Colt stood over her, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, his hair falling over his face, his brown eyes on her, thick with worry. “You had a nightmare.”

Memory clicked in as she took in the room. Light streamed in through closed shades, over the bed and through the open door to the sitting room beyond. He’d grabbed them a suite at the Hyatt last night after outrunning—

“It was real.”

“The dream?” His arms held hers, but now he released his grip, stepped back. A red welt bloomed on his face.

“Did I do that?”

“It’s no biggie. You were pretty adamant about tearing your bed apart,” Colt said, picking up a pillow off the floor.

She lay back, staring at the ceiling, aware now of the sweat that slicked her body. “My poor houseboat.”

He made a face as he nodded.

Shooting, a jump into the lake, speeding away in the boat, mooring at another dock, the run back to her garage, slipping in to steal her own car. All while she shivered in her soggy pajamas. Now she wore a bathrobe, the one that came with the hotel room.

He had on clean pants, his wet jeans and shirt hanging on the balcony railing outside. She shook away the memory of him stripping off his shirt last night in the hotel room.

She didn’t need to see any of that. Although yes, she was painfully, perfectly aware of the fine outline of his upper body. Those back muscles, a few scars and chips from warfare, the solid outline of his chest as he turned, right before she shut the door.

Nope, didn’t need any of that. Because it would only scrape up all of the dangerous parts. From her kissing him on the roof—why had she done that, of all things?—to him grabbing her hand, his “Hold on to me and don’t let go” still soft in her mind.

Not hardly.

At least last night. Today . . .

Okay, today she might still want him around.

“What was the dream?” he said, walking back from the bathroom, holding a glass of water.

She sat up and took it. “Thanks.” What she really needed was coffee. But the water loosened her parched throat, still raw from her pseudo drowning. Or maybe the screaming, both real and imagined. Wow. “It’s an old dream. I’ve had it since I was a kid, shortly after my dad left. Then in college, when I was just . . . you know, overwhelmed.”

“You sounded like you were choking. Scared the spit out of me.”

She took another drink. “I was, sorta. It’s always the same . . . I’m drowning, and I see a light at the surface, but I can’t quite get to it. Except this time.” Yeah, that change connected for a moment. “I broke the surface.”

He met her gaze. “Really.”