“Hey, Trigger.” She nodded to the man doing crunches on a mat. “What do you know?”

“I know we’re all crazy. What the hell am I doing here, Ro? I’m forty-fucking-three years old.”

She unrolled a mat, started her stretches. “If you weren’t crazy, weren’t here, you’d still be forty-fucking-three.”

At six-five, barely making the height restrictions, Trigger Gulch was a lean, mean machine with a west Texas twang and an affection for cowboy boots.

He huffed through a quick series of pulsing crunches. “I could be lying on a beach in Waikiki.”

“You could be selling real estate in Amarillo.”

“I could do that.” He mopped his face, pointed at her. “Nine-to-five the next fifteen years, then retire to that beach in Waikiki.”

“Waikiki’s full of people, I hear.”

“Yeah, that’s the damn trouble.” He sat up, a good-looking man with gray liberally salted through his brown hair, and a scar snaked on his left knee from a meniscus repair. He smiled at her as she lay on her back, pulled her right leg up and toward her nose. “Looking good, Ro. How was your fat season?”

“Busy.” She repeated the stretch on her left leg. “I’ve been looking forward to coming back, getting me some rest.”

He laughed at that. “How’s your dad?”

“Good as gold.” Rowan sat up, then folded her long, curvy body in two. “Gets a little wistful this time of year.” She closed ice-blue eyes and pulled her flexed feet back toward the crown of her head. “He misses the start-up, everybody coming back, but the business doesn’t give him time to brood.”

“Even people who aren’t us like to jump out of planes.”

“Pay good money for it, too. Had a good one last week.” She spread her legs in a wide vee, grabbed her toes and again bent forward. “Couple celebrated their fiftieth anniversary with a jump. Gave me a bottle of French champagne as a tip.”