Page 85 of Zorro

“What kind of tough SEAL are you?” Her eyes were twinkling. “First you’re a crybaby, now you're squeamish about a tiny scrap of soggy material.”

“Ooh, that’s punching below the belt,” he said with a grin, loving her humor. “Frank and the boys aren’t too thrilled either.”

“Frank and the boys?” she echoed, deadpan. “Your dick has a support staff?” She shook her head. “I’m sure there’s a story there and I can’t wait to hear it, but snap to it.”

“Or what?”

“I’ll give you a spanking.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” he said, “I’ve already been hogtied by a cowboy in a towel.”

Her jaw dropped open as he took the shorts and shimmied into them. “You must be really good in bed because I’m starting to get excited about your outrageous comments.” She stared at him in shock, then regained her composure. “Again, a story I need to hear, but right now…” She whirled her finger, making him turn in a circle, her expression caught between admiration and irritation. “I was right. They’re indecent.”

“Babe, they’re Navy issued gear.”

“I don’t care if the president sewed them. They’re dangerous in the wrong…on the wrong…hips.” She strode over, slipping her hand over his dick. “Your package is on display, and your ass…don’t get me started.”

He grunted. “Did you just call my junk a package?”

“Yes and any red-blooded woman would want to unwrap it.”

He doubled over. She slapped his ass. “You and Bear wore these?”

“I think he got two marriage proposals and one provocative one.”

“How many proposals did you get?”

He gave her a wicked grin. “I’m taking the fifth…babe.”

13

Zorro was up and gone by four forty-five, slipping from the room silently. Muster. PT. Duty. Everly barely stirred when he leaned in and brushed a kiss to her temple, but her body registered his absence like a tide pulling back from shore. There it was again, that little heart stutter, and new memories to overlay the old ones where Rob never kissed her goodbye.

She lay there a few minutes longer, tangled in sheets that still smelled like him, salt and cedar, sun-warmed skin, a hint of hotel soap, and tried to pretend her pulse hadn’t spiked when the door clicked softly shut.

She had three panels today, and she needed to touch base with Madeline. She had some ideas for changes to Rob’s tribute, necessary changes that felt more honest, more hers. They had been tugging at her all morning, rising with the clarity that followed chaos.

She slipped out of bed quietly, feet brushing the cool tile, and was caught again, visually, emotionally, by that tiny square of khaki fabric draped over the arm of the chair.

The infamous shorts. His UDT relic. God, they were ridiculous. Cut high, built for speed not modesty, and cocky as hell. But they were Zorro in fabric form. A little bit of humor. Decent only in theory.

Scandalous in execution, and so damn sassy, it made her smile just looking at them.

Not just because of how they looked, though, yes, the thought of him wearing those things was enough to short-circuit rational thought, but because they were so unapologetically him. Bold. Unfiltered. The kind of man who showed up, owned his skin, and made people laugh in the middle of hell.

They celebrated him. That impossible combination of warrior and flirt, healer and smartass, heat and heart. They reminded her that he wasn’t just someone she’d fallen into bed with. He was someone who made her feel alive again.

Even his shorts had personality.

She was already wondering when she’d get to see him back in them.

She touched them briefly, then walked across the room in Zorro’s T-shirt, fulfilling the mantra on the front: Lift, Run, Shoot. She laughed softly at the tease from Buck when she’d appeared in front of the team. She cautiously pulled the door open a crack. The hallway was empty, but laughter echoed faintly down the corridor, Blitz or Buck, probably both. Footsteps thudded, and the elevator dinged. She waited another thirty seconds to be sure they were gone, then bolted.

The dash of shame to her room was the stuff of slapstick espionage, bare legs, guilty conscience, hair in disarray. But once she crossed the threshold, slammed the door, and leaned back against it panting, she laughed.

She felt…good. Immensely good. So damn good she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Not just physically, though, yes, her muscles hummed with the memory of last night’s touch, and her body still pulsed in slow waves of warmth, but deeper. Lighter. As if something in her had finally unknotted itself after years of tight, silent pain.

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