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abundantly clear when they met last winter in Yancey that he loathed what she did for a living—loathed the lies reporters told, loathed anyone fake or overly ambitious—and after meeting his ex, she understood why.
    Of course, she’d tried explaining she was different, but in the end, it had taken more than words. Finally, throughout the murder investigation, when they’d awkwardly been paired to work together, she’d begun to prove she truly was different, that she had morals and that there were lines she refused to cross, even if it meant her job. But now  . . .
    She stiffened. Nothing had changed. She still had lines she wouldn’t cross. If he was too bullheaded to see that . . .
    She exhaled. She was getting ahead of herself. Gage hadn’t said a word, and already he had her twisted in knots. Howdid he do that? And why did she care when he hadn’t even bothered to pick up the phone in five months?
    â€œAll right,” Mullins said, slipping the papers back into her leather attaché case. “I think that covers everything. Any questions?”

6
    Darcy had barely made it around the corner when Gage’s hand clasped lightly on her arm. His palms were calloused—no doubt from his daily kayak rides. But his touch felt incredible all the same. “We need to talk.”
    Pulling her thoughts from the warm, innately protective touch of his skin on hers, she glanced around, her gaze fixing on Mullins, Ted, and George headed in their direction. “Fine, but not here.” She spotted the stairwell door out of the corner of her eye and moved toward it. Tugging Gage inside, she shut the door quietly behind them. With every inch blanketed in a dull grayish-white—like a dirty blank canvas long neglected—it was the only space on the ship she’d seen devoid of cheery color.
    â€œI knew it,” he blurted. “You’re on a case, aren’t you?”
    â€œShhh,” she hissed, stepping to the metal rail. Leaning over, she glanced up and down, and relief filled her at finding no one present. She spun back to Gage, a mix of irritation and attraction heating her limbs. “Do you think you could tone it down a bit?”
    Gage leaned against the wall, one knee bent, the sole of his Merrell boots braced against the textured concrete. “Ithought you gave up undercover reporting.” Disapproval clung to his tone.
    Of course it did. He’d been judging her since he’d stepped foot in the meeting room. She only prayed no one else picked up on the fact that they knew each other far better than she’d let on. Explaining her prolonged stay in Yancey and the active role she’d played in a murder investigation would only highlight the truth and depth of her reporting background. As far as anyone on the Bering was concerned, she was an adventure journalist and always had been—and she needed to keep it that way.
    â€œDarc?” His voice was as deep and warm as she remembered it—like rich, cascading caramel. “You were saying . . . ?”
    Of course he wasn’t going to let this drop. “I had . . . I have . . . I mean . . .” She took a steadying breath, trying to compose her thoughts. What was that tantalizing scent? She inhaled again, forcing herself not to lean into his muscular body. Spicy vanilla aftershave ? The man was flat-out dizzying.
    â€œHad?” he pressed.
    â€œMy friend Abby . . .”
    â€œThe woman who left the Bering ?”
    She blew a stray lock of hair from her face. “Supposedly.”
    â€œSupposedly?” He linked his arms across his chest, his sculpted forearms front and center. “She is your friend?”
    She diverted her eyes while trying to decide exactly how much she wanted to confide in him, or rather, how much she should confide. “Look . . .” She shoved her hands in her pockets. Why