Wicked Secrets (Men of Discovery Island 3)

Daeg whistled. “And this leads to us shore diving because...”

“Because she threw her ring away.”

“Groveling.” Daeg punched him in the shoulder. “You’re going to have plenty of practice.”

“We’re going to have sand in our Skivvies,” Cal added.

“I don’t want to know.” He really didn’t.

Pulling on their gear, they headed down to the water’s edge. With the tanks they could stay down longer and, looking at the expanse of water, they’d need every minute they could get.

“Okay. Give me an approximate idea of where Mia launched the ring?”

Tag pointed and explained. Unfortunately, she had a strong arm. The ring had to be at least fifty feet out past the end of the pier.

“Jesus Christ,” Daeg grumbled. “Next time you lose a ring, try dropping it in the shallow part, okay?” Yeah. He’d do that. He pulled on his mask and waded in. Ten feet in and the waves broke chest-high already. This was a fool’s errand. He wasn’t finding shit out here. Cal and Daeg moved in behind him, right on his back and looking out for him.

“Shut up and dive.”

17

NOT SURPRISINGLY, MIA had already put her stamp on the house, like she’d done to his damned heart. Either she was going for the English cottage garden effect or she’d simply purchased every plant available at the local nursery and then shoehorned them in wherever she’d found a spare inch. In precise rows and squares. Her front yard was a happy explosion of color and scents.

He liked it.

He climbed the steps to the front door and knocked. Busting right on in was a fiancé privilege, and she’d revoked his access permit. Still, she answered the door, which was something. And then she didn’t slam it in his face. Another point for him. He hoped. God. How had Cal and Daeg done this? Daeg’s crazy-ass T-shirts suddenly made a whole lot more sense. Maybe it was some kind of secret fiancé-fiancée communication code.

He looked at her. “Can I come in?”

She stared up at him through the screen door. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She looked cool, collected and one hundred percent in charge. On the other hand, she was wearing his US Navy T-shirt and not much else, which left her long bare legs on display.

Ridiculously, he felt happy just seeing her, like everything would be okay because she was here.

“No.” She glared at him. It was certainly hard to interpret that kind of answer positively. So much for hope springing eternal.

“I’d rather have this conversation face-to-face, but I’ll bellow from the front yard if I have to.” Nope. He apparently had no shame. Good to know.

She crossed her arms over her chest, and the T-shirt rode up higher. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Yeah. But I have some things I need to say, starting with I’m sorry.”

“Those words are a good start.”

She turned and walked away, but she didn’t slam the door closed. That was as good as an invitation, so he opened the screen door and followed her. Because he didn’t want to have to do a John Cusack imitation and stand in her front yard singing with a boom box. He was even worse at singing than he was at talking.

He reached and caught her flying ponytail, gently tugging her to a stop. “Can I start now?”

She didn’t look back at him, but she didn’t move, either. “Hair pulling is so second grade.”

“Hey. I’m desperate.”

“Really?” She turned and slapped her hands against his chest. She packed quite a wallop, and he took a step backward. Her T-shirt slipped down her shoulder. No bra strap—just the pale white line from her bikini. She was beautiful and flushed. “Because I think I’m okay with your desperation.”

The John Cusack thing suddenly made a whole lot more sense. The guy probably had a cheat sheet taped to the back of the boom box. Tag should have tried it.

“Can we sit down?” Because if he stalled for time, maybe he’d have an epiphany in the extra seconds.

“I own two pieces of furniture. A bed and a cat tree. Neither of those is working for me.” She whirled and headed for the back door with her little announcement. He followed her, of course. He probably always would. Yeah. He’d be ninety and chasing her around the nursing home. Best-case scenario.

She pushed open the back door and gestured toward the steps. “That’s the best I’ve got to offer.”