by Anne Marsh
The car gets closer and I wriggle.
“You probably should get down now.” He doesn’t sound as if he minds my climbing him like a tree, though. “I’m not really a nice guy.”
“You pulled me out of the ditch,” I point out. “That definitely earns you points in the nice column.”
In fact, I’d be happy to give him a gold star for his efforts—right on the tip of that mighty fine erection he’s teasing me with.
“That was training,” he counters. “I was a SEAL. I rescued people for a living. Like I said, I train rescue dogs. You were a teaching moment for Rex One here.”
This would sound so much more credible if I wasn’t treating his penis as my own personal joystick. I lift up and nip his bottom lip.
“Okay. You’re not nice.”
I can be agreeable for a good cause.
“I’m a serial dater,” he informs me next, his fingers flexing on my hips. His body’s talking a whole different language than his mouth, and I like it. I like him, even though I’ve known him for approximately thirty minutes. He’s sexy, he’s funny, and he’s forthright.
“I get it. You’ve let half the Florida Keys take you for a test drive. You’re the island’s loaner car, and you’ve got some mileage on you. I could use a ride.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “My God, you’re filthy.”
“Life’s short,” I say cheerfully. “I go after what I want.”
He nods vigorously. “I like that.”
Goody. Then he’ll like me. I don’t need more than that. Honestly? I can’t handle more right now. My mother’s shoveling eligible bachelors in my direction like there’s no tomorrow, like this is my one and only chance to get married and procreate. Or procreate and then get married. She’s not picky, as long as I get on with the business. She wants grandbabies, and our family’s lost too much for her to be willing to wait. Someday, I’d be happy to give birth to a Mini Me, but right now my priority is remembering that I’m alive. Not dead. I’m the survivor, the one who made it, and too many mornings that fact seems surreal.
My mother’s procreation mandate aside, banging on the side of the road in broad daylight is too much even for me. Plus, I like my creature comforts. Creative sex is fun, but it’s usually uncomfortable (although in the best possible way). Reluctantly, I unwrap myself from my rescuer’s waist.
Finn steadies me. “Done with me?”
I wink. “Do you really want me to lick you all over right here?”
The bemused look on his face is cute.
“But I’m happy to buy you a drink first.” I cut him off before he can answer my question, and then I lean up and kiss his mouth, quick and hard, because I just can’t resist. He’s like a cake with chocolate frosting—I have to steal a taste. “When you’re ready to go the distance, come find me.”
He nods, but whatever he says is drowned as the car whips past us and disappears up the highway.
FINN
Vali hops down and gets back in her car. My gut twists as she drives off with a wave of her fingers. She’s a force of nature, but she could have died. Even though the ditch isn’t that deep and drowning is almost impossible unless she’d ended up face down in the water, no accident is risk-free.
I know that better than anyone.
Since sex by the roadside is out of the question thanks to my celibacy bet, I follow her down the road, making a note of where she turns. She lives on the main part of Angel Cay.
When I pull up, Rohan strolls out to meet me. “You’re late.”
He’s not wrong, but today’s excuse is ironclad. Hello. I had a damsel in distress to rescue.
I look him straight in the eye. “I had to make a Mr. Fix-It pit stop.”
Rohan arches a brow. I swear he practices the move in the mirror because he effortlessly conveys incredulity, control, and an annoying degree of arrogance with the gesture. I’d like to ignore him, but he’s not moving.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Tell me you weren’t banging some chick you just met. I don’t want Xander to be my new partner.”
Frigging saint. I know how to win my bet, and he doesn’t get to ride my ass about my personal life—and Vali and I weren’t banging. Just because her pussy made contact with my dick—through three layers of clothes because I go commando and she doesn’t—doesn’t make us lovers. Not yet. Per my bet with Xander, I’m taking this slow—or at least slower. I’m getting to know Vali, and I’m keeping myself open to a relationship.
Honestly? It’s a little weird.
So I shrug and give Rohan part of the truth. “I pulled a lady out of a ditch.”
My sex life is legendary.
Rohan nods. “Then you’re ready to talk business now?”
“To be fair,” I point out, “rescuing people is our business.”
Rohan gives me a look that says he doesn’t appreciate my distinction. He likes to be in charge. He was our SEAL team leader, and he’s good at giving orders. Fair, practical, good at sizing up the big picture in seconds and making life and death decisions. He’s had a hard time adjusting to the more democratic aspect of running a business with Vann and I. He uses the words anarchic, chaotic, and fucking free-for-all more often than not. I figure I’ll train him the same way I would a recalcitrant dog.
Ro looks down at my dog. “He’s tired,” he says.
Rex One lolls happily by my feet.
“I told you. He got some practice in today.” I reach in the backseat of the Jeep and snag the box of kittens. It’s not my problem if Ro insists on maintaining his skepticism about my morning activities.
Since I don’t have to torture Ro, however, I follow him inside the bungalow that serves as the front office for Search and SEALs. The front side is all glass doors, and Ro has them folded open so the ocean breeze runs straight through the room. The salt air’s probably hell on our hardware, but the sea smells good.
This bungalow is where we ink our deals. We’ve got three desks, a bunch of over-the-top floral chairs from Pier One that Ro’s sister shipped us the last time she redecorated, and a Keurig. Vann insisted on upgrading from a standard Mr. Coffee, and those pods are crack.
I’ve barely stowed my box of kittens on the nearest desk when Vann wanders in. His gold-brown hair stands on end like he’s run his fingers through it—or, more likely, gone for a swim and not bothered with a comb. After we parted ways with Uncle Sam, he let his hair grow. Not my business. He’s got scruff on his face, too. One of my ladies described him as a Viking warrior. Personally, I think he’s more Neanderthal, but whatever. He grunts a hello as he paces inside, then halts besides my box of kittens.
“Jesus,” he announces, and he’s not talking about the Second Coming or offering up prayers.
“Found ‘em,” I tell him. “In the back seat of my Jeep.”
I’d gone out to the cay where a pretty female voice had called in the box of abandoned animals. She had my number, implying I’d given it to her at some point in the past. And… I’m desperate. I’d figured that if she was single, I might consider extending my dating shelf life. Since Karma wasn’t done torturing me, I’d found no one, female or otherwise, when I’d reached the address the caller had left. While I’d been answering nature’s call, however, someone (probably my female someone) had slipped the box into the Jeep. Since Rex One was okay with it, I probably know her, too.
“Thought you usually found panties,” Ro grunts. He doesn’t look surprised, though. Not really. Apparently the other residents of the neighboring cays have decided that “canine trainer” is a synonym for “animal rescue.” We’ve inherited every unwanted, abandoned animal in a fifteen-mile radius. It never fails to amaze me how many people are dicks when it comes to the animals that depend on them.
Rohan groans. “Those things multiply like bunny rabbits.”
He’s not wrong. “We’ll re-home them.”
Women like kittens. Women like me. You can do the math, right? I leave, the kitten stays, and
we all live happily fucking after.
Vann heads for the Keurig and pops a fresh pod in. “Tell us about the bonus rescue.”
“Car went off the road in front of me. I stopped and pulled the driver out of the ditch. It’s called common courtesy.”
I have to try, right? My boys will give me endless shit otherwise.
Rohan smacks me on the back. “Now give up the part you’re not telling us.”
“You’re ganging up on me?” I explain my thoughts on that with my middle finger.
Vann responds in kind before adding his two cents. “You’re the one holding out. If you put out, we’d shut up.”
“She went off the road in front of me. Reminded me of B.B. No big deal.”
Vann looks over at Rohan, and the two of them share some kind of unspoken communication bullshit that doesn’t give them the right to get in my face about things. I’d rather focus on work. We train rescue dogs. We track down lost hikers, missing beach bums, and AWOL toddlers—and that stuff matters. The Technicolor replay in my head doesn’t.
“Flashbacks.” Vann is so not shocked by my disclosure. “You should see someone.”
Not a chance in hell. “Keep the save for someone who cares.”
Vann deflects for me. “Who’d you rescue?”
“Valentina Fuentes. You know her?” Casual. That’s me. The Florida Keys cover a significant amount of territory. Between the cruise ship visitors, the regular vacationers, and the seasonals, there are plenty of faces I don’t recognize, but there’s no way I’d forget someone like Vali.
Vann shrugs. “Do I look like the Welcome Wagon? Is she hot?”
Very. “Does it matter?”
“You pulled her car out of the ditch. You’re asking about her.” Rohan ticks the items off on his fingers. “I’m thinking the answer is yes.”
“I’d have stopped and helped anyone.”
“That’s a yes,” Vann says to Rohan.
“I know who she is,” Rohan says slowly. “She has a candy shop.”
That’s a new one.
Rohan tosses a flyer in my direction. Bee Sweete is located on Gabriel Street and sells homemade candies, taffies, and petit fours (whatever the fuck that is, but it has to be edible, right?). There’s also a thirty percent off discount coupon. Nice.
Ro smirks. “Feel free to go shopping, but you might want to try the shrink first, though.”
Vann snorts. “We both know the only person dumbass here is interested in seeing is Vali.”
I flick them a two-fingered salute and stand up. There’s nothing any doctor could do for my screwed up head. The memories are something I need to work through on my own or learn to live with.
“Anyone feed Captain Benny today?”
The old vet had come with the property. He’d been squatting, sleeping in an old toolshed behind the kennels when it rained. Otherwise, he slept on the beach. Walls and Benny are apparently incompatible. It’s sure not my place to judge, but he isn’t going hungry on my watch either. The three of us worked that out with Benny after we figured out why our coffee kept disappearing between the hours of four and six a.m.
Ro eyes the Keurig. “He had coffee.”
Which is great—I’d never deny a fellow veteran his hit of caffeine—but Benny needs protein. I grab the sandwich, chips, and soda I picked up earlier. Benny’s a problem I can fix. Feed him, and he’s happy.
T-11 days
VALI
The girlfiends and I have a standing yoga date on a tiny sliver of beach in Angel Cay. The first time I texted Mami about the girlfiends, she called me out on my spelling. The name’s not a typo. It’s the truth. I love Marlee and Ava, but they’re no angels. Witness the fact that they’ve got me doing yoga. I’m reasonably fit, but God did not gift me with a body that bends easily, and the pretzel positions required by our sessions make me think fondly of a medieval torture rack. The idea was originally an alcohol-fueled New Year’s inspiration—where alcohol replaced reason—although now it’s a weekly tradition.
Our beach is a skinny strip of cream-colored sand. If we overextend, our feet get wet, but we’ve got the entire Gulf of Mexico to stare at and forty minutes to work the day’s kinks out of our bodies and swap stories.
“I heard you got rescued by a SEAL.” Ava drops her yoga mat onto the sand. She tops me by a good six inches. With her sleek physique and high cheekbones, she could have been a model, but she’s a lawyer instead. A really good, really expensive one. She works remotely four days a week and drives into the mainland the fifth. She’s classy and expensive, but she’s also always good for a raunchy joke. To go with her auburn hair, she has a smattering of freckles she covers up religiously. Freckles are cute, she says, and there’s nothing cute about the way she practices law. She’s got a point.
Marlee frowns. “I heard she smashed up her car.”
Marlee tried to call me last night repeatedly, but I’d already retreated to my bathtub with a book in the hopes of drowning out the day’s sorrows. Or fantasizing about Finn Callahan. I shamelessly ducked my friend’s calls (she’s determined when she’s worried) in favor of some personal time alone with my newest book boyfriend and a little drooling over Finn.
Frankly, when my doorbell rang last night, I’d expected to find Marlee standing there. Instead, I’d found kittens. Two kittens, an enormous box of kitten supplies, and what looked suspiciously like a lipstick kiss on a gas station receipt. The “note” simply said Finn, and nothing more. The guys my Mami picks out carry flowers—Finn brought fur, rang my doorbell, and ran. It’s cute and irritating at the same time.
They both look at me expectantly, and I blow out a sigh. “A little from Column A, a little from Column B.”
Marlee and Ava exchange glances. Marlee’s the mother hen in our group, hence her multiple calls last night. She’s got curls that won’t quit and that she’s chopped off at shoulder-length—and brown eyes and the biggest smile ever. You look at her and you want to smile back—she’s like happy on legs.
Marlee gives me the once-over. “She looks okay.”
“Because I am.” I lower myself onto my mat. Maybe I should take up swimming. The pro is that it involves less talking—but the con is that it requires the regular wearing of a swimsuit.
“Because if you weren’t,” Ava adds, “and you didn’t call us, we’d have to kill you.”
“Duly noted.” I plant my phone in the sand, cue up Yoga Bitch, and tap play. Her way-too-cheerful-and-serene voice floats out of the little speaker, instructing us to center ourselves and assume the first position.
“He kitten-bombed me,” I share eventually.
“Do tell.” Ava contorts into an extended triangle. Her arms line up in perfect symmetry, her legs planted deep into the sand. My triangle looks more like a mutant eggplant, but I award myself points for trying.
“He rang my bell and dropped a box of kittens on my doorstep.” My left knee shakes violently, unhappy with its current position.
“Unconventional,” Marlee says happily. I make a mental note to find Finn and tell him Marlee’s up for adopting the rest of the box. Personally, I’m totally unprepared for parenthood, even if I’ve become a cat momma to two stripey orange tiger kittens instead of a baby.
After we’ve moved through a few more poses, Ava smacks me on the butt. “I’m still waiting for the man candy details.”
“The talking points are simple. I sideswiped a tree, did my best Evil Knievel impression into a ditch, and then got winched out of said ditch by a sexy former SEAL. One Finn Callahan.”
“She took time to appreciate the landscape,” Ava stage whispers to Marlee.
“It’s hard to overlook someone that big,” I protest. And honestly? Finn is really fucking glorious, although he does have at least one serious character flaw since he’s a sneak kitten donor.
“He’s single,” Marlee announces. “Never married and not currently dating anyone. He’s a serial dater, however, so his relationships almost always end at the
twenty-four-hour mark. He doesn’t go back for seconds.”
She sounds apologetic, but I think Finn actually sounds kind of perfect. He sounds like fun, fun enough that I’m willing to rethink my position on quickie hookups.
“So unless you used up your Finn quota already, you should be in for a good time.” Ava looks thrilled for me as she contorts her body into yet another pretzel shape I’ve never managed to assume. Parts of me are really inflexible.
“It was embarrassing.” Or it should have been, but I’ve given up on being embarrassed. Life’s too short to obsess over my mistakes.
“Give examples,” Marlee says.
“Okay.” I push up into a downward dog. We’re supposed to be getting in touch with our inner zen or some such, not talking, but Marlee’s flexible on the rules.
So I admit the truth. “I flashed him my bra.”
“A good one?” Marlee looks hopeful.
“Black satin. It shoves my girls up to here.” I gesture with my hands. “He was definitely looking, but my new boobs are spectacular, and that bra serves them up like cookies on a plate.”
Both Marlee and Ava know about my preventative mastectomy and how I’d opted to have my boobs surgically removed rather than run the risk of developing breast cancer like my auntie and my sister. When I’d told them over margaritas, Ava had nodded and said it was like taking back two personal-size watermelons to the Piggly Wiggly because the fruit was rotten—and walking out with full-size replacements. I’ve got mastectomy scars underneath my boobs, but the scars fade more with each month, as does the fear that I’ll get The Call from my doctor saying that despite the radical measures I took, it’s my turn to face down cancer. I’m happier having done something to stop it.
“Did he touch? Drool? Salivate?” Ava asks. She believes one hundred percent in the replacement boobs—which makes the truth even sadder. Finn one hundred percent did not touch my boobs.
“He got the tow hooks out of his Jeep and fished my car out of the ditch.”
Ava huffs in disbelief, and we switch to another impossible position. I can feel the burn starting in my calves and my butt.