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  Gavin studiously turned his attention to other features, ones he knew. The freckles. They marked her for the distinct thing she was. They reminded him of the quiet girl he’d known—the freckled Wednesday Addams. The sarcastic teenager he’d never thought of as womanly.

  Her sharp-cut jaw still looked too much like her older brother’s.

  Kyle. Like Harmony, Gavin had found a Bracken bosom buddy in the early years in Fairhope. Kyle had joined him at BUD/S after a year of college. They’d earned their Tridents together.

  Kyle could boast just as many battle scars as Gavin. Most of his had come from walking into a frag grenade during his second deployment.

  Seeing Mavis’s big brother hung up in traction five years ago hadn’t settled well. Gavin hadn’t stayed long at his buddy’s bedside as a result. No, he’d pushed himself back into the fight with grim determination that smacked of vengeance.

  He should’ve slowed down, taken some time to decompress before going on the op months later that had ended abruptly with him carrying Zaccoe’s limp body from conflict.

  Benji’s blood. Gavin would never forget how it seeped warm through the back of his digi-camo. He’d never stop cursing how his hands had shaken in the armored vehicle on the way back to base, making his job as medic impossible.

  He’d lost that battle. He’d lost it hard, and, with it, a friend. Benji was gone, and he’d left Gavin’s sister a widow.

  Everything started to blur once more. The ringing in Gavin’s ears warned him of return flashbacks. He tried blinking to snap himself back to present, then remembered. You’re blind, asshole.

  He took a detour, hoping to lose Mavis so he could orient himself.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. The question floated to him. It got chopped by the blender in his brain. When he veered into the floral undercroft of a lengthy bougainvillea-wrapped awning, she tailed him. “Gavin?”

  He held up a hand. In the shade, things were cooler. The humidity clung to his skin, a wet blanket he couldn’t dislodge any more than the fresh scent of blood in his nostrils or the feeling that brought the tremor to his fingers. His heart beat heavy, the ache behind it keen. His lungs pushed the air in and out, rapid-fire. The overdose of oxygen made him dizzier. Groping, he found one of the awning supports beneath the vines and tried not to stumble into it. Pressing his brow into his forearm, he worked to bring himself out of it.

  “You’re having a panic attack.”

  No shit. It was what he wanted to say. Along with a whole lot of, You’re still here? What came was more along the lines of, “Mmmph.” And even that caught in his throat.

  Mavis’s expressionless words came to him, closer. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

  She still sounded muddled. Everything did when the anxiety peaked. Still, he frowned when he grouped the words together. Is it okay…if I touch you?

  Had Mavis ever touched him?

  He wasn’t coming down—his pulse, the Tilt-A-Whirl in his head, his breathing. He was being swept up by the sights, sounds, smells from another time and place. The sights, sounds and smells of death. He’d lost track of the self-assertions and tactics that sometimes simulated a sense of control.

  Mavis didn’t take his hand. Her cool fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist. Her thumb found the flexed tendon in the center and applied pressure.

  The fighter in him punched through. His muscles twitched. Damn it, he was jumpy enough to take her above the elbow and apply pressure of his own. The urge was knee-jerk and wrong. A remnant of his training.

  “Do you feel that?”

  The question bobbed to the surface. Mavis, he told himself. The brief image of her racing a horse against his at breakneck speed through a crowded wood stopped the training from taking effect. It stopped the urge altogether. He still didn’t know what the hell she was doing, but he nodded in answer.

  The pressure of her thumb increased, enough for the blood flow inside the pulse point to slow.

  She didn’t hurt him. If anything, the slight discomfort and the odd awareness of her skin against his tuned him in to her further.

  While his pulse careered and the battle raged inside his head, she held him. Then, over the same spot, she began to knead.

  It was several minutes before he realized that his focus had shifted. The pressure lifted off his chest enough to breathe. The words he usually told himself came to him. He chained them to the flight rhythm of his heart, slowing them by minor increments until the chant became a mantra and his heart rate leveled.

  It wasn’t until he opened his eyes that he realized he’d relaxed enough for her to grasp his other arm. She kneaded his opposite wrist.

  When he was able to bring his voice to the surface, he swallowed, fighting against a dry throat. “What’re you doing?”

  “Acupressure,” she said. After more kneading, she added, “How does it feel?”

  He raised his brows in answer. He lifted his lids again. Her dark head was beneath his. She was looking down between them. She smelled nothing like brimstone. He caught a surprising waft of fresh, cool mango. Her jet hair looked soft, so much so that he considered resting his cheek against it.

  But that would’ve been weird.

  Gavin bit off a curse. “Don’t you know better than to approach somebody like me with his guard down?”

  She shrugged, letting her touch slide across his palms, down his fingertips and away. “You held yourself together.”

  “I wanted to snap your arm.” He grated the words through his teeth. “Like a ruler.”

  “You didn’t.”

  He tilted his head at her. Who was this creature? With him so determined to stay away from life stateside, he and Mavis had rarely crossed paths after adulthood. As a boy, he’d been too distracted to take more than a second or two to fan the mystery of her. As a man, he’d been too busy elbowing his way back into the fight to really notice her. Cut to his return to Fairhope three weeks ago; she’d been the one who’d seemed busy, rushing in and out of the inn to drop off Harmony and Benji’s daughter, Bea, or grabbing a quick bite from Briar’s kitchen on her lunch break.

  She had no reason to trust him—who he was then, who he was now. What the hell had he ever done for Mavis Bracken? “Your brother’s a SEAL,” he reminded her. “You know what goes through an operative’s mind.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Keep your distance from me, Mavis. I’m a house on fire.”

  “When a house is on fire, you throw water on it,” she told him. “You don’t stand back and let it burn.”

  “You do if it’s too far gone.”

  “Not everybody does.”

  This wasn’t working. “Would you approach a wounded predator in the wild?”

  Mavis took a step back, perhaps out of respect. “That depends. How well do I know this predator?”

  “Huh?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  “If this were any normal predator in the wild, I’d walk away. But if I knew, for example, that he liked blondes not brunettes, mustard not ketchup, and salty foods in lieu of sweets…more than likely, I’d use that to my advantage.”

  He stared through the damaged veil of his eyes. “You remember all that about me.”

  “Gavin, you hung out at my house with my brother every day you were in town as a kid. That’s ten years you and I ate at the same table. I can’t tell you how many times I saw the two of you turn out your billfolds for the customary condom count when Mom wasn’t looking.”

  Gavin gave a startled laugh.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re still proud of that, are you?”

  He coughed slightly, bringing his fist to his mouth. “Uh, no. Of course not, no. You remember?” He wasn’t able to get over it.

  “Don’t you remember anything about me?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “When you were
little, you had these big screech-owl eyes that seemed to know everything. You were spooky. You still are.”

  She studied him again. He picked up on the slight sound of her sigh. “You’re still white as a sheet,” she observed. “But your eyes are clear.”

  “They are.” The careful non-question rang with surprise.

  “The pressure point helps alleviate anxiety,” she explained. “It can also work for nausea and motion sickness.”

  He was close enough. He might be able to count the freckles. Because it helped him hug the present closer, he started. One, two, three…four…

  Forked pain struck his temples. He closed his eyes to shut out the light. The migraines nearly always followed the hard forays into insanity.

  “Stress headache?” she ventured.

  He laughed cheerlessly, webbing his fingers over his face. “Did you train to be a medical professional while I was away or are you psychic?”

  “I get them, too,” she explained. When he only scrubbed his hand from his face to the top of his head and lowered his chin into his chest, her hands lifted between them and spread. “Look, if I touch you again, are you going to freak out?”

  I might. She had a way, too—this new Mavis. “I’d prefer a sledgehammer to knock myself out with.”

  “This is healthier.”

  He raised his chin and tensed to stop her from edging in closer. “Since when are you the touchy-feely type?”

  She paused, fingers curled toward him. “I’m not. But do you know why I’m a vegetarian?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t stand to see an animal in pain. Teeth or no teeth.” When he wouldn’t relax, she sighed at him again. “Stand still.”

  Personal space be damned, she stepped right up into his. He wasn’t overly tall like her six-foot-four brother, but she was small even in combat boots. He remained rigid as her front buffered his, as she touched him, his face. More pressure points, he assumed. A snide remark formed on his lips when her thumbs came to the base of his cheekbones. It fell flat when she began to massage again.

  “This is yingxiang,” she said in a low voice he found strangely hypnotic. “It targets the pressure points in the wrinkles of the nose. It works for stress headaches, but it can open up the sinuses and relieve hypertension, too.”

  “Mm,” he said, trying not to drag the syllable out like he wanted to.

  She massaged his cheeks for a minute or two more before her thumbs lifted. His face felt loose. Most of his tension he held in his neck and jaw. It had lessened to the point that he could feel the soreness around the joints and the relief that sang behind it.

  Under his stare, she seemed to hesitate. This close, he could definitely count those freckles. He could also trace the shape of her big screech-owl eyes. Dark and uncharted. Like the far side of the moon.

  Her lips parted and her tongue passed briefly between them before she moved her hands slowly to the place where his neck met his shoulders. “Or…if that doesn’t do it for you…”

  The tendons beneath her kneading fingertips all but cried out at the attention. He gave up deciding whether it was from pleasure or pain. The muscles moaned under the ministrations. It was the exact spot the stress of the last six months had taken up residence. The stress of the last decade, now that he thought about it. He hoped she didn’t notice his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

  No. Yes. Yes, no.

  For the love of God, touch me. Touch me tender. Touch me hard. Freckles, just…

  …touch me…

  Gavin expelled a breath. It gave him away, he feared. It gave him away hard.

  “You’re brick.”

  “Hmph?” he responded, at a loss for better.

  “Your muscles,” she muttered, exerting more pressure. “They’re like mortar.”

  No, her hands were mortar. Crashing into his brick walls. Exploding them into dust.

  “You’d really benefit from yoga.”

  His snort was a half sound. “Who does that new age shit?”

  “Friend of mine owns a school. Yoga helps you stretch the right way, loosen joints… It helps you learn to breathe…”

  “Breathing’s involuntary,” Gavin said. “You’re either breathin’ or you’re…”

  Dead.

  Her low voice smoothed through the juncture. “Most people never give themselves over to all the multifaceted ways breathing can act as a tool for everyday life. Or they’re never taught to begin with.”

  “Stick with the massage.”

  She did, utilizing her fingertips until he’d lost his breath completely. “Only if it’s working for you.”

  “Hmm,” he replied, at a loss again.

  “These are simple techniques you can practice on yourself,” she murmured, quieter, “anytime you need them.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes so he raised a brow. “Is this what they teach you in ghost-hunting school, Buffy?”

  “Buffy hunted vampires,” she told him levelly. “Not ghosts.”

  “I think it’s all relative,” he drawled.

  “Oh, you do?”

  He opened his eyes to search for her. Up close, the familiarity struck him. High, leopard-spotted cheeks. Pert nose. Insouciant mouth. Eyes like the frigging Mariana Trench. There was something silver shining from each of her ears, a very small diamond in the crease of her nose. Her dark makeup was pronounced.

  He was shocked when the ghost of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You are a little spooky still.”

  She loosened her grip, falling back. “Well. At least you’re not still tense.”

  He wasn’t. Wooow. When her hands lowered from him, he very nearly grabbed hold to bring them back.

  Placing a palm to his sternum, she backed herself off so the length of her arm stretched in the marked space between them. “You’ll get better,” she told him. “It’ll get better.”

  The certainty caught him. Not only because it went up against his own, but also because she believed it. “How do you know?” he found himself asking.

  “You’re a survivor.”

  “I used to be,” he replied. He no longer felt like one. More like something tattered and unrecognizable that washed ashore after being picked over by birds and fish.

  “It’s not just the SEAL in you. It’s who you were before all that, too. A survivor.” When he said nothing to that, she went on. “Despite all you’ve been through…your heart’s still beating.”

  If only she knew. Sometimes, he wondered if this was it—that, after everything, he’d be defeated by the mind-fuck he couldn’t seem to get a handle on. Mavis’s hand was still on his sternum, and he tuned his awareness to it. “It doesn’t beat evenly,” he admitted. He wet his throat. “What about the dog?”

  She looked around at the reminder. Her hand moved off so that she could shield her eyes from the glare off the distant bay. “He’s somewhere around.”

  “Will he come back on his own?” he asked, falling into step with her as her slow gait brought them back into the sunshine.

  “Yes, always,” she said. “Growing boys never miss a meal. Not to mention, not all who wander…”

  Are lost, he finished silently. Not all, Gavin agreed.

  Maybe just him.

  He let her walk ahead and her pace quickened. He wrapped the fingers of one hand around the other fist, coming to a halt. “You wear black, but you like red.”

  She stopped. Doubling back, she faced him fully.

  He went on. “You have a tattoo…somewhere. I don’t remember. But you got in trouble for it when your mom found out. You rode a horse named Neptune. You liked to ride English because, even though you were weird, you were a cut and a half above the rest of us.”

  Still, she was silent. She was too far away for him to read. He was beginning to sweat none
theless. “And when your family would have their Saturday music round, you wouldn’t play. You’d sing. You could turn an acoustic version of ‘Come Together’ or ‘Don’t Come Home A-Drinkin’’ into something classy and unexpected.”

  “Oh, God…” she said.

  “Don’t laugh, Freckles. You killed the Loretta.”

  She did laugh. It was a low noise, like the drone of a hummingbird’s wings. It didn’t last long enough. “I hated when you called me that.”

  “I knew it,” he returned. “Anyway, you were…different. I thought it was kind of badass that you didn’t care.”

  “Just like you didn’t?”

  Gavin lifted a shoulder in answer. Yes—they had more in common than it seemed either of them had anticipated.

  Quiet fell. The gulls droned from the shore. Tires moved over gravel in the parking lot beyond Briar’s garden. The world moved, lively and fierce. But there was a measure of quiet in Gavin’s head. He’d forgotten what quiet, in its purest form, was. Damned if he wasn’t grateful—and a little spellbound.

  Mavis spoke again in a sober light. “Look. I might’ve overheard what went on upstairs with the vase.”

  Gavin’s frown returned. He sought the inn, the place he’d known he shouldn’t come back to. He hadn’t fit in before the RPG. What had made him think he could fade into the wallpaper now with his face a veritable grid of violence?

  “Before you think about disappearing again,” Mavis continued, “you don’t have to leave Fairhope entirely.”

  He moved his shoulders in a brusque motion, the tension climbing up the back of his neck again. “You know a good bait bucket I can crawl into?”

  “You’ll break their hearts if you skip town like all the times before,” she said.

  “Yeah, but think of the antiques,” Gavin said, gesturing to the pristine white building and the treasures it held. “At least they’ll live long and happy lives.”

  “If you knew your parents at all, you’d know that when it comes to your well-being, they’d burn every single one of their antiques if it meant having you here.”

  Judgment had a bite to it, he found. He didn’t much like it. Remembering the tone he’d struck with his father and Briar upstairs, he scowled. Okay, maybe he deserved it. But in spite of the steadier ground he found himself walking on after the detour with Mavis under the bougainvillea, the coals still burned, low and blue.