Page 22 of Undertow

“Whatever’s going on, you’re making this choice for both of you,” Reagan said quietly. “You know that, right? You’re deciding what he can handle without giving him the chance to decide for himself.”

Cara opened her mouth and closed it again. The thing about Reagan was that she delivered the hard truths clearly, without cruelty, and with the implicit understanding that knowing the problem was the first step toward fixing it.

Cara turned it around. Because deflection was a survival skill, and also because she’d been watching Reagan and Tom orbit each other for weeks and somebody needed to say something.

“Your turn.”

Reagan blinked. “My turn for what?”

“Tom.”

Reagan took a long sip of coffee—. “Tom is…” She set the mug down. Picked it up again. “Tom is very smart.”

“Yes.”

“And patient. Which—do you know how rare that is? A man who actually listens? Who doesn’t hear half your sentence and start building his response before you’ve finished?” Reagan’s voice had gone soft —a soft Cara hadn’t heard before. “And with Piper—the way he is with that kid. She’s all edges and opinions and he just...lets her be that. Doesn’t try to sand her down.”

“He likes you,” Cara said. “In case you haven’t noticed the fourteen hundred tells.”

Reagan stared at her. “You’re unsettling. You know that?”

“Professional hazard.”

“You think I’m crazy?” Quieter now. The real question under the banter.

“I think you deserve someone who sees you,” Cara said. “And I think Tom does.”

The kitchen was quiet. Rain against the windows. The ocean somewhere beyond the glass, doing its ancient, indifferent thing. Two women sitting with coffee in a rented house on the Oregon coast, talking around the enormous, terrifying, wonderful fact that they’d both found something worth being afraid of.

Lord. This mess we’re in, this tangled, beautiful, impossible mess. I don’t know what You’re doing with any of it. But Reagan deserves joy. Tom deserves a partner who matches him. And Piper—that fierce, brilliant girl—deserves a woman like Reagan in her life. Whatever You’re building here, don’t let us wreck it.

Her phone buzzed.

Gabe.

Graham Whitfield is Elena’s uncle. He’s been having Voss surveilled. His security team has been watching the bakery. He may know about you. He’s heading to Portland now. Travels with a driver who doubles as security. Be careful.

Cara read it twice, then set the phone on the table. Reagan, reading her face, set down her coffee.

“What?”

“Looks like we’re about to have company. Elena Whitfield’s uncle is heading up.” Cara stared at the screen, the words rearranging everything she’d thought she understood about the shape of this thing. Graham Whitfield. Elena’s uncle. Private surveillance. Watching the bakery—watching them. And now heading this direction, toward Portland, toward Pacific Crest.

“That could be a good thing,” Reagan noted. “I’d like to believe the woman’s got people who care about her.”

“Right?” Cara picked up the phone and typed back.

Got your text. We’re careful. Don’t worry about us.

She hit send and looked at Reagan, who was already clearing the mugs. “How long until the guys are back?”

Cara checked the time. “Soon.”

“Then we brief them when they walk in the door.” Reagan’s voice had changed—still warm, but underneath it now was . “And then we figure out what we’re actually walking into tomorrow at that hospital.”

Cara nodded. Outside, the Pacific hammered the rocks and the sky pressed down like a hand, and somewhere on the coast highway, a man with a limo and a driver who wasn’t really a driver was heading their way.

The quiet was definitely over.