Page 86 of Zorro

She closed her eyes for a moment and let it wash through her.

Part of this euphoria was definitely him. She shivered. Okay. A good portion.

But the rest? The morass, the twisted threads of guilt, betrayal, and that deep ache she’d carried like armor, was gone. Whisked away and jettisoned from her like unwanted chaff. Like she’d finally exhaled after holding her breath for years.

Not that this meant everything was solved.

She wasn’t naive. There were still conversations to have. Still grief between them that hadn’t been spoken aloud. If this thing between them, this gravity, this wild, impossible pull, was going to become something real, they’d have to face it.

Together.

Her mouth went dry at the thought.

She’d asked him last night what it would take to build a new world with him.

His answer had blown past every defense she had.

Mateo exceeded her expectations with terrifying ease. Not just with his hands or his mouth but with his heart. With the way he saw her. Challenged her. Invited her to be whole.

That meant…she couldn’t stay the same. Not if she wanted to meet him in that new world.

She would have to reassess everything. Change the way she’d been living. The rules she’d written. The armor she’d worn. If she didn’t, he would. He would walk away before he let himself be loved half-heartedly. She could never hurt Mateo like that.

She’d always prided herself on being a champion of ethics, of control, of resilience in the harshest trauma zones. She’d carved out a name for herself, steadfast, mobile, mission-focused. No attachments. No softness. Just skill. Just service.

There was still that contract in the Philippines. Commitments she couldn’t abandon. Lives she’d pledged to help. But when that was done? Could she give up that wandering, ascetic life? That constant pivot between crisis and distance?

Could she choose him?

Not just as a man in her bed, or a temptation to resist, but as a man to build with.

Even more importantly, could she choose herself?

The version of her that was tired of being a statue of perfection. The one who no longer wanted to be measured by how much pain she could carry, how little she could want, how tightly she could keep her voice modulated and her hands clean.

She closed her eyes. The betrayal, the guilt, the dull ache of Rob’s final months. It wasn’t just grief anymore. It was grieving what never was. What she never asked for. What she never received. Her silence had been complicit. Her steadiness had become her shield.

But now?

Zorro had blown that open. He didn’t just make her feel desire, he made her feel safe inside it. Wanted. Wild. Worthy. Could she believe she was allowed to want? To let joy in? To love a man like him not despite what he was, but because of it?

That was the question. The real one.

For the first time…she didn’t feel afraid to ask it.

Could she finally want something…stable? For him. For her. For them.

The room was a mess. Conference papers were still strewn across the desk. Her suitcase gaped open on the luggage stand like it had given up trying to contain her chaos. A tangled bikini lay draped over the armchair from that impromptu pool ambush. Her bra was clinging to the corner of the minifridge like it had made a break for it and failed.

She stared at the mess and shook her head, a strange giddy warmth pulsing beneath her skin. She moved on autopilot, straightening the bed, folding what could be salvaged. Her hands stilled when she reached for the garment bag she’d nearly forgotten, the second outfit Pippa had insisted she wear.

With careful fingers, she unzipped it.

Gold lace gleamed beneath the lining like captured sunlight. Her breath caught. The tank was spun from something impossibly delicate, filigreed lace. Real gold. The kind that shimmered without effort. The cropped jacket that went over it was white lace, short-sleeved, tailored at the waist but edged in scallops so intricate they looked like frost. The pants…oh, the pants.

Cropped just above the ankle. Tuxedo-style in sharp white with a bold gold stripe running down the outer seam, matching the lace of the tank. The hem was kissed with the same gold.

It was elegant. Modern. Defiant. For a moment, Everly stared at it like it was a challenge.

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