"You tie knots like a man who's been out of the field too long," CB had said, arms crossed, the particular brand of deadpan that made it impossible to tell if he was joking.
"I tie knots like a man who's been doing it since you were in middle school."
"That's what I said. Too long."
Mack had liked him immediately, which was rare. He was picky about his team—Garrett knew it, accepted it, and had given Mack the latitude to build his unit at his own pace. So far, it was just the two of them.
CB had been Mack's first and only recruit. They'd completed their first assignment together in April—a protection detail for a federal judge receiving death threats in Boise. Clean, professional, no complications. They'd worked together like they'd been doing it for years, which was the highest compliment Mack could pay another operator.
He'd find more people eventually—the right people. But for now, two was enough.
The lake was glass, the water still cold, but the air warm enough that Alyssa had rolled up the sleeves of her shirt and tipped her face toward the sun with the expression of a woman who had been working too hard for too many weeks and was only now remembering that the world contained things like sunlight and silence.
She sat in the bow of the canoe, her sketchbook closed in her lap for once, her hair loose around her shoulders. The ring caught the light every time she moved her hand.
He still noticed it—every time. Six months of that ring back on her finger, and the sight of it still did something to his chest.
He paddled them out to the center of the lake and shipped the oar. The canoe drifted, slow and aimless, and the mountains reflected in the water around them like a painting.
"This is kidnapping," she said. Her eyes were closed. She didn't sound upset about it.
He was relieved she could use the word without it triggering bad memories. “This is an intervention."
"I have seventy-three RSVPs to confirm by Monday. The caterer needs a final headcount. Your mother called about the seating chart. And I still haven't decided on the centerpieces because apparently there's a national shortage of peonies and?—"
"Lyssa."
"—the florist suggested ranunculus as a substitute, which are beautiful, but Jenna always said peonies were the only acceptable wedding flower, and I want to honor that, so?—"
"Lyssa."
She opened one eye. "What?"
"The wedding is in three weeks. The RSVPs will get confirmed. The caterer will survive. And my mother has been rearranging seating charts since 1987. She doesn't need your help."
"She asked for my help."
"She asked for your opinion so she could ignore it and do what she was going to do anyway. That's how she operates."
Both eyes were open now. The corner of her mouth twitched. "Are you comparing your mother's approach to seating arrangements to your mission planning?"
"The similarities are striking."
She laughed. The sound carried across the water, bright and clean, and a bird startled from the shoreline and winged out over the lake. He watched it go and thought about the man he'd been six months ago—standing in a road with blood on his face, watching her disappear around a curve, certain the world was ending.
The world hadn't ended. It had just rearranged itself. "Your dad called this morning," he said.
She sat up straighter. "About?"
"He wants to know if I want him to wear his dress uniform to the wedding."
She stared at him. "My father called you—voluntarily—to discuss wardrobe."
"He did."
"The man who spent two years pretending you didn't exist is now consulting you about clothing choices for our wedding."
"In fairness, it was a short conversation. He said, 'Uniform or suit.' I said, 'Your call, sir.' He said, 'Uniform, then.' And hung up."