“Don’t be a wuss,” she muttered. And, clutching the hot dogs in a grip gone slippery with condensation, she knocked hard and fast.
“It’s open,” he called, voice muffled.
Blowing out a breath, she pushed through the unlocked door, stepped into the main living area of the three-room suite, and let the panel swing shut behind her. She hadn’t been inside his quarters since her return to Skywatch, and found that the hang-loose decor the place had sported four years ago—heavy on the surfboards, underwater pics, and treasure maps—had given way to a collection of canyonscapes and coyote motifs.
One of the two bedroom doors was open, and there were sounds of activity within. Through the door, she saw the corner of a bed covered with a rumpled dark blue comforter; a pair of jeans hung off one edge, with a holstered pistol tossed on top. The tableau—a still life done in denim and Glock—threatened to bring a jolt of heat, but she looked away. She had seen plenty of guns over the past nine months; this one wasn’t any different, and neither was the man. He was just another mage, fighter, and teammate. She owed him an apology, nothing more. So when she heard him coming out of the bedroom, she took a deep breath and turned back with her thank-you on the tip of her tongue—
And froze at the sight of him.
Wearing sweats that hung low on his hips, with a gray hoodie over his bare torso, unzipped, he wasn’t naked, wasn’t even showing her anything she hadn’t seen before. But it still made a hell of an impact.
Fresh out of the shower, he was using a white towel to rub his hair dry. It blocked his sight and muffled his words as he said, “Thanks for hooking me up with the grub, Carlos.” He lowered the towel, started scrubbing at his chest. “I couldn’t face going back out to the kitchen and— Oh. Cara. Sorry, I thought…” His eyes locked on her and he trailed off, and for a second it was like it had been earlier, with the rest of the world falling away and her perceptions coalescing to the two of them.
Play it cool, she told herself even as her skin prickled. Don’t stare. But she couldn’t stop herself.
His skin was the delicious golden color she remembered from his beach-bum days, when he’d been deadheading his way through life as a part-time surf instructor, part-time wreck diver, and full-time party animal. Now, though, he was also in fighting form, bulked up through his chest and shoulders, yet still swimmer-lean in the flat planes of his stomach and the ripped lines of the abs that arrowed toward the waistband of the sweats as if deliberately trying to drag her eyes lower.
He made a harsh noise at the back of his throat, then rasped, “What are you doing here?”
For a second her mind blanked. Then she sucked in a breath and said too quickly, “I came to thank you. Tempers got a little hot earlier and I never said how grateful I am for you and Mac rescuing me.” Exhaling and telling herself to slow down, relax, not make this into something more than it really was, she lifted the hot dogs. “These are for him.” She suddenly felt like an idiot, holding out a ten-pack of wieners as a peace offering.
He nodded, though. “He’s nosing around somewhere. I’ll give them to him when he gets back, and make sure to tell him they’re from you.”
“Good. That’s good.” She wasn’t even sure what she was saying, as if one part of her was automatically being polite while the rest of her stared at his chest, caught up in the unexpected intimacy of having him standing there in nothing more than socks and sweatpants, the resentment of knowing that he probably hadn’t given it a second thought. She told herself to leave, but instead headed for the kitchen nook, where she put the hot dogs in the fridge. Like the coyote cared if they were warm.
Then, telling herself she would make the gesture and go, she turned back to him and pulled a crinkling bag from her pocket. It was a package of Skittles, a smaller version of the ones they used to plow through during long winter nights, when she, Sven, Carlos, and her mom, Essie, had engaged in cutthroat tournaments of the patolli. The ancients had anted up with everything from gemstones and pottery to household furnishings, slaves, and sometimes even their own lives. Her family members had played for chores or a special treat, but most often, they had wagered Skittles.
Giving him the bag was a nod to the past they had agreed to leave behind, but somehow back in her quarters it had seemed like the perfect thank-you. So she held out the Skittles, grateful to see that he’d zipped his sweatshirt to his throat. “These are for you, from my private stash… unless you’ve outgrown crappy candy with one hundred percent artificial everything and zero nutritional value?”
His lips curved. “Hand ’em over.”
The almost-smile made him seem far too approachable. His chest might be covered now, but the sweats were worn soft and clung to the lines of his body, putting a twist in her stomach. And, gods, could she be more hormonal? He obviously didn’t share her problem—he was just standing there like it was no big deal for them to be alone together in his suite. Then again, for him it was nothing. And she needed to pull it together and remember that she wasn’t an idiot teenager anymore, or even the girl who had left Skywatch when he told her to go. She had status and responsibilities of her own now, and they had nothing to do with him.
Steeling herself, she resisted the urge to toss the Skittles, and crossed the room instead, putting herself an arm’s length away from him as she held out the candy. “Thanks for rescuing my ass today. I would’ve been in serious trouble if you hadn’t been there.” She paused, then said softly, “I owe you one, Sven. You saved my life.”
He hesitated, then took the bag with a brush of fingertip-on-fingertip contact and moved back to hike a hip on the edge of the sofa in a casual sprawl that put their eyes on the same level for a change. He tossed the Skittles lightly in one hand for a moment, then sighed deeply, and said, “Shit. We’re off script again.”
“We’re… what?”
“I was going to come find you, maybe get you to walk out to the back of the canyon with me.” Still staring at the Skittles, he tipped his head toward the window. “It’s a nice night.”
Baffled, she followed his nod. The storm had passed without shedding a drop, leaving a high, dusty haze across the sky. It furred the stars and blurred the outline of the nearly full moon. “We can go if you want.”
But Sven shook his head. “Nah. You’re here; I’m here…” A sad, tired smile twisted his lips. “Maybe the gods are trying to tell me to stop stalling.”
Earlier, she had noticed the new lines between his brows and the seriousness in his storm-sea eyes. Now she saw shadows and an intensity that was nothing like his old chilled-out vibe. It brought a skim of surprise and nerves shivering through her, along with the reminder that she needed to stop thinking of him as the guy he used to be. Like her, he’d been through some serious crap over the past few years—heck, even the past few months. By all accounts, his and Rabbit’s efforts to contain and then eradicate the xombi virus had been gruesome work, and she had no doubt that he carried new scars, on the inside if nowhere else.
Her inner winikin wanted to reach out and soothe him, feed him, take care of him. Her inner warrior, though, had her keeping her distance as she asked, “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know if I’m fine or not right now, only that I’m better than I was before. Being down in those jungles, seeing things through Mac’s eyes as we tracked the xombis, and then making myself cut them down no matter what they said or did…” He scrubbed a hand across his face, though the move did nothing to erase the grimness. “Hell, Cara, those nights got long. And lying there, smelling the blood on me and Mac no matter how hard I scrubbed to get it off… Shit, it really made me think about my life and the mistakes I’ve made.”