She pushed through, secured it, and then headed down the row. Her home sat last at the dock, just the lake beyond for the best view. Five houseboats, two on one side, three on the other, including hers, each one a little different. She hustled past Mulroney’s beautiful three-story home, larger than many on the mainland, with their masted schooner tied up at the back. And the one-level barge turned home owned by a couple of entrepreneurs who ran a local kayak shop. Past the ranch house that looked like it should be surrounded by grass, and across the dock from her moorage, all lit up like Christmas, Pip Bogart was sitting on his roof deck, probably smoking a joint by the smell that lingered in the air.

Avoiding lifting her hand in greeting, she opened the gate to the bridge to her deck, then pressed her thumb to the door lock.

Slipped inside.

Not until she heard the door click did she let out her breath.

Home. Down the hall, the sleek gray of her kitchen cabinets gleamed in the faint moonlight, and the smell of the oiled hardwood teak rose up, still rich. She toed off her boots and walked barefoot to her main room.

Despite the darkness, she knew every detail, from the quartz counters to the ice-blue hanging lights to the teal velour sofas and marbled black fireplace.

She half expected it to be tossed, some Russian thug having pawed through her belongings. Pushing her toes into her plush rug, she stared out into the lake where the lights of Seattle glittered on the water.

Calm down. She was safe. And so was Zoey. And tomorrow she’d take a drive into the mountains and restart her research.

Save the world, as Dr. Bella had said.

“Whatever it is, you’re not doing it alone.” Yes, Colt’s voice crept into her head, and a pang of guilt—or maybe simply the strange ache of missing him—hit her chest.

But this was better, for both of them. Because despite her resolve, she had fallen way too easily for Sergei, simply because he paid her a little attention.

What would happen to her heart with the full-out protection of Colt Kingston?

Sorry, Colt.

Probably, by now, he had recovered from her non-goodbye escape and realized that he was better off without her. Free to mend in Alaska, and then get back to his dangerous life, without any complications.

She went upstairs, turned on the shower, and closed the blinds in her bedroom. Turned on the light.

Yes, also untouched. Her white comforter lay on her bed, the teal pillows perfectly arranged. The book she’d been reading on her bedside. She went to her closet—an entire room, but she lived by herself, after all—and found a pair of pajamas, her thick robe, and slippers.