She glanced to her right and saw that Trevor was similarly plastered against Anna’s side. And her teammate didn’t look like she minded being cozy with the hot Brit one little bit.

“The key to being an effective sniper is breath control,” Griffin murmured from so close behind her that his breath stirred the short hairs curling around her ear.

“Careful,” she muttered for his ears only. “I could get used to all this cuddling.”

He exhaled in a gust of what felt like humor. But his words, spoken at a volume Kettering could hear as the commander strolled up behind them were, “The other key to becoming a decent shooter is focus. You have to erase everything else from your mind.”

Right. Erase the feel of his muscular body unyielding against hers, ignore his heat, ignore all that simmering charm of his—

Not happening. Not with him spooning against her like they were lovers. Aaaand, there went the rest of her breath control. Rats.

“I’ll act as your spotter. I’ll call out windage corrections, and you’ll input them into the scope the way Cal taught you in class. Ready?”

Sherri usually liked the single-minded concentration that shooting required. She enjoyed settling into the Zen state where there was nothing but her and the weapon. But today it was her and the gun…and the man. Which, as it turned out, wreaked havoc on her accuracy.

“What’s wrong with you today, Sherri?” Griffin asked after her third shot went well wide of the bull’s-eye.

“You.”

“Come again?”

“You’re distracting me,” she confessed.

He snorted. “How are you going to hit your target when there are rockets exploding around you and hostiles shooting back at you?”

“That won’t bother me,” she retorted.

“But I do.”

She lifted her eye away from the rubber cup of the sight to glare at him. “Well…yes.”

“You and me. We’re having a conversation about this—” Kettering strolled down the firing line just then, coming to a stop behind them. “Later,” Griffin added under his breath.

Louder, he said, “Tracers are screaming overhead. The ground is shaking beneath you. Bullets and shrapnel are flying all over the place. Your team is pinned down a few hundred yards below you, and you’re on overwatch to save their asses. You spot the sniper trying to take them out, and he’s”—Griffin paused to check out the paper target through his spotter’s scope—“four-hundred yards downrange. Windage is two clicks left. Now, blow his fucking head off.”

She could picture what Griffin described, could smell and taste the metallic tang of the dust. Stress tightened across the back of her neck, and she took the slow, calming breaths he’d taught her.

Her heartbeat steadied. Slowed.

Another breath.