Page 21 of Over the Edge

“My reasons are probably pretty much the same as yours. Patriotism. Desire to do something exciting. Loving a challenge—the harder the better.”

His voice sounded innocent, though, when he commented, “The shift from intelligence officer, which is to say desk jockey, to field operator must’ve given you whiplash.”

“A little. Plus, the crossover from the Army to the Navy was harder than I expected. They’re very different organizations.”

“I can imagine. I went from the British Special Boat Service to the U.S. Navy SEALs, and it was a rough transition for me, even though the missions are very similar.”

“Why did you cross over to the American teams?” she asked curiously. It registered on her that he was totally diverting her from the question of his suicidal tendencies, but it was a rare glimpse into his personal life, and she wasn’t about to squander it.

She felt the arm against her side go tense. “The Royal Navy felt like a dead end.”

“Why? Did you do something to mess up your chances of promotion?”

“No. It’s just that…”

She nudged him to finish the comment. “It’s just that what?”

“I felt…suffocated…in England.”

Interesting. The British military was known for prizing humility and not taking personal credit for anything. Yep. Her analysis of him was correct. He had a deep-seated need to be seen.

Aloud, she asked, “And you don’t find the U.S. military suffocating?”

“It wasn’t the military suffocating me back home.”

“Do tell. Was it a woman?”

“Yes. But not in the way you’d think.”

“In what way, then?” Great. She was back to playing Twenty Questions to pry even the tiniest morsel of information out of him.

“The woman is my grandmother.”

“The Irish one with the good sayings?”

“No. The British one with the huge fortune, who controls all the purse strings.”

“The purse strings to what?”

“My trust fund.”

“You have a trust fund? How is it I’ve worked with you day and night for a year, and I don’t know that? I know which way you naturally jump when you dodge a bullet, I know exactly what your footsteps sound like in the dark. Heck, I know which foods give you gas. But I don’t know about something big like that?”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I refuse to touch it.”

“Because your grandmother would try to control you with it?” she asked.

“Excellent deduction, Watson.”

“Who says I’m Watson? I want to be Sherlock. You be Watson.”

Trevor grinned. “But I’m British. Surely, I should be Sherlock.”

“Watson was British, too. And he was the one in the military.”

“Then by that measure, neither one of us should be Sherlock.”

She made a face at him. “You know what your problem is? You’re too logical. You need to let your hair down more often.”

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