Page 49 of The Romance Game

“It’s similar in the military. We always have a contingency plan and a contingency for the contingency. but that’s because A, B, and C are known variables.”

“Are we talking about algebra or pirate treasure? Surely, in the military, you have a lot of unknowns.”

“Exactly. That’s why we adapt, overcome, and improvise.”

“Isn’t that a Marine’s saying?” CJ asks.

“It’s a brotherhood saying,” Magnus says.

“I’m okay with getting on that boat,” Lally says.

I’m about to ask to see the letter she received, supposedly from the Dark Sea’s captain, when the familiar trill of squealing fans comes from nearby.

Generally, men lower their voices a few octaves when they want something signed or a photo. The female contingent releases an ear-piercing shriek that some of the guys on the team call the un-mating call, as if we’re all a bunch of birds.

Knowing what’s coming, I separate myself from the group and indulge the requests for a few selfies and sign some T-shirts and other sports swag. I used to think of it as a major flex, indicating that I was wanted and important. Now, I’m not so sure. Back home, it doesn’t seem to matter as much.

When I turn back to my brothers, a woman with golden blonde hair stands under the eave of Beans & Books but somehow still in a patch of sunlight.

With a wave to the Miami Riptide superfans, I saunter over to the group by the dock.

“Good morning.” My voice is scratchy, reminding me that last night we stayed up way late after I texted good night. It was a good night, but that didn’t mean sleep. It was us reminiscing and teasing each other in digital ink for at least three hours.

“What’s good here?” Harley asks, gesturing to the bookstore from which we all hold branded paper cups.

“Not the cinnamon rolls,” I say.

“At least not today,” Lally adds.

Harley opens her mouth, presumably to ask why when instead of words, a yelp comes out. She hops around, brushing her hands over the chest of her crochet halter top I recall from high school.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Lizard,” Magnus says.

“Is that some kind of code?” Lally asks.

Harley continues to do what’s either an interpretive modern dance or is panicked. Then she crouches down, chest to knees, and waves the back of her top away from her body.

“Are you overheated? She needs ice. Bring Harley ice. Someone help,” I call, seized with worry. “Were you stung by another bee?”

A large hand lands on my back. “Brother, she’s fine.”

Popping to standing, Harley says, “Yes. I’m fine. Sorry, a lizard went down my shirt.” She glares at me.

I stare back, remembering the last time I saw her wearing that top. We were at a BBQ for the football team and the cheerleaders were there too, all wearing our high school’s team colors—teal and yellow.

“Did you prank me?” Harley gasps.

“Just now or?—?”

Face pinched, she says, “Did you put a lizard down my shirt, Ryan McGregor?”

Holding my hands where she can see them, I say, “Absolutely not.”

“I’ve had eyes on him this whole time. Ryan is innocent in this case, but I can’t account for his guiltlessness on other occasions,” Magnus says smartly.

Harley lifts an eyebrow into a sharp arch. “My nephew has a baby bearded dragon, Gandalf, and I found the thing in the bathroom this morning.”

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