Page 90 of Zorro

She arched a brow at his reflection in the mirror. “You’ve seen my cleavage. You don’t get to ask for more.”

His hands slid lower, fingers grazing the top of her hips. “Just trying to gauge how many of my team are going to walk into walls today.”

She bit back a smile. “It’s a conference, not a SEAL thirst trap.”

He kissed her shoulder. “To be fair, you did open the door in my shirt with no bra. That was tactical.”

“Unintentional,” she muttered.

“Devastating,” he corrected. “I’m still recovering. Blitz might need therapy.”

Everly turned in his arms, her expression softer now. “I don’t know what this is yet. But I’m…glad you’re here.”

He kissed her once, quiet and deep. “So am I.”

Then he stepped back, tugged on his T-shirt, and nodded toward the door. “I’ll see you down there, Doc Sunshine. Dazzle them.”

“If they’re mean to me?”

“Text me. I’ll heckle the next panel into submission.”

She shook her head as he left but couldn’t stop smiling.

God help her, she couldn’t get enough of that man.

The panel room was too cold, too bright, and packed with enough high-ranking uniforms and physician credentials to sink a diplomatic carrier. Everly sat tall on stage, spine perfect, hands folded in her lap. The panel was titled Field Trauma, Battlefield Innovation, and the Human Cost of Care, but all she could think about was the man seated one chair to her left.

Zorro.

Mateo.

Hair still damp from his post-run shower, wearing a tailored charcoal shirt with his sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing those sinewed forearms that were practically classified. His hands rested loosely on his thighs, dog tags tucked beneath the open collar. He looked relaxed. Composed. Like this wasn’t a professional panel of international significance but brunch with friends.

Except when he looked at her.

Then the world tilted. The glance held, then released. It shouldn’t have done things to her pulse. Not after what they’d done. Not with that afterglow still humming in her hips.

She crossed her legs under the table. Slowly.

God help her, she missed his body already.

“Next question,” the moderator said.

Hands went up, so many. The moderator made his pick, a tall, confident trauma surgeon from Belgium who had clearly seen his share of field hospitals, who asked, “Petty Officer Martinez, based on what you do in the field, how do you see Dr. Quinn’s role in battlefield medicine? Dr. Quinn, we’d love to know your thoughts on medics operating in combat zones. Just for a different perspective.”

Everly blinked.

Zorro looked over at her with that slow, devastating smile, then leaned into the mic.

“You don’t pull punches here, do you?” he said, his voice low and warm. “Making it tough on me.”

A ripple of laughter broke through the room.

He shifted slightly, resting his arm on the edge of the table, body still loose but alert. Confidence clung to him like heat. Joy lived in this man. It filled the air around him, even here, even now.

“I’ve worked with a lot of doctors,” he continued. “Some brilliant. Some who think they’re brilliant.” Another laugh. “But Dr. Quinn? She’s the kind you want on the other end of a bad day. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stall. Her hands move like they already know what’s needed. If she doesn’t have what she needs, she improvises. Which is something you don’t learn from books. It’s instinct and ice in the veins.” He paused, just long enough to make her pulse skip. “Honestly? Her presence in battlefield medicine is what raises the bar. It reminds guys like me what we’re fighting to get our people back to. We’re holding the line. But she’s where we send them to heal.”

Her throat tightened.

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