Hot SEAL, Best Man (SEALs in Paradise)

by Parker Kincade

  “I’m good,” Tuck said, smiling. “Great, actually. And business is excellent. Jodi and I are working on expanding,” Tuck confided. “You guys should come check it out. Meet Jodi.”

  The waitress finally made her way to the table, and they all ordered drinks and burgers. When she left, Tuck turned to Evan.

  “Speaking of girlfriends, I want to hear about yours.”

  “Presley, is it?” Aiden asked, a wicked grin slicing across his mug. With Aiden’s black hair, dark eyes, and black T-shirt, he looked almost sinister.

  “Ex-girlfriend,” Evan corrected. “Although it was forever ago, and we were really young. I’m not sure the distinction should even count.”

  “Did you have sex with her?” Asher asked.

  Evan scowled, not sure what that had to do with anything. “No.”

  Rooster barked a laugh. “Seriously?”

  Evan resisted the urge to hit him. “She was sixteen.”

  “She’s not sixteen anymore,” Aiden pointed out, oh so helpfully.

  “Doesn’t count,” Asher decided, his words punctuated with a sharp dip of his chin.

  “Agreed,” Rooster said. “Sexless, childhood romances do not count. She’s not your ex.”

  Could it be that simple to erase their history? Did he want to?

  The waitress came back, and the guys moved their arms and hands off the table to make room for the beer mugs and Asher’s highball glass of bourbon. Evan took a heavy swig of draft and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “What does Presley look like?” Tuck asked.

  “She’s pretty,” Evan admitted. “Shorter than me, obviously, since I’m a giant.” He grinned at his joke. Every guy at the table was pushing six two or better. “Long brown hair that kinda does this glitter thing in the sun. Green eyes.” Perfect lips. Curves to die for.

  Asher raised the glass to his lips. “She know what you do for a living?” he asked over the rim.

  It was a legitimate question. At some point, being a SEAL would complicate things.

  “No.” Evan didn’t want to complicate things with Presley. At the moment, things were light and easy between them. He’d like to keep it that way. “There’s no reason she needs to know. Not right now, anyway. As far as she’s concerned, we’re going our separate ways when the wedding’s over. If something happens and we decide differently, I’ll tell her then.”

  Aiden leaned in, pressing his forearms against the table. “Do you want something to happen? You’ve obviously thought about it.”

  I’ve done more than think about it, Evan thought as he swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, remembering how she tasted.

  Right then, C-Note came back to the table. His buddy’s face was flushed as he dropped onto the chair next to Evan.

  “What are we talking about?” C-Note asked, as if he hadn’t just banged some random chick in the bathroom.

  “We’re waiting to hear if Evan is going to pursue Presley,” Rooster told him.

  “Ah. All right. Let’s hear it, then.”

  “I don’t have an answer,” Evan said honestly, keeping the fact he’d kissed Presley to himself.

  He wanted to believe their history wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass. She’d made assumptions about him once, having judged him unfairly at a time when he’d needed her.

  They were older now. Presumably wiser. But, what did he actually know about her?

  She was gorgeous and smelled like honeysuckle. She wore pretty dresses and loved to get her hands dirty. She was kind enough to take time out of her life to help a friend.

  And her tongue was a perfect fit for his mouth.

  However, all those things weren’t enough. Too many unknown variables existed for him to take a shot. Evan never pulled the trigger unless he was certain he would hit the target.

  “I’d like to get to know her again.” Evan said finally. “Beyond that, I don’t know.”

  “Here’s your lunch,” the waitress said, saving him from any further explanation. Another server helped pass out the plates, save one.

  “I guess this one’s for you.” Their waitress batted her eyelashes as she set a plate in front of C-Note.

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” He winked at her. Sure enough, the fucker slipped a piece of paper out from under his plate and right into his pocket.

  Unbelievable.

  Before he looked away, Evan noticed a bead of red on C-Note’s neck. “Hey, Blackwell, you got a little…” Evan motioned to his own neck.

  C-Note’s hand snapped up, his fingers swiping the area. He checked out the hint of red on his fingers with a curse. No doubt about it—it was blood.

  Evan huffed a laugh. When he made eye contact with Rooster, his smile was smug.

  Biter, he mouthed. Pay up.

  “No, Mr. Simmons. We do not sell marijuana plants.”

  Presley closed her eyes and drew a good long breath. Every freaking week with this guy.

  Mr. Simmons was a sweet man with white hair, wildly fluffy eyebrows, and a love for hideous-looking cardigans. He always wore one, no matter how warm the weather was in San Diego.

  He lived in a retirement community nearby. Mr. Simmons, along with a group of his senior citizen friends, came to Masters Flower House and Greenery every Tuesday at precisely two o’clock. And every Tuesday at precisely two-ten, Presley answered the same questions.

  “Why not?” the elderly man asked, lifting his chin. “Pot is legal in San Diego.”

  A rumbling sound came from his chest, and Presley cringed, knowing what came next. He coughed, three times then spit into the Styrofoam cup he always carried.

  It was enough to make her stomach turn.

  “As I’ve explained before, Mr. Simmons,” Presley began gently. “Legal does not mean unrestricted. There are laws that make it impossible to turn the growth and sale of marijuana into a profitable business for a nursery like mine.”

  People were starting to gather. Presley glanced around. Emilia, where are you? She could use some backup.

  “Do you have anything pink?” Mrs. Davenport asked, edging in beside Mr. Simmons. “I need a pretty plant that matches my bathrobe.”

  Presley didn’t even want to know.

  Mrs. Davenport was also a member of what Emilia had dubbed the Tuesday Senior Frolic. Their leader, in fact.

  She’d lost her husband a few years ago. That’s how she and Presley had met. Presley had done the flower arrangements for the funeral. Mrs. Davenport had been so pleased, she’d come back the next week to purchase flowers for her kitchen. After that, she’d started bringing along some friends—and voilà. The Tuesday ritual had been born.

  Relieved to move away from the topic of marijuana growing, she smiled. “Sure, Mrs. Davenport. I have a few cyclamen that have pink flowers. They’re easy to care for and will do well in any room in the house. Would you like me to show you?”

  Mrs. Davenport appeared a few years younger than Mr. Simmons. She was tall and slender with thick salt-and-pepper hair that curled around her shoulders. She was sharp-witted, and Presley cared for the woman a great deal.

  “Janice, dear,” Mr. Simmons interrupted. “I wasn’t finished with Ms. Masters.”

  Mrs. Davenport swatted at Mr. Simmons’ arm, her expression so blatantly flirtatious Presley had to look away or risk bursting into giggles. “I’ve told you before Frank, if you want to get stoned, just go down to the dispensary. That’s what the rest of us do.”

  Mrs. Davenport threaded her thin, delicate arm around Presley’s. “That man would kill a cactus. He’d never be able to keep a pot plant alive, even if you were to sell him one. Now, how about you show me those clitamen or clitoris flowers.”

  Presley choked on a laugh. “Cyclamen, Mrs. Davenport. Cyclamen.”

  It took more than an hour, but Presley managed to take care of all six members of the Tuesday Senior Frolic without further incident. As she finished up the last transaction, Emilia came bursting through the door.

&nb
sp; “Sorry,” she panted. “What’d I miss?”

  “Nothing too exciting, although Mrs. Davenport did ask to see some clitoris flowers.”

  Em sputtered out a laugh. “She did not.”

  Presley grinned. “She did. She wanted a pink plant to match her bathrobe.”

  They both cracked up.

  “Where have you been?” Presley asked through her laughter. “I could’ve used your help. The seniors were particularly needy today.”

  “I was in the herb garden, trimming some sage for Mr. Simmons. A couple customers snagged me as I was trying to get back. By the time I was able to pawn them off on someone else to help, Mr. Simmons was already leaving. I ran out to the parking lot to give it to him.”

  “Why did you give him sage?”

  “It smells sorta like weed when you burn it. I told him to roll up the leaves, light the end, and put them in a ceramic bowl to burn.”

  “Em.” She didn’t like the idea of misleading their customers.

  “What? It’ll relax him.” Em gave her a mischievous grin. “He won’t get bombed, but the evil spirits who make him wear those awful sweaters can kiss their asses goodbye.”

  Presley laughed. “You’re a mess.”

  “Oh, and on my way back from the parking lot, I found this guy wandering around like a creeper.” Em hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “He mentioned needing a tree or a plant.”

  “That would make him a customer, Em. Not a creep—”

  The word died off when he stepped through the door.

  Evan.

  She hadn’t seen him since that kiss in the parking lot. She felt her cheeks grow warm with the memory.

  “Hey, sunshine.”

  Presley held back a sigh. She loved when he called her that in his deep, rumbly voice. It didn’t seem fair for a man to sound like that and be as good-looking as Evan was. In jeans and an untucked black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, he looked like he’d just stepped out of an advertisement for a men’s cologne.

  He strode toward her, his gait smooth and commanding. Such casual grace without an ounce of insecurity. She wished she had half of his self-assurance.

  “Evan. Hi. What are you doing here?”

  She felt a tug low in her belly as he smiled at her.

  A glimmer of heat sparkled in his eyes as his gaze slid over her fitted navy-blue tank top with the nursery logo on the front. “I came to see you.”

  “You did?”

  Cool it, girl. No need to sound like I just won the lottery.

  He came closer, and Presley could smell his cologne. It was a subtle scent with an undertone of mint, like maybe he’d been chewing gun recently.

  “I thought we could talk about the wedding. You know, get a game plan together.” He tapped his large, ridiculously masculine watch. “Tick tock and all.”

  Oh, right. The wedding. “I thought…my sister said you were here to get a tree or a plant?”

  “I wanted to pick up a few plants for the cottage. I haven’t had time to do any landscaping but thought now might be a good time to start.”

  Presley had never been inside the cottage—those few times she’d been to the ranch when she was younger, the cottage had been occupied by one of the men who worked there, but the outside was adorable. The ideas were already spinning in her head. “English cottage meets seaside hideaway” would be the perfect combination for Evan’s place. She could see English lavender and phlox lining the porch, and maybe some climbing roses along the sides. Since Evan was a guy and probably wouldn’t want a ton of colorful flowers, she’d suggest a few evergreen bushes, too. Nothing too overwhelming but enough to dress up the place and get him started.

  “It’s always a good time to landscape,” she said, enthusiasm bubbling out of her at the prospect of helping him. “We could talk, and I could show you some plants at the same time.” Presley came out from behind the counter. “Let me grab my planner out of the office. It’s got all of my notes and lists in it.”

  “If that’s the same planner you had the other day, maybe we should talk in the office first. You don’t want to lug that thing around while we shop.”

  Presley hesitated. It wasn’t that her office was small, per se. She had the requisite desk and computer, file cabinets and the like. She even had a medium-sized round table where she liked to sit while she poured over the latest landscaping magazine or plant catalogue.

  But she owned a nursery. Outside of the retail flower area, a layer of dust and mud covered pretty much everything. Dismay settled over her. Evan looked so clean and put together. Presley glanced down at her tank top and shorts. At the dried mud on her boots, and oh! Look at that, on her legs, too. She wouldn’t be surprised if she had dirt in her hair as well.

  There was no where they could go on the property that wouldn’t be covered in dirt.

  “I have a better idea,” Presley said before she could talk herself out if it. “Why don’t we take a look at some plants, and then head over to this bakery I want to check out for the cake. We can talk there and try a few samples. What do you think?”

  She could hose off her legs and boots before they left. Thinking quickly, she knew had extra nursery logo shirts and a spare pair of shorts in the office she could change into.

  “Like a date?” Her sister choked on the water she’d been drinking.

  Presley could feel her cheeks growing hot as one of Evan’s brows rose in question.

  Damn it, Emilia.

  Presley straightened her shoulders and smoothed the fabric of her shirt. She gave Evan a toothy grin that she hoped didn’t make her look deranged. “Obviously, it’s not a date,” she explained. “It’s wedding stuff. And you don’t have to come, if you don’t want. Guys don’t care about the details, right?” Isn’t that what he’d said before at the coffeeshop?

  His grin was positively wicked. “Not all of the details, no. But, cake…cake is another matter entirely.”

  Presley felt a jolt of awareness travel up her arm as he threaded his fingers with hers and tugged her toward the door.

  “Come on, sunshine. Let’s look at some plants.”

  7

  “Let’s try this one.” Presley held up another square between her fingers, this one blood-red in color, and then popped it into her mouth.

  Evan raised his gaze to the ceiling and prayed to whoever might be listening to give him strength. If he had to watch Presley lick cake off her fingers one more time, he was going lose his damn mind.

  Presley chewed, and her face instantly screwed up. She shook her head rapidly back and forth as if to warn him.

  Evan snatched a cube of cake from the plate between them and tossed it into his mouth, proving to her that when he’d said they’d do this together, he hadn’t been blowing smoke up her ass.

  And besides, regardless of the fact that the color of the cake seemed to linger on Presley’s fingers, the red one couldn’t be any worse than the last four they’d tried.

  He was so very wrong.

  “Christ.” Evan covered his mouth, catching the crumbs as they sprayed from his lips. Too many flavors hit his tongue at once, none of them good.

  Since his mouth was now glued shut, he shot Presley a what the hell look.

  Presley covered her own mouth, eyes crinkling with her giggles. “I think this one is made out of beets.”

  Two words that should never go together. Beets and cake.

  “You think this is funny?” Evan growled, although that’s not at all how the words sounded around the crap stuck to his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He tried and failed to be annoyed. She had attempted to warn him, and the light, happy sound of Presley’s laugh was an addiction. He craved his next fix.

  Realizing there was no way he was going to get the bite down without help, Evan grabbed for the bottle of overpriced spring water to wash it down. It took a minute. Adding the water only served to turn the cake-like substance into a concrete paste that slowly oozed its way down his esophagus.

&nbs
p; Presley took a swig from her own bottle of water, coughing a little before she informed him, “I’m going to vote a big fat no to this place.”

  Evan didn’t trust his vocal cords just yet. He nodded vigorously as he continued to suck the water bottle dry. When the bottle was empty, he coughed into one fist while pounding his chest with the other.

  Presley scribbled in her planner. The notes pages in front of her were a chaotic mixture of Presley’s delicate script and hurried chicken scratch. There were harsh lines drawn in places—she added another as he watched. Some items were circled. There were phone numbers and what appeared to be ideas written in random places—sideways along the margins, most too small for him to read. As if the pages weren’t busy enough, there were also a variety of wedding-themed stickers scattered around the pages, as though she needed the visual reminder of what her notes were about.

  He knew this Presley. The pretty, carefree girl who’d run the cash register at the feed store where they’d both worked in high school. She used to sit at the front counter and doodle on scraps of paper—the papers that were used to jot down customers’ requests that required manpower…bales of hay, large bags of feed, or if someone needed bulk seed from the bins in the back. More often than not Presley would slip him a customer list covered in funny sketches of animals or cartoon characters. And flowers, he realized now. She’d drawn whole landscapes on some of them. How had he forgotten that?

  A familiar affection infused his chest with warmth. He covered the dangerous emotion by tossing her a scowl. “What the hell kind of bakery is this?” he hissed, keeping his voice low. Shit cake or not, he didn’t want to offend the owner. “I didn’t know cake could taste so disgusting. I mean, it’s cake.”

  “It’s a vegan bakery. In my defense, I didn’t realize that until we got here. I figured, how bad could it be?”

  “Bad, Presley. Really fucking bad.” He grabbed her water bottle and finished it off, too. “You are officially relieved of your bakery choosing duties. From this moment on, I choose where we go.” He could think of two or three places off the top of his head they could try. He didn’t know if any of them made wedding cakes, though. He made a mental note to make some calls.