Page 2 of Over the Edge

What on earth was up with him? She’d heard him and Cal Kettering, the Reaper’s commander, shouting in Cal’s office earlier. What those two peas in a pod could be arguing about, she had no idea. But since they were swim buddies, the way she saw it she had every right to stick her oh so nosy nose into his personal affairs.

“Wanna talk?” she asked under the din of country music twanging across the dance floor.

“About what?” he asked cautiously.

“Hey. It’s me. No need to be cagey about whatever’s got you messed up enough to hang out at Mabel’s.”

He shrugged. “Too many wagging ears, here. Besides, I’d much rather watch the wagging boo—“

Anna slapped a hand over his mouth. “Don’t say it. I’d hate to have to kill you.”

“By the way,” he said, obviously trying to change the subject, “you look…like a girl…rather…you look nice. Like, really nice.”

He’d noticed? Suddenly, she was glad she’d taken time to put on mascara and a little lip gloss and to wear her hair down for once. Abashed, she mumbled, “Good recovery, there, Slick.”

“May I buy you a drink?” he asked gallantly.

There he was. The for-public-consumption version of the urbane, sophisticated, British gentleman who never missed an etiquette beat. She answered politely, “I’ll take whatever you’re having.”

“I’m drinking this piss water you Yanks call beer.”

“Don’t be dragging American beer, now,” she retorted.

He lifted his glass to let the light behind the bar shine through the amber liquid. “It’s not even the right color.”

“It’s better than that sludge you Brits call beer.”

He snorted. “Lightweight.”

“Call me that on the wrestling mat where you can put your money where your mouth is,” she declared.

His mouth quirked at one corner. “Big words, little girl. You prepared to back those up?”

She wasn’t that little. And she was a world-class Crossfit™ athlete who’d spent the past year training all day, every day, with Navy SEALs. Not many women on earth could claim to be stronger than her, and not many men, for that matter. But he was one of them.

“Any time, big guy,” she declared stoutly.

They fell silent while the bartender plunked a foam-topped glass of beer in front of her. She took a sip of the yeasty brew. Personally, she preferred whiskey, but Trevor was buying, and she wasn’t going to quibble over it.

“So, swim buddy of mine. You wanna tell me what you and Cal were yelling about earlier? He’s mighty ticked off about it, whatever it was. He’s been stomping around, muttering under his breath, ever since you left.”

Trevor’s entire face went tight and tense, which constituted a violent reaction from Mr. Always-in-Control. The orange and yellow light from a beer sign overhead flickered across his face, touching his skin with neon flames and painting crimson highlights in his dark hair.

What in the heck had happened between him and Cal?

Both were career spec ops types, both had led their own squads, both were consummate professionals. After Griffin Caldwell had left to instruct out at BUD/S while Sherri Tate attended official SEAL training there, Trevor had more or less stepped into the role of Cal’s second-in-command...even though it hadn’t been made official during this training cycle they were finishing up.

With a definite note of alarm in his voice he pleaded, “Leave it alone. Please.”

She snorted. “Have you met me?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I have.”

“Ouch.” She said it playfully, but his blunt retort hurt more than she wanted to let on.

“It’s nothing personal, Anna. But take my word for it. You don’t want to know what Cal and I talked about, today.”

“You call what you two did talking? I could hear you from the barracks across the street.”

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