“You’re welcome.” Alex went up on tiptoe to hug his neck.
It was weird. She’d never been the touchy-feely sort before moving to Wayfarer Island. But Romeo always rubbed her neck. Doc always tossed an arm around her shoulders. And Wolf gave the best hugs. Like, he really committed, with lots of pressure and a little lift off the ground.
When he set her back on her feet, he hooked a finger under her chin. “How’d you hold up under questionin’, kiddo?”
“Pretty good,” she admitted with a kick of pride. Then she winced and added, “That is until Special Agent Albus Fazzle came in. I thought Agent Tomlinson was bad. But Fazzle has all the charm of a broken Slinky. I may or may not have told him at one point that I wouldn’t be the least bit sad if his dick got stuck in a blender.”
Wolf chuckled. Then his expression morphed into one of commiseration. “Just so you know, I think they make those federal boys hand over their senses of humor before they’ll agree to train them up there in Quantico.”
“Do they also give them really dumb names? I mean, Albus Fazzle?” Alex blinked. “Is he serious?”
Wolf shook his head. “Leastways you were able to hold on to your sense of humor through all this.”
“What was my other option? Draw a warm bath and plug in the nearest toaster?”
Chrissy grunted. “You were tempted to do that too? I thought it was just me.”
Alex frowned at Wolf. “I didn’t like his smile either. It was all veneers and arrogance, but there was no real feeling behind it. He reminded me of a crocodile. Plus, he kept asking me about your guns. I mean, three guys in a speedboat tried to kill us. Shouldn’t he have been more worried about that?”
Wolf rubbed a weary hand over his beard stubble. “That’s because we’re not supposed to have full autos. It’s against this little law called the National Firearms Act.”
Alex didn’t think it was possible for her empty stomach to feel more hollow. But she was wrong. “You used the same guns on Garden Key that night and no one said a thing.”
“Apparently, Fazzle’s a stickler.”
Alex swallowed incredulously. “He’s not going to arrest you, is he?”
She turned to Mason for the first time. She’d avoided doing exactly that because she was afraid one look at his haggard face and she’d lose what little control over herself she still possessed.
She was putting on a good show, but the truth was, for hours she’d been sorely tempted to curl up in a corner. That, or run through the halls screaming his name at the top of her lungs.
She thought she’d been scared that night on Garden Key, but it hadn’t compared to the terror she’d felt seeing him take a hunting knife to the flank. Ever since they’d been separated, and despite what that Coast Guard medic had said, she hadn’t been able to let go of her worry for him. In fact, then and now, she was shaking with it.
“Never said nothing about bagging us, but the motherfucker threatened to confiscate our weapons,” he said in that thick Boston accent that made “motherfucker” sound more like “muthafuckah.”
Other than the deep, delicious timbre of his voice being laced with exhaustion, he really did seem okay. A little pale beneath his perpetual tan, maybe. But otherwise fine.
She was able to draw in a full breath for the first time in hours.
“Luckily,” Wolf added with a smug grin, “someone above Fazzle’s pay grade changed his mind for him.”
“Is that your way of saying you have friends in high places?” she asked.
It was Mason who answered. “The highest.”
“Lucky you, then,” she told him. And she meant it. He was so damn lucky that knife hadn’t done more damage.
One nick of an artery, and instead of standing here in front of her in the too-tight T-shirt he’d gotten on loan from one of the Coasties, he could have been zipped in a body bag. The thought of how close she’d come to losing him forever had her going up on tiptoe to squeeze his neck.
She was careful to avoid his injured side. But she didn’t even attempt to avoid pulling that unique smell that was all sea, sun, woods, and man deep into her lungs.
Thank heavens he’s alive, she thought. Because even if he is the most relentlessly stubborn man ever born of woman, and even if he has rejected me so many times I’ve lost count, I can’t imagine a world without him in it.
Where would she be without his scowls and his grumbles and his insistence on keeping his distance?
He wrapped his arms around her and held on tight. A little squeak of gratitude, fatigue, and pent-up fear escaped her. She thought maybe he didn’t hear it, hoped he didn’t hear it. She didn’t want to ruin all the hard work she’d put into convincing him she was one tough cookie.
But when she pulled back, the look of remorse on his face told her he hadn’t missed a thing. “Sorry this happened.” Then he added with a grimace, “Again.”
She forced another smile. This one hurt, too, but she kept it in place by sheer dint of will. “Yeah. I suppose I should start wearing a hard hat, huh?”
He cocked a confused eyebrow.
“You know,” she said. “Because of all the shit that’s come down on my head since I started working for you guys.”
Wolf gave a little snort. But the joke fell flat with Mason, and she immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
Mason took things too personally. He’d taken what happened on Garden Key, the danger she’d been in, too personally. And he was taking the danger she’d been in today too personally too.
Looking for a change of subject, she pointed to the side of his T-shirt. Had she mentioned the thing was too small for him? It was as if John Cena had gone shopping in the juniors department.
In any other situation, all of that maleness on full, mouthwatering display might’ve distracted her from what she wanted to ask. But the edges of Mason’s bandage were visible beneath the white cotton, and that was more than enough to keep her focused. “How are you feeling?”
He glanced down and this time he was the one trying to lighten the mood. “What?” he scoffed. “This little thing? Just a mosquito bite. How about you?” He hitched his chin toward her bandaged forehead.
Two can play this game, she thought.
“Any other woman would be strapped to a gurney and screaming for pain meds,” she told him, mimicking his macho-man stance. “But I barely feel a thing.”
And then it happened.
The mighty Mason McCarthy offered up one of his rare smiles.
Something to understand about Mason… He looked like the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. His brow was heavy and usually slammed into a scowl—especially when she was around. And then there was his nose. It was wide and listed a little to the side like maybe he’d been a boxer in his youth, or otherwise just a kid who’d gotten into more than his fair share of scrapes. And his jaw looked like it could withstand a hammer strike and come back all Oliver Twist style. Please, sir. I want some more.