Geri Krotow - Navy Rescue

Because they would have. Long-term relationships weren’t on his agenda.

One had been enough for him.

Opal’s feelings had been hurt that he wouldn’t even consider a date with her. They were both single, ran their own businesses, loved the Pacific Northwest.

After several attempts to have Drew over for dinner, Opal had accepted their “friends only” status.

Maybe he had been crazy to turn her down. If he was involved with someone else, he wouldn’t be a safe harbor for Gwen. He wouldn’t feel as if he was staring down the wrong end of a weapon.

“You don’t look your usual chipper self.” She handed him the hot cup. As he reached to take it, she put a hand on his wrist.

“Drew, we’re friends. How many times have I told you I don’t take it personally that we didn’t work out? It’s okay if you need an ear.” Didn’t work out? They’d never been more than friends.

Neither had he and Serena, who still worked for him so was technically off-limits. Serena was another available woman who, on paper, appeared to be a good fit for him.

Drew fought to keep a scowl off his face.

He’d had every opportunity to date other women and like a fool he hadn’t. If he had, Gwen’s return wouldn’t be shaking him up so much.

He gently removed her hand from his arm and took his coffee, leaving the payment on the small Formica counter.

“I appreciate your concern, Opal. I’m just not ready to talk about it.”

Opal’s kind smile was back. “I totally understand. Let me know if you want me to bring over some dinner for you tonight.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. Did a big load of grocery shopping yesterday.” He was lying and prayed she hadn’t checked his refrigerator the last time she’d popped in uninvited to leave him muffins or a casserole.

He really needed to start locking the side deck door.

Until now he hadn’t minded her unannounced drop-ins, since she’d accepted that they’d never be more than friends. Now that Gwen was going to be staying with him, he’d have to convince Opal to stop her visits.

Or keep his damned door locked.

* * *

DREW DROVE TO the other side of the island with his coffee in one hand, the other on the steering wheel. It used to be a favorite haunt of his during the dark days of his divorce from Gwen.

Gwen.

He gulped too much of the hot coffee, which burned his throat, but that served as a way to keep him grounded. God knew he needed something to keep him focused on reality. It’d be too easy, too natural, to think that he and Gwen were going to find a way to reconcile.

Never. You can’t reconcile what isn’t there. When there’s nothing to work with.

They had nothing left of what had been their marriage. Just a run-of-the-mill friendship.

Drew didn’t consider himself a stupid man. But maybe he’d screwed up by not forcing himself to date more regularly. When the divorce became final, he swore he’d never settle down again. Plus, he’d almost no time to date. He’d blamed it on the stress of his expanding practice, the stress of the adjustment.

You know why you haven’t looked at another woman.

He crushed the paper cup, scalding his hand and spilling the coffee all over the steering wheel and his lap.

“Dammit!”

Drew unzipped his gym bag, which sat on his passenger seat. His smelly workout T-shirt soaked up most of the liquid. He’d finished more than half the cup, so the damage wasn’t as bad as it might have been.

He looked at his pants and frowned. The brown stain spread down his zipper, onto his right leg.

If the mere thought of Gwen coming back into his home unnerved him this much, how was he going to stay steady enough to help her while she suffered through her reentry?

Frustration was already a constant companion; with Gwen under the same roof it would be that much worse.

Drew threw the soaked shirt on the passenger-seat floor and leaned back, forcing himself to focus on the scenery.

The ebb and flow of the waves on West Beach were in stark contrast to the flat Puget Sound water he saw out of his office windows every day. The energy in each white-capped wave soaked up his anxiety, bit by bit.

He’d come here every single day after he and Gwen had agreed to separate with the intent to divorce. She’d never asked where he was going and he’d never volunteered it, even when he knew she probably thought he was meeting friends at a bar.

The first two months after she’d ditched her plane in the South Pacific, he’d been out here every chance he got. He’d never missed an appointment that first week she was MIA, but Serena and the rest of the staff had known his mind was elsewhere. Wondering what kind of torture Gwen was enduring. The local and eventually national news media reported the Pentagon’s assessment that she’d been lost at sea.

Gone. Dead.

But he’d known. Deep down, he’d known. Gwen’s heart was still beating, somewhere.

Ro’s position as the wing intelligence officer gave her access he’d never get as a civilian, and she’d brought him what little intel she’d been able to gather. Miles had cornered him after a therapy session one day and told him that both he and Ro were concerned about his increasing isolation, his avoidance of them and others outside work.

Miles had convinced him that going on with his life wasn’t an affront to Gwen’s memory.

After Gwen had been gone six weeks, Drew allowed himself to mentally engage with the world again. He couldn’t fight the facts, but he didn’t have to ignore his instincts, either. He’d figured that if she were still alive after six weeks—which he’d believed even if no one else had—she’d survive whatever came her way. Somehow she’d make it out.

As she had.

He went to sip his coffee and only when his empty hand curved around air did he shake off his thoughts. He couldn’t prevent a smile. Gwen would never settle for plain drip coffee. She took hers like a lot of people native to the Pacific Northwest. Two shots of espresso, with steamed low-fat milk. Maybe a shot of almond syrup if her sweet tooth was nagging her.

Their Sunday-morning routine rushed at him with its remembered familiarity and warmth. They’d hem and haw over whose turn it was to get the pastries, their once-a-week treat from the local bakery. Gwen liked the fresh-made éclairs, while he favored the apple fritters. One of them would pick up the pastries and coffee, while whoever stayed home walked the dog, fed the bird and got the woodstove blazing if it was chilly.

It’d been so easy, so natural, their life. Their love.

Until it got hard. Their professional drive, perfectionism and insistence on each being the best at what they did took its toll. Damaged the bond between them.

Memories of their competitiveness still made him squirm. They should’ve seen it; two strictly trained naval officers were innately competitive at a primal level. That hadn’t changed, even when he’d left the navy. Of course it had bled into their relationship and blown it to smithereens.

The event that had exploded the fissure into an impassable crevice had taken place on the night of a squadron party. He’d been there with Gwen, acting the consummate navy spouse as usual. He’d played the role willingly; anything to keep the peace, to let her see he wasn’t threatened by her success. His practice was still fledgling but promising.

He’d left the celebration early—told her he’d meet her back at home. They’d taken separate cars as they’d both come from work.

Unbeknownst to him, one of Gwen’s subordinates followed him home and tried to convince him to let her come in and talk to him. She was an attractive aviator, a younger version of Gwen. Except that she didn’t seem to care that Drew was married. To her boss.