When Scar returned to the Hotel del Coronado, he took a moment to appreciate the place. Even though he hadn’t gotten as much done on the project today as he would have liked, he really enjoyed the hotel, which was saying a lot because he usually hated hotels. When he’d been a lowly officer in the Navy doing his BUDS training, he’d run past this place every day, but he’d never dreamed he’d be staying here.

The hotel had been around since the eighteen hundreds, and it was a bit posh. This was by far the best hotel in San Diego. The staff was amazing, the beach was pristine, and—best of all—the gym was impressive. He changed into his workout clothes, thinking that he’d punish himself for five miles before starting in on the weights.

After doing the treadmill, Scar felt the fog begin to lift from his mind. He got off and went to the weights, focusing on some band work. He always brought his bands. He strengthened his shoulders, pecs, and delts, finishing off with some lunges and dead lifts. Not enough to be sore tomorrow, but enough so he wouldn’t feel bad sitting in a meeting all day. The one thing that never bothered him about being on the practice team was all the physical training it demanded. That was part of why he liked it so much. He had to keep in peak physical shape, which wasn’t a chore for him.

Getting back to his room, he realized it was barely eight o’clock. He didn’t know if he wanted to go out or not. On his phone flashed a text from Dave, one of the architects and a fellow former SEAL working with him on the project.

A couple of us are at the sports bar the End Zone watching the game. Come over.

So he did. He went to the sports bar and met some more ex-military guys. It was fun connecting with them, telling them about his vision. Some of them scoffed at it, but most wanted to be part of it. It made him feel like his life still mattered.

After three sparkling waters, Scar caught a familiar flash of red hair in the corner of his eye. Scanning the room more intently, he saw her—the feisty redhead from the diner. She sat at the bar with another girl, laughing. He noticed she was done up for a night out. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and she wore more makeup. She looked so different from the morning. She didn’t look like she was trying to catch guys, though. She looked like she was just having a drink with a friend. Before he could think of what to do, she got up, nodded to her friend, and turned to leave.

Wait. No. Adrenaline surged in him. He wanted to talk to her. Thinking quickly, he stood to leave. “Gotta go. See you guys.”

The men shouted their disappointed goodbyes. He was out the door in no time, but he couldn’t see where she was. Then he got a feeling, that gut feeling, again. The same sense he’d felt last night after that unidentified phone call. The one that told him something was about to happen.

He heard what sounded like a muffled yell and took off in that direction. As he turned the corner, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing at first. It was the redhead, struggling against a guy as he pushed her roughly up against the wall, his hand over her mouth.

Without thinking, Scar rushed forward and pulled the guy off of her, lifting him off his feet and throwing him to the ground. He turned to her. “You okay?”

Looking very not okay, she nodded.

The guy on the ground started moving like he would get up and run, but that would not stand. Scar seized him by the scruff of his shirt and held him up. “What were you doing?”

“Let me go!” The guy struggled to free himself, kicking out and scratching.

Scar slammed a fist into his face. Before he could land a second punch, he paused, noticing that the redhead was running away, and called after her. Taking advantage of the distraction, the guy scrambled away from him, running toward the beach.

Scar was torn between wanting to finish kicking this guy’s butt and wanting to check on the girl. He made a command decision to chase the girl and sprinted after her.

A grey car swerved around the corner ahead, prompting Scar to jump out of the way. He saw the girl at the wheel and their eyes connected, but she didn’t slow as she peeled out of the parking lot.

He watched her go and sucked in a breath. What had just happened? Why hadn’t she stayed and explained or even anything? The look in her eyes and the feeling in his gut said something was very wrong.

His gut was never wrong. His Navy brothers used to tease him that he was the “trouble whisperer.” It hadn’t been a name he appreciated, especially when they called him “Whisp” for short, until he’d gotten the nickname “Scar.” There was something about trouble that seemed to find him. Or rather, he seemed to find it.

Frowning, he muttered a quick prayer for the woman and headed back to the hotel.