A second later, his unconscious body crumpled to the linoleum floor.

Gasping for air, she staggered backward, still clutching the pan like it was a life preserver and she was drowning at sea.

Jesus. Oh sweet Jesus.

Had she killed him?

No. No, she could see his chest rising and falling. He was breathing, then.

“Jen! What the hell is taking so—oh my God.”

She lifted her head to see Annabelle come to a dead stop in the doorway.

“So much for sticking to me like glue,” Jen said in a wry voice.

Annabelle glanced from Jen’s face to Brendan’s body slumped on the floor, then spoke in a brisk tone. “Did you call the police?”

“Not yet. I was too busy fighting him off.”

“Well, you did a good f**king job.” Annabelle’s gaze landed on Brendan again. “Carson would be proud.”

Jen felt downright shell-shocked as she watched Annabelle grab the phone and call 911. When the cops showed up fifteen minutes later, she relayed the events that had transpired with a measure of calm she certainly did not feel. Her heart continued to pound. Her hands shook. Lingering adrenaline coursed through her veins, making it impossible to focus on her surroundings or the people around her.

Brendan regained consciousness while one of the uniformed officers handcuffed him, but he remained oddly subdued as he was being carted away. He’d been arrested for assault and violating the restraining order, and Jen supposed she’d have to see him in court at some point, but she couldn’t think that far ahead at the moment.

What if she hadn’t grabbed that pan in time? What if Brendan had—had done what? She had no clue what he’d planned on doing. All she knew was she could have been seriously hurt. Or worse.

“You okay?” Annabelle murmured after the cops left.

Jen gave a tired nod. “I’m fine.”

“We should put some ice on that eye.”

Eye? Oh, right. It took her a second to remember that Brendan had struck her, and once she did, she registered the pain throbbing in her left eye. She reached up to touch it, and discovered that her eye was nearly swollen shut. Probably explained why half her vision was blurry.

Jen sank onto the couch and took an unsteady breath, then reached for her purse, which Annabelle had placed on the coffee table. She needed to call Cash and tell him what happened. Over voicemail, of course, because she knew his phone wouldn’t be on, but Lord, she longed to hear his voice. And she desperately wished he were here right now, holding her in his strong arms.

But he wasn’t here. He was…well, she didn’t know where he was.

God, she wanted him to come home. She didn’t want to be alone. Didn’t want to think about what just happened with Brendan, or how differently the situation could’ve turned out if she hadn’t gained the upper hand.

Damn it, Cash. Come home.

 

Almost home.

Those two words had been buzzing in Cash’s head for the past seven hours, and he was so anxious for the chopper to land that he couldn’t stop tapping his foot relentlessly and drumming his fingers on his thighs. He’d seen Carson displaying that same jittery eagerness countless times before. Come to think of it, Becker, Ryan and Matt did the whole foot-tap/finger-drum thing too.

Was it a relationship thing? Because their single counterparts, Dylan, Seth and Jackson, looked perfectly at ease as they chatted over the din of the rotors. Cash hid a surprisingly smug smile at the realization that he was officially part of the no-longer-single camp.

Shit, he couldn’t wait to see Jen. He’d missed her something fierce the past three days.

He gazed out the window, his pulse racing as the San Diego skyline came into view. The sun hovered over the horizon line, filling the sky with brilliant shades of pink and orange. Made for a damn pretty sight, and he wondered if Jen had ever seen the sunset from a helo. If not, he’d have to take her up sometime. After all, he did have that pilot’s license he hardly ever put to use.

“I’m serious, this girl is a royal pain in the ass,” Dylan was saying. “I don’t know what my brother sees in her.”

Cash shifted his gaze to the blond SEAL in the seat across from him. Dylan had been griping about his older brother’s new girlfriend for the past ten minutes, and Seth, who was sitting next to the guy, finally rolled his eyes and said, “We get it. She’s a shrew. For the love of God, can we talk about something else?”

“Fine. Let’s talk about the chick you had over last week,” Dylan said. He shot the other men in the chopper a grave look. “I slept with the door locked and a knife under my pillow. No joke—I seriously believed she might murder me in my sleep.”

Seth grinned. “Don’t be an ass. Lisa’s a cool girl.”

“She had a face tattoo, man. And out of curiosity, is there any part of her body that isn’t pierced?”

“Nope.”

Cash chuckled. Seth had the most eclectic tastes when it came to women. Sometimes he went for the shy, fragile ones, other times it was the hardcore Goths, and then he’d switch it up and date a supermodel, followed by a plain Jane. The guy had no problem sampling every dish on the menu.

As Seth and Dylan’s banter continued, Cash glanced at Carson, who’d been quiet for the entire flight. A helo ride without Carson’s sarcastic remarks was bizarre, but Cash understood why the lieutenant was so somber. As far as he knew, Holly still hadn’t moved back home, and Carson being gone for the past three days probably hadn’t helped the situation.