Amber Leigh Williams - Navy Seal's Match

“You didn’t.”

He tilted his head at her. Who was this creature? With him so determined to stay away from life stateside, he and Mavis had rarely crossed paths after adulthood. As a boy, he’d been too distracted to take more than a second or two to fan the mystery of her. As a man, he’d been too busy elbowing his way back into the fight to really notice her. Cut to his return to Fairhope three weeks ago; she’d been the one who’d seemed busy, rushing in and out of the inn to drop off Harmony and Benji’s daughter, Bea, or grabbing a quick bite from Briar’s kitchen on her lunch break.

She had no reason to trust him—who he was then, who he was now. What the hell had he ever done for Mavis Bracken? “Your brother’s a SEAL,” he reminded her. “You know what goes through an operative’s mind.”

“What’s your point?”

“Keep your distance from me, Mavis. I’m a house on fire.”

“When a house is on fire, you throw water on it,” she told him. “You don’t stand back and let it burn.”

“You do if it’s too far gone.”

“Not everybody does.”

This wasn’t working. “Would you approach a wounded predator in the wild?”

Mavis took a step back, perhaps out of respect. “That depends. How well do I know this predator?”

“Huh?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“If this were any normal predator in the wild, I’d walk away. But if I knew, for example, that he liked blondes not brunettes, mustard not ketchup, and salty foods in lieu of sweets...more than likely, I’d use that to my advantage.”

He stared through the damaged veil of his eyes. “You remember all that about me.”

“Gavin, you hung out at my house with my brother every day you were in town as a kid. That’s ten years you and I ate at the same table. I can’t tell you how many times I saw the two of you turn out your billfolds for the customary condom count when Mom wasn’t looking.”

Gavin gave a startled laugh.

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re still proud of that, are you?”

He coughed slightly, bringing his fist to his mouth. “Uh, no. Of course not, no. You remember?” He wasn’t able to get over it.

“Don’t you remember anything about me?”

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “When you were little, you had these big screech-owl eyes that seemed to know everything. You were spooky. You still are.”

She studied him again. He picked up on the slight sound of her sigh. “You’re still white as a sheet,” she observed. “But your eyes are clear.”

“They are.” The careful non-question rang with surprise.

“The pressure point helps alleviate anxiety,” she explained. “It can also work for nausea and motion sickness.”

He was close enough. He might be able to count the freckles. Because it helped him hug the present closer, he started. One, two, three...four...

Forked pain struck his temples. He closed his eyes to shut out the light. The migraines nearly always followed the hard forays into insanity.

“Stress headache?” she ventured.

He laughed cheerlessly, webbing his fingers over his face. “Did you train to be a medical professional while I was away or are you psychic?”

“I get them, too,” she explained. When he only scrubbed his hand from his face to the top of his head and lowered his chin into his chest, her hands lifted between them and spread. “Look, if I touch you again, are you going to freak out?”

I might . She had a way, too—this new Mavis. “I’d prefer a sledgehammer to knock myself out with.”

“This is healthier.”

He raised his chin and tensed to stop her from edging in closer. “Since when are you the touchy-feely type?”

She paused, fingers curled toward him. “I’m not. But do you know why I’m a vegetarian?”

“No.”

“I can’t stand to see an animal in pain. Teeth or no teeth.” When he wouldn’t relax, she sighed at him again. “Stand still.”

Personal space be damned, she stepped right up into his. He wasn’t overly tall like her six-foot-four brother, but she was small even in combat boots. He remained rigid as her front buffered his, as she touched him, his face. More pressure points, he assumed. A snide remark formed on his lips when her thumbs came to the base of his cheekbones. It fell flat when she began to massage again.

“This is yingxiang,” she said in a low voice he found strangely hypnotic. “It targets the pressure points in the wrinkles of the nose. It works for stress headaches, but it can open up the sinuses and relieve hypertension, too.”

“Mm,” he said, trying not to drag the syllable out like he wanted to.

She massaged his cheeks for a minute or two more before her thumbs lifted. His face felt loose. Most of his tension he held in his neck and jaw. It had lessened to the point that he could feel the soreness around the joints and the relief that sang behind it.

Under his stare, she seemed to hesitate. This close, he could definitely count those freckles. He could also trace the shape of her big screech-owl eyes. Dark and uncharted. Like the far side of the moon.

Her lips parted and her tongue passed briefly between them before she moved her hands slowly to the place where his neck met his shoulders. “Or...if that doesn’t do it for you...”

The tendons beneath her kneading fingertips all but cried out at the attention. He gave up deciding whether it was from pleasure or pain. The muscles moaned under the ministrations . It was the exact spot the stress of the last six months had taken up residence. The stress of the last decade, now that he thought about it. He hoped she didn’t notice his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

No. Yes. Yes, no.

For the love of God, touch me. Touch me tender. Touch me hard. Freckles, just...

...touch me...

Gavin expelled a breath. It gave him away, he feared. It gave him away hard.

“You’re brick.”

“Hmph?” he responded, at a loss for better.

“Your muscles,” she muttered, exerting more pressure. “They’re like mortar.”

No, her hands were mortar. Crashing into his brick walls. Exploding them into dust.

“You’d really benefit from yoga.”

His snort was a half sound. “Who does that new age shit?”

“Friend of mine owns a school. Yoga helps you stretch the right way, loosen joints... It helps you learn to breathe...”

“Breathing’s involuntary,” Gavin said. “You’re either breathin’ or you’re...”

Dead .

Her low voice smoothed through the juncture. “Most people never give themselves over to all the multifaceted ways breathing can act as a tool for everyday life. Or they’re never taught to begin with.”

“Stick with the massage.”

She did, utilizing her fingertips until he’d lost his breath completely. “Only if it’s working for you.”

“Hmm,” he replied, at a loss again.

“These are simple techniques you can practice on yourself,” she murmured, quieter, “anytime you need them.”

He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes so he raised a brow. “Is this what they teach you in ghost-hunting school, Buffy?”

“Buffy hunted vampires,” she told him levelly. “Not ghosts.”

“I think it’s all relative,” he drawled.

“Oh, you do?”

He opened his eyes to search for her. Up close, the familiarity struck him. High, leopard-spotted cheeks. Pert nose. Insouciant mouth. Eyes like the frigging Mariana Trench. There was something silver shining from each of her ears, a very small diamond in the crease of her nose. Her dark makeup was pronounced.

He was shocked when the ghost of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You are a little spooky still.”