She drew in a long breath. “That won’t happen. I’m really sorry, but it’s best to be honest about these things. So, if you’d rather not fly me to New York, I’ll understand.”

Both eyebrows arched. “Oh no,” he teased, “you don’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll be your second-best friend after Bart, and I’ll teach you about restaurants.”

She laughed. He was incorrigible. “Okay,” she said.

He relaxed. “Okay.” He wasn’t giving up. But he knew how to do a strategic retreat. “So, how about trying their house dessert? It’s a waffle with strawberries and sour cream and syrup.”

“It sounds wonderful,” she said, relieved that he knew how things stood. “I’d love to try it.”

“You won’t be sorry,” he replied, and signaled to a passing waitress to take their order.

AFTER THEY FINISHED EATING, they sat out on the long patio that faced the Gulf of Mexico and stared out at the waves rolling lazily to shore, whitecaps breaking on sugar sand.

“It’s beautiful here,” she remarked.

“I love beaches,” he replied. “I collect them. So far, my favorite one is down in Cancun, on the Mexican Caribbean. It’s one of the most exquisite views I’ve ever seen. My second favorite is in Nassau, right on the beach, where you can watch little tugboats turn big ocean liners to head them back out of port when they’re ready to leave.” He smiled. “I’ve been everywhere.”

“I’m just starting to go everywhere,” she remarked.

He laughed heartily. “Your favorite places, as I recall, are in some of the most dangerous jungles on earth, carrying an AK.”

She grinned. “Well, if you want to learn how commandos do stuff, you ask to do stuff with them.”

“Commandos, mercs, U.S. Marshals, FBI agents, cops, Texas Rangers,” he mused. “And once, I believe, an actual head man of the Outfit—a euphemism for the Mafia—in New Jersey.” He shook his head. “You like to live on the edge, don’t you?” he added seriously.

She nodded. “I’ve never lived a really safe life. It warps you. But honestly, what I write needs good research. I like to see what I’m writing about, in real life.”

“As I recall, you took a bullet when an insurgent came a little too close to you in one of those incursions.”

“Just nicked me,” she said with magnificent disdain. “Hardly even bled.” She grinned, because she liked having a battle wound. She pulled up her sleeve and showed it to him. There was a scar that was indented on her upper arm, evidence of a bullet wound.

“That looks a little more serious than a flesh wound,” he replied. He knew, because he had wounds of his own from the war in the Middle East.

She shrugged. “Some minor surgery, a few days in the hospital and some physical therapy. But it wasn’t as bad as it looks.”

He chuckled. “Pull the other one, kid,” he teased. “I’ve got wounds of my own. I know a bad one when I see it.”