Page 121 of Theta

"I don't know…what you…said to him," Mom says, panting as she does a cooldown walk. "But you…you really put a fire under his feet."

I laugh. "Lit a fire under his ass, Mom. That's the phrase."

"Okay, but the torture in ancient times was a fire under the feet, was it not? They are most sensitive."

I laugh. "You know what, never mind. It doesn't matter. I just wanted to let you know that Killy and I are taking a few days away. We both feel pretty much back to normal, and we need some alone time, badly."

“You do not need my permission, darling," she says. "I only wanted you to heal properly and fully, and I know what it is to be young and in love and full of need for your man. You would have reinjured yourselves. I know this for a fact."

"I know, Mom. We both get it, and we're both glad for it. But we're good now."

She turns off the treadmill and comes to a halt, wipes her face and neck with a towel, and then takes a long drink of water. "Go, my love." She gives me a knowing smile. "That young man of yours appears rather…impatient."

"He's not the only one," I say.

Mom waves her hands at me, one holding the towel and the other the water bottle. "I understand. I do not need to know any more. Go. Have fun. Be in love."

I give her a sticky, sweaty hug and then all but jog to my villa, where I pack at warp speed—bikinis, coverups, sundresses, bra and underwear, toiletries…

I power off my cell phone and shove it in the bag along with a fully-charged portable battery pack and cord, just in case. And then I pause, contemplating an idea.

Yeah, I know what Killy said—don't waste time showering and changing.

So I'm not gonna shower.

Instead, I strip out of my sweat-soaked workout clothes and use a wet wipe to scrub down my pits, bits, and tits and then shimmy and dance into my sexiest bikini, the one I bought online on a dare while tipsy with some girls from work; I've never dared wear it to a beach or pool because it's basically two wisps of sheer material that does precisely nothing to obscure my parts in any way, shape, or form. I don a cover-up that isn't much more concealing, a floppy sunhat, and then check my bag once more; towels! I forgot a towel. I roll up two beach towels and add them to the duffel and then zip it closed, stuff my feet into my soft rubbery pool slides, shove my bug-eyed sunglasses on my face, and again all but run along the wooden path that mazes its serpentine way around the island from villa to villa to beach to gym to security HQ.

Killian didn't provide any details of his plan beyond "docks, twenty minutes" so I have no idea what to expect when I get to the jetty spiking out into the azure waters of the Caribbean.

What was I expecting? A speedboat, I suppose. Or a jetski. Or a seaplane with Mercedes at the controls.

What I don't expect is a sailboat. Not, like, a Hobie Cat or a Sunfish, but a live-aboard, deepwater sailing vessel small enough for two. I don't know boats—and yes, I know Minnesota is the land of ten thousand lakes, but I've been on precisely three of them, ever, and only in Dad’s old tin fishing boat. I see Killian on the deck near the prow, coiling rope. He’s still in his tiny workout shorts—yay!—and now has a pair of Wayfarers on and a pair of Hey Dudes. And a backward baseball cap, because he apparently wants me to spontaneously combust.

He sees me approaching and straightens, watches me step carefully from the dock to the deck. He has the bitter end of the line in his hand, and his jaw is slack as he stares at me.

I toss my bag down the open hatch into the belly of the boat and then make my way forward to where Killian is standing, open-mouthed, staring at me.

I stop just out of reach, grinning up at him, holding my hat on my head with one hand and clutching my hair in the other—the wind is blowing hard. "Hey, you."

He stares at me, expression inscrutable behind his blacked-out Sunglasses. "You changed."

I shrug. “Yeah. I felt gross."

He nudges his sunglasses up onto his forehead, and his eyes are wide and lingering on my body, scanning, devouring the hints of me visible beneath the cover-up. "Story, that bikini is…"

“It’s only for you, that’s what it is.” I lean in and kiss him, soft and quick. "Take us out, captain. Not gonna get anywhere moored to the dock.”

"Yes, ma'am," he says. "But you, in that…not sure how far we're gonna get."

I grin wider. "Is that so?"

He drops his chin so his sunglasses fall back into place, and he tosses the rope end down, sidling toward me. "Once we're away from shore, that cover-up is coming off."

I tug at his shorts. "Once we're away from shore, everything is coming off." I nip his chin. "So you'd best get us moving, babe."

He scrambles to free us from the dock, pushes us away, and then takes the wheel and guides us away from shore under the power of the engine.

It never even occurs to me to question if Killian can sail, or if he laid in enough supplies—my trust in him, at this point, is absolute. When you literally trust someone with your life in a gunfight, it's a heck of a lot easier to trust them with something as simple as a sailing trip.