. I know how to move toward it, how to become a wall, how to survive what comes next.
But Kara Stone makes me want something I have no training for — not just to keep her alive, but to stay around longer. For me, that is a warning to keep myself in check.
By the time Bluefin Marina comes into view, she is no longer smiling. Her gaze is fixed on the distant line of cottages beyond the dunes.
For one clean stretch of water and sun, she was not a target. Out on the water, Kara was just a woman breathing easier. And I am enough of a fool to want to give that back to her.
I guide the boat toward the slip, already scanning the docks, the parking lot, the faces turned our way. The peace she just found will have to wait, because the rest of her reality is already coming back into view.