block she pulled a shiny, sharp knife. "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not."
"Let's find out." He took a step toward her.
She spun, putting the counter at her back and the knife between them. "Nuh-uh-uh. No time for that. We have a guest coming for dinner."
"Just another reason why I can't stand that cantankerous grouchy grump."
"You resemble that remark, Griffin."
"So I do," he agreed, backing away. "But I'm coming after you tonight, baby, and you'll be giving up all your panty secrets and every other one besides."
Her wide eyes and sudden frown signaled that threat seemed to worry her a little, so he turned around and left the kitchen, enjoying the upper hand. He even heard himself whistling as he headed for the beach. A twenty-minute walk would cool him off and give Jane time to stew over what he'd promised.
Ha. The day was only getting better.
At the appointed hour, he was whistling again when he and Private jumped over the fence on their way to collect Rex. Sure the old guy could make it to No. 9 on his own, but there was no reason Griffin couldn't lend a hand. They'd return via the longer route that didn't involve fence-climbing, and he could rib the old guy some more about their presentation.
Rex had done a good job, not that Griffin would let him know he thought so. And the more he considered his own part in it, the more he realized it had been a bit of a...relief to talk about that year. Like releasing steam from the boiling kettle that was his work on the memoir.
Maybe that was why he was whistling.
He glanced over his shoulder, looking back at his house. Jane was in there, bustling around in her efficient way while wearing her naughty underwear. Later tonight he'd tease her out of them and tease her into confessing what had been bothering her out on the deck. Whatever it was, he'd make it disappear, like magic. He was feeling so great he was starting to believe in such a thing. Maybe Beach House No. 9 was the magic.
At Rex's front door, he rapped briskly. When there was no response, he tried again, aware the old man wore hearing aids. Maybe he'd removed them and so didn't know Griffin had arrived.
That thought had him trying the doorknob. It turned. "Monroe?" he called, not wanting to startle him. "Rex?"
Griffin glanced in the den, the living room, then headed toward the kitchen. His eyes fixed on an unexpected sight and his feet stuttered to a halt, but it took his brain a second or two longer to process. A body lay crumpled on the floor. There was a puddle of red blood, a pool of the bright stuff, and it made a dark stain on Rex's khaki-colored shirt...which in Griffin's mind became a younger man's camouflage BDUs.
The world turns dark, because there's dirt covering the windshield of the Humvee carrying him and four other guys. There's a ringing in his ears, left over from the percussive blast of the IED. Their vehicle has flipped, but he doesn't remember the tumble, only the aftermath, when he's lying in the wreckage, pinned by he doesn't know what yet, and wondering why his heart rate has barely registered that they've been bombed.
Erica had died three days before, and lying there, he supposes it might be his turn. If he isn't dead already, he's going to have to get out of the vehicle and run through a hail of bullets in order to survive. In this moment, he's not sure it's worth the effort. Getting shot's probably going to hurt.
Something wet touches his hand. He starts. More blood? But it's Private. His dog is in... No, he's not in Afghanistan, he's in the States.
Lurching back to the present, Griffin pulled his cell phone from his pocket with sweaty, shaking hands. His fingers fumbled as he called for the paramedics to come to Crescent Cove.
Where all the magic was gone.
* * *
UPON THEIR RETURN from the hospital, Jane wanted to escape Griffin and the tension that was radiating off him in a constant buzz of dark energy. But worried about leaving him alone right away, she found herself agreeing to a glass of wine, sipping at it as he downed his second beer, then his third. He sank low in the kitchen chair, and so did her spirits. They'd already taken a panicky dip when Griffin burst into No. 9 and explained that Rex was injured.