Page 53 of Beneath the Surface

Dax woke at five in the morning to find Quinn already awake.

She sat at the kitchen table with his laptop, dressed and ready to go, her face illuminated by the blue glow of the screen. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a few loose strands framing her face—she had a habit of tucking them behind her ear when she was concentrating, a nervous gesture he’d noticed over the past few weeks. She wore jeans and a dark-blue sweater that made her amber eyes look almost golden in the pre-dawn light.

She looked up when she heard him move, her fingers pausing on the keyboard. “Morning.”

Her voice was cool. Professional. Nothing like the warmth she’d shown him last night before they’d separated so awkwardly after that hug.

“You’re up early.” His voice was rough with sleep.

“Couldn’t sleep.” She turned the laptop so he could see, the screen rotating smoothly. “I’ve been mapping out the route to Seattle. Bank hours, security procedures, parking options. We should go in prepared.”

“You didn’t have to do all that.” Dax moved toward the coffeemaker, needing the ritual to ground himself. His body protested the early hour—muscles stiff, eyes gritty. He’d been up until two reviewing case files and trying not to think about how close he’d come to kissing Quinn Barrett yesterday.

“I know. But I wanted to be useful.” Quinn pulled up another tab, her mouse clicking with more force than necessary. “Since I’m apparently just a civilian who needs protecting, I figured the least I could do was basic research.”

There it was. The edge in her voice. The barely concealed hurt.

Dax’s jaw tightened with frustration. He deserved that. Last night after that hug, when she’d looked at him with hope in her eyes and he’d frozen up and let the moment pass, he’d seen the flash of hurt before she fled to the bedroom.

“That’s not what I meant—”

“It’s fine.” Quinn’s tone said it was anything but fine. “Coffee’s ready. I made it strong.”

He looked at the coffeemaker, only then noticing the pot was half full and hot, leaving him nothing to do. The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Dax went ahead and poured two cups, the liquid steaming as it hit the ceramic. He brought one to Quinn, set it beside her laptop without comment.

“Thanks.” She didn’t look at him.

Dax sat across from her, the chair scraping slightly. Quinn flinched at the sound. She was more on edge than she was letting on.

“Are you nervous?” he asked. “About Seattle?”

“About walking into a bank where Wheeler might have eyes? About potentially exposing ourselves?” Quinn finally met his gaze, her amber eyes defiant. “No, Detective. I’m not nervous. I’m terrified. But I’m doing it anyway because somebody has to.”

Detective. Not Dax. She was angry.

“We’ll be smart about it,” he said, wrapping his hands around his mug to keep from reaching for her. “Scout the area first. Make sure we’re not walking into a trap.”

“And if Wheeler’s people are already watching the bank?”

“Then we adapt.” He took a sip of coffee, bitter heat spreading through his chest. The caffeine hit his system, sharpening his focus. “I’ve run operations in hostile territory before. A bank in downtown Seattle isn’t the most dangerous thing I’ve done.”

Quinn studied him over her mug, her gaze searching. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—curiosity, concern, something warmer. Then she looked away, that wall slamming back into place.

“I need to call and check on Gran.” She stood abruptly, her chair scraping back. Walked past him to grab her phone from the counter, close enough that he caught her scent—floral shampoo and coffee and something uniquely her that made his chest tight.

Dax watched her go, his hands tightening on his mug until his knuckles went white.

You’re an idiot, Mercer. That’s what you are.

He wanted her. Had been fighting it for weeks, but last night when she’d thrown her arms around him, when she’d pressed against him with complete trust, he’d almost given in. Almost kissed her. Almost said to hell with professional ethics and Captain Holloway’s warnings and the fact that everyone he cared about ended up hurt.

But he’d pulled back. Made himself step away. Because Quinn deserved better than a damaged man who woke up screaming from nightmares. Better than someone who flinched at loud noises and couldn’t go to fireworks shows because the explosions reminded him of IEDs.

Better than him.

But knowing that didn’t make it easier to maintain distance. Didn’t stop him from noticing every detail about her. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. The way her nose crinkled when she was frustrated. The way she bit her lower lip when she was thinking.

Dax grabbed his go-bag from the closet and checked his supplies, his hands moving automatically through the familiar routine. Extra ammunition. First-aid kit. Zip ties. Flashlight. The weight of each item was familiar, reassuring. This he understood. Tactical preparation. Threat assessment.