Navy Rules. Geri Krotow

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      Winnie sighed and picked up her container of lemongrass chicken. “Don’t worry about it, Robyn.”

      “Hey, you can’t blame me for caring. Maeve’s my niece. I’d die without her and Krista.”

      “As they would without you.” Winnie and Robyn had grown so much closer through the aftermath of Tom’s death, and Krista had bonded with Robyn as the safe, loving auntie. Maeve loved Robyn and her husband, Doug, but was more interested in the antics of cousin Brendan.

      “So, are you going to do it?” Robyn’s persistence was almost worse than sitting in Max’s kitchen this morning, wanting to tell him, yet keeping her secret hidden.

      “Do what?” She deliberately ignored her sister’s urging.

      “Come off it, Winnie! Are you going to stop at Max’s on the way back?”

      She put down her container. “No, not today. He’s going to have Sam this weekend. That’s soon enough, don’t you think?”

      “No, I don’t. But you’re going to do it your way no matter what I tell you.” Robyn cocked her head, and Winnie heard her nephew’s crying over the baby monitor.

      “He’s awake!” they both chimed in unison, then laughed.

      “I’ll say hi to the little guy and then I’ll be going. Thanks for the lunchtime talk—I think.” Winnie figured if she ignored Robyn’s pointed looks, she’d be able to drive home without any temptation to stop at Max’s home.

      * * *

      MAX GRUNTED AS HE BENCH-pressed half his weight. It still bugged him that he couldn’t do as much as before, but he’d come far in the past few months. After the shock of losing his physical strength and fitness, he’d accepted what he had to do, even embraced it.

      Work out harder than he ever had in his life.

      He put the bar back in its notches and sat up, his breathing labored and his heart pounding. Both were a comfort to him when he worked out, a familiar reaction.

      Unlike the cold sweats that woke him and left him unable to catch his breath.

      Yeah, he preferred a tough workout in the gym to his night terrors any day.

      He used the gym’s towel to wipe the sweat off his forehead before he lay back for another set. He raised and lowered the bar and, beyond that, focused on a small spot in the white tile ceiling.

      A huge shadow obstructed his concentration.

      “Boss!” The unmistakable voice of Chief Warrant Officer Miles Mikowski echoed through the weight room, and Max sat up. He offered Miles his hand.

      “Warrant!”

      Max was a Navy Commander, an officer, and Miles was former enlisted. The two of them were bound by a fellowship no one wanted to be part of—that of injured warriors. Max liked Miles because, like him, Miles was a survivor and still believed that he’d held the best job in the whole world as a U.S. Navy sailor.

      “What are you doing, boss?” Miles looked at Max with one brow arched, his gaze raptor-sharp as usual. Max knew his friend didn’t miss a thing, from his sweat-stained gray T-shirt to the amount of the weights on the bar.

      “Weren’t you in here yesterday, too, boss?”

      “Yeah, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to burn some more today.”

      Miles always called him “boss,” even though he’d never worked for Max. It was a sign of respect that humbled Max. Miles had lost more than he had in the war.

      “You should be doing cardio, boss. Too much lifting’s not good, you know that.” Miles might call him “boss” but Max heard the tone of an older brother in his voice. They were close to the same age—Max guessed that Miles was around thirty-eight, four years younger than he was. Miles had come into the Navy later in life, after college. But he hadn’t originally sought a commission—since he’d wanted to become an expert in all aspects of Explosive Ordinance.

      Miles and Max had gone through much of their reentry therapy together and they both knew that pushing too hard wasn’t part of the combat recovery process.

      Max was well aware that breaking down his muscles more than he needed to wasn’t recommended by any medical professional. He knew the risks of wearing down his immune system. But he wasn’t overdoing the weights, no matter what Miles thought. And even if he was, that was better than ending up with a panic attack over Winnie’s reappearance in his life.

      She’s got another kid, for God’s sake.

      “I’ve got some extra steam to blow off. What are you doing here?” Max looked pointedly at Miles’s weight belt. “You sure you put the right leg on?”

      Miles gave him a wide grin and tapped his prosthesis. He’d lost his left leg on the same day Max had intercepted the suicide bomber. Also in Afghanistan, but Miles had been in a remote area conducting land-mine removal ops. The military medics were the best in the world but even they couldn’t save a leg an IED had blown to bits.

      “I’m trying this one out for the lab techs. The walking one is great, and the running leg lets me go for a good couple miles before I need to give it a rest. But I needed something sturdier for the weight room.”

      “You’ve got a bigger selection of legs than I do sunglasses, Miles.” They smiled at each other. Miles had been Explosives Ordinance and Max an EA-6B pilot, but that didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that they were both still here.

      If you tell yourself this every morning and click your heels together three times, maybe one day you’ll believe it.

      “What’s got you worked up, boss?”

      “Not going to drop it, are you, Warrant?”

      “I wouldn’t be a very good sailor if I let my shipmate get away with doing the absolute worst thing for himself.”

      “There are worse things than overworking muscles.”

      “I’m not worried about your muscles, boss. It’s your head I’m thinking about. What aren’t you dealing with? More nightmares?”

      Max sat up and looked across the weight room at the reflection of himself in the wall mirror. The image was familiar, but still fresh to him. It was the “new” Max, the one with more gray than brown in his hair and less body mass, as evidenced by the scrawny legs that straddled the bench. He’d never be as fit as he once was. Not just because of the war but because he was getting older. He wasn’t twenty-five anymore.

      Still, did forty-two have to feel so old?

      “Nothing out of the ordinary. I did have a conversation with someone who knew me before.” His voice cracked on before and he cleared his throat. “It’s the first time I’ve seen her since I was, well, since before I went to war.”

      “How’d she act toward you?”

      “Fine. No different, really.”

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