“I didn’t mean—”
He covered her hand with his own, stroking the back of it with his thumb.
“I know. No problem.”
Shee watched his movement.
Even his thumb is sexy.
They sat that way for a moment, both of them staring at their hands.
“So, beach?” he asked, glancing at his watch. “Ah can’t dally, but ah’ve got a little time.”
“Dally.” She giggled and pulled her hand out from under his, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
“What’s wrong with dally?”
“Just a funny word.” She looked away, feeling like an idiot. It was like Mason was some sort of kryptonite that made her dumb instead of weak.
Mason pointed to a balding, potbellied man Shee guessed to be in his forties, waddling by in red shorts one size too small. “Maybe we should skip trace that guy. He looks suspicious.”
“You can’t skip trace someone if you already know where they are.” Shee squelched a grin, doing her best to scowl with great portent. He does look like he’s up to no good, though.”
Mason nodded. “Definitely. Looks like the type who puts ketchup on a hot dog to me.”
Shee lost her fight to remain serious and giggled.
Giggled.
Again.
&&&
They had their first kiss on that beach.
By then, Shee had realized Mason caused the strange heat wave engulfing her body whenever he was near.
It wasn’t the flu.
She almost forgot about skip tracing. She had other things to think about, like how the lines of Mason’s neck led to the v-notch at the base of his throat and the way the rippling muscles of his stomach felt beneath her fingertips.
“Isn’t being in love amazing?” he’d asked one day as they perched on the rocks south of Avda De Las Arenas.
He’d leaned his forehead against hers, their noses touching.
“It’s pretty great,” she’d answered.
One day rolled into the next, her mind trapped in a fog that only cleared when he appeared.
All her investigative skills turned to Mason. She knew his schedule before he did. She’d uncovered the meaning of every micro-expression on his face.
The look he had now was new, but she had a feeling what it meant.
Lying beside him, she traced a finger from his hairline, down his nose to his chin. He didn’t try to playfully bite her finger as she bumped over his lips like he usually did.
No, this serious expression was different.
It wasn’t good.
She pulled closer to his naked body and scanned the room around her.
This is it.
Everything she saw would be burned into her memory forever. The ugly lamp. Her wooden jewelry box. The pile of clothes with the damp blue bikini on top.
“Say it,” she said, her voice a whisper. His chest rose and fell beneath her palm and she closed her eyes, listening to the beat of his heart.
“I got my assignment.”
She’d known this news was coming today, but her stomach still twisted. The end had come. She’d taken an allergy pill to dull her nerves and make what she needed to do easier.
“When do you ship out?”
She already knew that, too.
Two days.
Monday. Every morning she awoke to the color red. Monday was red. Monday was the end. Monday was the day that haunted her sleep and colored the world around her.
Not even the NSA could have kept her from finding out when Mason got his orders. He’d known for weeks. He’d started acting differently around that time, more distant one second, more needy the next. She’d caught him watching her, staring, as if he were trying to capture her image in a bottle in his mind.
“Two days,” he said.
He turned on his side to stare into her eyes.
“I’ll write you. We—”
Shee shook her head. “No. Don’t.”
“I’m serious, Shee. I will.” He reached for his shorts that lay on the ground beside the bed.
He’s running. You’re doing the right thing.
“No. I’m saying don’t,” she said.
Shorts in hand, he sat up and touched her cheek with the back of his knuckles.
“Don’t what?”
She pulled away.
Great. Now, I’ll remember that touch, too. The feel of him tucking my hair behind my ear, every time I do it myself...
“Shee—”
She slipped out of bed and got dressed.
“Don’t write me. You need to be frosty.”
“What?” He laughed.
“You heard me.”
“You’re worried ah won’t be sharp if ah write you?”
She busied herself plucking her damp towel from the floor and dropping it in her hamper. “I don’t want you thinking about me. I want you thinking about whatever it is you need to do to stay alive.”
Mason pulled his shorts on. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m not. You better go. My dad will be back soon.”
She stole a glimpse at him to find his bemused smile gone, replaced by something that looked like building anger.
“But—” he began.
“Go.”
“Go? Just like that?”
His volume rose. She nearly lost her resolve and heard herself flounder.
“Look, I—”
“Thinking about you gives me an extra reason to stay alive.”
She shook her head. “Dad and I are getting back on the road soon anyway. He hates being a professor.”
“You didn’t tell me—”
“There was no point. I knew you’d be gone by the time we left.”
Mason stood, dipping to snatch his shirt from the ground. Something about the way he kept his left hand in his shorts pocket seemed odd.
“So all this meant nothing to you?” He removed his hand from his pocket to pull on his shirt.
She eyed his hip. Nothing unusual. No lump.
So weird.
She sniffed. “I didn’t say it didn’t mean anything. But this is for the best. A clean break.”
He moved to her and put a hand on each
