by Anne Marsh
I’d like to pretend that I hit my head, that I’m lusting after this perfectly lovely, gentlemanly guy because I’m temporarily non compos mentis, but this is just me. Even before I had the surgery, I preferred to jump into the pool of life with both feet. Afterwards, when I was recovering, I just stopped coming up with excuses. Life is short, and I intend to live a lot just in case my time on this earth turns out to be even shorter than expected.
So I enjoy the feeling of muscled arms holding me close. It’s not personal (although I might have plans to change that), but it feels good. It also gives me a straight view into the Jeep’s backseat. My rescuer has a box of kittens. The kittens mew and tumble around their cardboard palace, clearly unconcerned by their temporary pit stop. And… there’s a seagull perched on the steering wheel. Dog, bird, multiple felines. It’s like being rescued by Dr. Doolittle. I check the hot soldier fantasy and wonder if I can get equally excited by a veterinarian. Or a crazy man.
“You have a menagerie.” That’s me. Queen of the Obvious.
“Bane of my existence.” He sighs dramatically. “You want a kitten?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer. Thank God. I might be up for a hot fling, but a kitten is a longer-term commitment than I’m ready for.
“Gonna set you down now,” he warns and slides me carefully into the passenger seat. The Jeep may be filthy on the outside, but it’s downright pristine inside. Even the bird seems to be behaving. “Did you lose consciousness at all?”
“Are we playing doctor?” Because been there, done that, and got the souvenir scars.
He’s got a gorgeous smile. It short circuits my brain and makes me stupid, which are two good reasons to move away from him. I stay put.
“Work with me.” He sets two fingers on the inside of my wrist in a familiar motion.
“I’m good.” Mostly. My traitorous pulse kicks up a beat or two because, hello, Mr. Tall, Handsome, and Rescue-Me is fondling my wrist. Okay. He’s really checking my pulse, but I already know I’m not dead. I’ve worked really, really hard to stay alive, and a small crash landing in a ditch simply isn’t allowed to write the end to my story.
“Shhh,” he says. “I’m counting.”
Right. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. He gives me a look that’s part calculating, part playful. Whoever he is, I’m not his first rescue. When he lets go of my wrist, he plants both arms on either side of the door, assessing me.
“Any pain?” He picks up my left wrist and turns it carefully. His gentleness is downright cute. I can handle so much more.
“The seatbelt did its job.”
“Sore ribs?” He asks and then, holy moly, he runs his big hands over my rib cage. I’m ticklish, and I squeal. Embarrassing, sure, but there’s no other word for it. “On a scale of one to ten, how painful?”
Compared to asking the doctors to cut off my boobs for a preventative mastectomy, the mild discomfort in my ribs is nothing. And after watching my sister and Tía Mina die from breast cancer, losing my boobs is also nothing. There are so many worse things that could have happened to me. I could have breast cancer too, for instance. I could be dead right now.
Dead’s the crappiest, worst thing ever, and so far I’ve avoided it, which makes me a total winner. Maybe Mr. Rescue Man can be my prize…
He’s staring at me, patiently waiting for an answer. Right.
“Do you accept negative numbers?”
“That sounds promising.” He grins again, and he’s got the kind of killer smile that knocks me straight on my ass. He’s so alive, his eyes dancing as he checks me out. He knows what he’s doing, too.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Are you questioning my credentials?” He gently palpates my wrist, but I’m fine. I really, really am. “I was in the Navy. I had basic medic training.”
Dog tags for the win! He proceeds to check me out for broken bones—and I let him play doctor a little longer than I should. I’m fine, but it’s like when someone on the train gets up and gives you his seat because he’s decided you’re pregnant and he wants to help, while you know you’re wearing your fat shirt and ate way too many cupcakes. It would be awkward to tell my sailor that I’m perfectly fine when he’s getting his gentleman on. He’d just feel bad.
“Since you’ve fondled my ribs, how about you tell me your name?”
“Finn Callahan.” He winks at me and goes back to checking out my lower extremities. Sadly, he does this in a manner that’s both competent and professional.
“Valentina Fuentes. I’m officially a menace.”
He looks up at me. “How’d you manage to go off the road?”
Confession is supposed to be good for the soul, but I hesitate. As if Mami has sensed that I (or my virtue and her future grandbabies with her preselected choices) am in danger, my phone buzzes with yet another incoming text message. It’s a good thing she has an unlimited texting plan. I scramble awkwardly for my phone, but my rescuer turns out to have far better reflexes than me. He reaches around me and plucks my phone from my back pocket.
“Nice,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s admiring my screen saver (a ten-thousand-dollar a night underwater hotel room somewhere in the Indian Ocean because dream big is the new mantra I picked out to go with my new, surgeon-given replacement boobs) or he’s figured out that I sideswiped the tree because I had my eyes on my phone and not the road.
I stare at Finn, but there’s only one way to fix this. Confession. Followed by excuses. “I know better. I shouldn’t have been texting and driving, but the road is sand and palms.”
And ditches.
I make big manga I’m-sorry eyes at him, and the corner of his mouth curls up.
“Honey, you need to learn to aim for the middle of the road better.” The grin stretching his sinful mouth gets wider.
I take my phone back and look down. My Mami has texted—again—with a new baby daddy selection for my consideration. Her text includes brief bios and pictures of Bachelor A and Bachelor B, followed by a shameless offer of one or both to me as my future spouse. Polyandry is apparently now acceptable thanks to her hopes of acquiring grandkids and making sure nothing bad ever happens to me again. While Bachelor B is admittedly smoking, I’m not interested in a long-term relationship.
My Mami doesn’t want to hear that. Plus, when she’s not pandering eligible bachelors, she’s asking me when I’m coming home. Home to where there are doctors and family and helping hands. Just in case something bad happens. Just in case I didn’t dodge a genetic bullet with my mastectomy. I love my family, but I need to live my life by myself. I’m thirty, but I’ll always be the baby she bubble-wraps. Most days, I love that she cares so much, but today’s a bad day.
That’s when I lean around my white knight and catch my first good view of my car.
Oh. My. God.
My poor Bug. There’s a dent approximately the size of the Grand Canyon in the side. How can palm tree branches cause that much damage?
My lungs shrink at least two sizes, and I hear myself start to wheeze. I can’t afford to fix that. And as much as I want to pretend I can master the finer points of automotive repair from watching YouTube videos on my phone, the damage is far, far beyond my limited skills. And auto body shops cost more than an illegal kidney transplant. I’ll get a ticket. Or arrested. Sentenced to hard labor until I’ve earned my freedom.
Maybe all three.
“Hey.” Finn surges to his feet. He’s really close.
“What if my insurance isn’t current? What if my car is totaled and I never, ever get it out of the ditch?”
He leans against the Jeep’s frame, his body forming a big, comforting wall. “You’re okay.”
Those two words sound like a promise.
But I’m actually not entirely sure my insurance is current—or that my car will run when it has all four tires back on terra firma. Like I told him, I’m a menace. A mess. Ever since I lost my sister and my auntie, I’ve been holding myself together by threads, and that�
��s made me scatterbrained. Unfocused.
I lean back and realize that my tank top is closer to a wardrobe malfunction than I’d realized. The front dips perilously low, exposing a good portion of my favorite bra. After the surgery, I bought all new things for my new start in life. My tank top may be white, but my bra is black satin and pushes my girls up into the sweetest mounds. The commemorative flower-and-vines tattoo I inked on my left boob is also prominently on display, no longer discreetly covered by my clothing. Finn looks. Clears his throat. Looks again.
And honestly? I don’t mind. I like looking at my boobs, too. They’re gorgeous, and they make me feel both safe and sexy, which is a win-win. They’re also completely, totally fake, a masterpiece of implants and silicon over which the surgeon shaped my own skin. I bought these boobs. I own them. They’ll never betray me because the C-word won’t take anything else from me. These boobs are pretty, perfect, and deserve sexy lingerie because they’re my own personal celebration of being in control. Of making the right decisions for my own life.
You know what? Finn’s right. I am okay.
T-12 days and holding…
FINN
I need to stop staring.
Because I’ll be the first to admit that admiring Vali’s gorgeous tits two seconds after I’ve just checked her out for broken bones puts me in pervert territory and closer to losing my bet with Xander than I care to be. She’s got amazing curves, and she’s sporting ink, some kind of feminine flower thing that’s like a road map for my tongue. I feel like a fucking creeper. Fortunately, she’s still shaken by her near-ditch encounter and doesn’t seem to notice. Doesn’t excuse me, but at least I haven’t freaked her out.
“I’m okay,” she repeats, sucking in a breath.
That little move just pushes her tits up further. Her bra’s like a shelf or a platter, practically begging for my devoted attention. And I’d be happy to give her bra the respect it demands. Shove the silky fabric down and tongue her nipples. Bet they’d be hard little berries. Bet I could make her like it. Make her scream.
This isn’t helping.
I fall back. One of the first things I learned serving under Uncle Sam was that you actually can’t win every battle. Sometimes, retreat and regroup is the only feasible option. This is definitely one of those times. I yank my hands off her and grab the tow hooks I keep in the back of the Jeep. I may also mentally curse Xander and weigh the pros and cons of sacrificing my part-ownership of Search and SEALS. Damn it. Xander’s ruined sex for all of me. Temporarily.
Vali eyes the straps in my hand like I’m trying to charm a cobra. “I can call AAA.”
“I’m here.” I fix the tow hooks to the hitch in the back of the Jeep and then head back down into the ditch. Don’t get me started on the car she’s driving, because VW Bugs are definitely not made for off-roading. The back bumper isn’t my first choice, but since she went in headfirst, it’s my easiest choice. I’ll give it a shot and see what happens. I attach the tow strap to her bumper and then climb back out.
“Take these.” I set the box of kittens in her arms and point down the road fifteen feet or so. “Stand there.”
She hesitates but does it. I send Rex One after her—Señor Seabird has a mind of his own and definitely doesn’t take orders from me—and then slowly inch the Jeep in the other direction. I’ve popped Hummers out of ditches and rescued tanks from canals. This is nothing.
Five minutes later, her Bug is back on the road. Mission accomplished. I kill my engine, get out, and start the process of unhooking the Jeep—and not hooking up with Vali. Stupid bet. She watches me work for a few minutes and then strolls closer. “What’s with all the animals?”
“We train dogs for the US Navy SEALs, search and rescue, and various civilian groups.”
She points to the bird. “That doesn’t look like a dog.”
“He self-recruited.” And then when she eyes the kittens, I add, “And people think that because I train dogs, I run an animal shelter.”
It’s even harder to make the cut as a canine than it as a Frogman. Less than one percent of the working dogs we meet have what it takes. Doesn’t make the other dogs any less, but it doesn’t make them a SEAL, either.
“If it walks like a duck…” she says, and I bite back a laugh.
“No one’s brought by any ducks,” I tell her. “Although I did have a crate of baby chicks two months ago.”
Those fuckers were a bitch to re-home to someone who didn’t plan on deep-frying their asses, too.
She blinks and clearly decides to leave my wildlife issues alone. Smart and beautiful. This is definitely my lucky day. “Were you a SEAL?”
“SEAL and a K9 handler.” I’ve fast-roped out of a Blackhawk with my K9 strapped to my back. Me and him stepping out of the bay, dropping into the dark, wind tearing up my hearing as I made our way down the line to the ground.
“So you’re not a rescue service.”
She’s chewing on her lower lip. That makes me think all sorts of dirty thoughts.
“I do run a rescue service,” I point out virtuously.
“For dogs. And not on purpose.”
Details. I’m more than qualified to haul her cute, distracted ass out of this ditch. I flick my fingers subtly in the sign for guard, and Rex One makes a beeline for her and sits down on her feet with an audible thump. We’re still training him, and he’s got plenty to learn. By the time he leaves us, he’ll have perfected his ninja skills.
With Vali covered, I concentrate on checking out her car. There’s some minor cosmetic damage to the front end since cars generally object to being dropkicked into a ditch and a huge dent in the side. Other than that, though, she looks good to go. Naturally, the keys are still in the ignition. A quick flick of my fingers, and the engine roars to life. Definitely good to go.
“Is this where I swear undying gratitude?” She flashes me a downright wicked smile, but she’s playing with the wrong SEAL.
“Thank me with a kiss,” I tease, because God she’s gorgeous.
“You got it,” she says.
Wait. What?
She puts her hands on my shoulders and somehow launches herself upward. Honestly, I’m not sure how the physics of it work, but she’s suddenly coming at me, and I’m reaching for her, and her gorgeous, bouncy tits are flying at me, and I could die a happy man.
Who needs a million bucks? Vali wraps her glorious, wonderful, completely off-limits body around my arm and my leg (okay, so maybe I spent more than a few seconds enjoying a fantasy in which she strips off her clothes and thanks me for rescuing her from the big, bad ditch). She smells like vanilla and cinnamon—and chocolate. I have a sweet tooth, and licking her absolutely everywhere shoots to the top of my to do list.
She smells fucking perfect.
T-12 days and holding…
VALI
It doesn’t take long to realize that Finn may be Mr. Strong—but he’s not Mr. Strong and Silent. Once he starts talking, he doesn’t shut up. It’s not like I’m all that quiet myself, but it’s hard to get a word in edgewise once he starts. Somehow, I thought SEALs were more the big, dark, silent type. Emphasis on silent—to go with all the covert op stuff they do. Presumably, Finn must possess the ability to shut up when the stakes are high, but he’s certainly not exercising it now. He’s charming, he’s loud, and he’s apparently more than willing to be mine.
Imagine that.
Instead of wrapping my legs around his waist, maybe I should try his mouth. I weigh my options while Finn discusses my car, his Jeep, the kittens, the dog and—I think—the weather. He keeps cursing someone called Xander too, but there are way too many details for me to keep track of. Putting my legs around his face would be more fun. Fun, but obscene.
I’ve never been a prude, but I’ve also considered certain acts off limits, particularly when I’m in public. Maybe I’m rethinking that position, however, because I rock—just a little—against Finn’s hard midsection, and his belt buckle presses against me in s
ome very naughty places. I’m also quite certain that my rescuer appreciates my position because parts of him are standing to obvious attention.
I wriggle, exploring Finn’s… options. He breaks off his monologue.
“Ignore that,” he whispers roughly. “He’s on hiatus.”
Honestly, it’s kind of hard to ignore something that big. Also? My sexual dry spell has become more of an apocalyptic drought, and Finn’s the water in my desert. Provided he’s single—and it sounds like he’s currently entanglement-free—he might just be perfect. I can have fun and an orgasm. This is a win-win scenario for me, so I tighten my legs around his waist and settle in for the duration.
If I’m lucky, Finn has a very, very long duration.
Finn cups my butt with his hands, and he doesn’t seem to mind my weight. I’ve never been tiny, but after my mastectomy, I decided there was zero point in dieting. I ate for three—myself, Tía Mina, and Bella. That’s a whole lot of calories to enjoy, and enjoy I have.
Behind us, I hear another car coming up the highway. Damn it. “You should let me down now.”
Finn’s eyes darken. He’s got gorgeous eyes, warm and full of laughter. And heat. Sweet baby Jesus, but the man’s on fire, and not just the part of him that’s pressed against a particularly interested part of me.
“You sure?” He phrases his question as if maybe there’s even the remotest possibility that we bang right here by the side of the road. Since public sex is on neither my bucket list nor my vision board, I wriggle. And hello. My ex-SEAL’s very impressive erection can indeed get better.
“Yes,” I say regretfully, because my sexual drought really isn’t an excuse to bounce up and down on a stranger’s penis.
“But you don’t want to be,” he whispers against my mouth before I can answer. “And I’m feeling optimistic.”
“Me, too.” Dios, those two words sound more like a sigh than an emphatic declaration of intent. Finn Callahan makes me weak at the knees. “But I don’t know you.”