Sweet For A SEAL

by Anne Marsh

  T-11 days and scrambling

  FINN

  I freeze. It’s embarrassing as fuck, but there’s no other word for it. I can’t even blame the PTSD I’m pretending I don’t have, because nothing, ever, in my experience has prepared me for being proposed to in the middle of a goddamned candy shop. Part of me wants to look around, to see if Ro and Vann are lurking behind the counter, trying to punk me.

  Marriage.

  Me.

  Those are two words that have never shared sentence-space before. Sure, I’m looking for a relationship with training wheels, a chance to try out this committed crap that means so much to my winning Xander’s bet, but Vali’s relationship timeline makes a space shuttle launch look slow.

  “You don’t think we should date first?”

  It’s not like I’m actually averse to marriage in theory. It’s just that it’s not something I’ve really put much thought into. Marriage is one of those things that goes in the maybe column—years in the future. Vali and I have just met. I pulled her out of a ditch. She may or may not have ridden my dick through my jeans. That’s not a bad start, but I was thinking date and then, yeah, sex. Lots and lots of sex. Marriage? Not so much.

  Even if it would win my bet with Xander and get me back on the sex train.

  Perhaps we can elope to Vegas?

  “A fake fiancé,” Vali says, the words coming out in a rush, and my panic level sinks. I can do fake. That’s an F-word I excel at. I’m also fun. Fabulous. A favorite because I’m fucking fantastic in bed.

  And of course, there’s the best F-word of them all. Fucked up. I’m that too, unfortunately.

  “Explain it to me.” I prop my hip against her candy counter and give her my undivided attention. She looks hot. She’s wearing a T-shirt with Bee Sweete embroidered over her tits, and she’s got some kind of frilly apron thing tied around her waist. It’s not a French maid’s outfit, but I’ve always been flexible when it comes to my fantasies. She turns away to toss her phone into her bag, which gives me a great view of her curvy ass in jean shorts.

  “My mom wants me to get married.”

  I’d kinda figured that out for myself. The man candy text on her phone was clue number one. “Uh-huh. My mom makes those kinds of noises, too.”

  Her eyes widen, as if she’s surprised I have a mom.

  “She wants grandbabies,” I continue, because it’s the truth. “I’m not ready for that. I’m still practicing.”

  I wink, and Vali grins. Jesus, the woman is trouble.

  “You don’t think you’ve got it right yet?”

  I consider her question for all of two seconds. “I’m a perfectionist, honey.”

  The smile that stretches her face is breathtaking. She looks so goddamned happy and pleased with herself. “You’re a legend.”

  “I’ve got friends who would agree with you,” I say, thinking of Xander.

  I shove off her pretty countertop. The best thing about Bee Sweete is that the place is small. Downright tiny, in fact. It takes me less than five seconds to pin her in place. “Has someone been telling you stories? Because if they have, I think I should get a chance to confirm or deny. It’s only fair.”

  She gives me a curious look. “Is your reputation that bad?”

  Honestly? It’s worse. There’s no way I’m answering her question, because women never like to hear about their predecessors. I don’t blame them. It’s not like I want to hear about the other guys you’ve slept with, even if you’re telling me I’m a ten to their zero. Plus, there’s that bet with Xander—there’s no good way to spin that.

  I need a distraction. “What’s in it for me?”

  She gapes. Apparently, today her mind (instead of her car) is in the gutter. I’m pretty sure I’ve never traded sexual favors for… other favors. Not that I’d be adverse if she was offering, but it’s just not necessary.

  “Forget it,” she says, clearly embarrassed. “I was kidding.”

  As if.

  Now that she’s planted those images in my head, my brain is running a non-stop fantasy loop. Engaged is even better than dating, right? As soon as I’ve mentally popped the ring on her finger, I move on to thoughts of kissing her. Okay. I take it about a thousand steps further, and in my head we end up in bed together. She’s naked (and spectacular), her legs wrapped around my hips as I pound into her. Shit. Am I drooling?

  It turns out not to matter, because my audience of one turns and flounces away into the back room. I vault over the counter and follow. She’s got a problem. I’ve got a solution.

  One committed relationship coming up.

  “Marry me,” I say.

  FINN

  “You proposed?” I turn around to find Ro dogging my ass. Apparently, he thinks the closer he gets, the more likely it is I’ll confess. Or hell, maybe the guy just enjoys the smell of Vali’s bakery, which clings to my skin. I can’t blame him. Bee Sweete smells almost as good as its owner. She should totally bottle that shit.

  “She did,” I counter, because I’m feeling contrary.

  “Seriously, man. You’re getting married? Isn’t that taking the whole no orgasm unless in a committed relationship bet a bit far? I don’t think that’s what Xander had in mind.” Ro sounds beyond dubious, which isn’t surprising. I haven’t known Vali for all that long, and measuring our acquaintance in minutes and seconds makes her typical date night material for me when she’s anything but typical.

  “I fake-proposed,” I counter as I step inside the dog run. “But it’s good practice. Think of it as a mission dry run. Plus, Xander should have been more specific.”

  “You’re a dedicated man,” Ro says dryly as the dogs start barking a happy hello. It’s playtime and they know it. “You planning on telling Vali about your bet with Xander?”

  That’s a tricky one. I have a feeling a guy in a committed relationship would absolutely come clean about a bet like that and the potential million bucks. I mean, it’s not like I’d really take Xander’s money, but I definitely plan on torturing him. Or making him donate to some embarrassing charity like erectile dysfunction research. He’s rolling in money, so he’d hardly miss it.

  I shrug. “If it comes up.”

  Ro mutters something that sounds downright uncomplimentary and slams the dog run shut behind me. Although our cay is almost entirely cut off from the rest of the world by water, we generally don’t let the dogs run wild. They’re pack animals, and they’ll fight for dominance. Or maybe some idiot gets off the highway that connects our land to the rest of the Florida Keys, and the dogs chew on the stupid bastard because he’s in the territory and he tries to pet them or some shit. Some dogs like to be touched, while others will threaten to chew your hand off.

  Big Ben is a German Shepherd. Usually when a stranger gets too close to Big Ben, for example, he starts with a low, throaty growl. Back the fuck off. Despite what you’re thinking, he’s a great dog. He has one of the best noses I’ve ever encountered. Our dogs patrol bases, take down suspects, and detect explosives. They save lives. Before we send them overseas, we train their noses on local explosives and ordnances—shit smells different in Afghanistan or Iraq or Florida. Likewise, PE4, the Russian-made equivalent of C4 plastic explosive, smells different than TNT or dynamite.

  Big Ben may be able to sniff out C4 no matter how small or how well hidden, but he’s also got the energy of roughly an entire high school football team. Playtime is an integral part of his training, plus without it he’d find his own amusements. Big Ben and I have plenty in common. When he spots the red chew toy I’m holding, he whines low in his throat, his eyes following my hand.

  “Who’s a good boy?” I croon and make the signal for come. Big Ben explodes out of his kennel, running for me. Or the fucking chew toy. A dog’s got to have his priorities. While the two of us wrestle on the ground, Ro leans against the chain link, watching.

  “It’s not you,” Ro says, as if my status on Santa’s naughty or nice list has ever been in question. If there were s
uch a thing as Saint Nick, I’d have enough coal for my own personal coal mine by now.

  “What. The. Fuck.” Vann materializes out of seemingly nowhere to make his pithy contribution to Ro’s review of my love life. The man could have a second career as a ninja.

  “Is this like a marriage of convenience? Does she need a green card or something?” Ro turns to look at Vann, who shrugs. He’s never been one for conversation. “He’s riding to the rescue again.”

  “She’s hot,” I counter.

  “And therefore you’ve offered her a lifetime of you?” Ro shakes his head like I’m the sorriest fuck of them all. “She’s gonna want to rethink that one.”

  “Fake,” I emphasize, rolling around with Big Ben. “Her mom’s on her back about settling down and getting married.”

  “Which is what the two of you are not doing?” Ro asks drily.

  He’s got a point.

  “Her mom is determined.” Not that Vali isn’t. I think about the expression she gets on her face when she talks about her Mami, a mixture of love and frustration. She wants the older woman happy, and I can help.

  Plus, I’m bored. I haven’t blown anything up in eighteen months, and this is the closest I’m getting to fireworks. Although… the Florida Keys do Fourth of July in a big, big way. Maybe I can volunteer to shoot off the shit at our next celebration. I fucking love fireworks, from the burnt-paper smell of a used charge to the high-pitched whistle of a Girandola as it wheels up into the air and explodes.

  Ro elbows me. “Earth to Finn. We’re waiting for your closing argument. For any argument.”

  I go with the truth. “She’s hot. She needs help. I need a relationship. Case closed.”

  Vann rumbles something that I ignore. After I pulled Vali’s car out of the ditch, she made a convincing case for seeing her again. Or just seeing more of her. I’m easy, and I’ll take what I can get. For Vali I’d make an exception to my one-time-and-done rule. It’s honestly more of a guideline anyhow. Plus, I’m no Boy Scout and loopholes are totally legal.

  It’s not like I can’t see a girl more than once.

  It’s just that it’s simpler not to. When you see people on a regular basis, you get to know them. And then the feelings start. I’ve lost one too many of my teammates to want to run the risk of adding to the number of people I care about. But Vali just wants to have fun with me, and I can work with that. I’m the champion fun-maker.

  I’ve also got a plan.

  Part of a plan.

  “I’ve got an errand to run,” I announce to my peanut gallery. Ro and Vann follow me toward my Jeep. It’s like having two bonus dogs, but without the leash. They’ll fuck with me if they think they can get away with it, although they also know that I’ll get even at some point. We’ve been friends for years, and that’s how it works. Sure enough, they pile into my Jeep. Rex One barks happily because that dog adores fieldtrips.

  “Seriously?” I stare at my audience.

  Ro buckles up and leans back in the front seat. “Where we going?”

  The Piggly Wiggly sports a row of quarter machines outside the front door. The contents of those machines are today’s mission objective. Since that’s need-to-know intel, I just drive faster and turn the radio on. Driving to AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” isn’t slowing things down, either. Good thing there’s no cop around to bust me. Ro either shuts up until we pull up in front of the store, or my off-key singing drowns him out.

  “You don’t have to get engaged to have a date,” he announces.

  Right. “And you know this because you’ve got an active social life?”

  Ro himself hasn’t gotten laid since the Ice Age. Possibly the Pleistocene Epoch. I saw a documentary about that once, and it seemed downright chilly.

  Ro punches me in the shoulder harder than is strictly necessary. “I can date if I want to.”

  Vann grunts. “Uh-huh.”

  Ro’s potentially married, and it’s not like Vann’s burning up the dating world, either. As we pile out of the Jeep, I can practically feel the local eyeballs boring into us. We’re hard to overlook, possibly because we look ready to roll at a moment’s notice. I’m almost certain neither Ro nor Vann are packing heat, but we all have blades. You never know when a knife will come in handy. I lay in a path for the quarter machines.

  “That’s our target?” Vann rumbles, falling in behind me.

  Ro is right beside me. “Vegas would be more fun.”

  He isn’t wrong, but I’m operating on a strict timeline here. Plus, the three of us would have followed each other into hell, so the Piggly Wiggly is practically a vacation destination.

  “Give me your quarters.” I hold out my hand, knowing my boys will hook me up. With my other hand, I shake down my pocket for loose change. This isn’t a Visa or an Amex Black Card moment. Ro produces change immediately, because the guy is more organized than a Rolodex. His change is neatly quarantined in his wallet, and I’d bet he’d organize the coins by size if he could. Vann, on the other hand, packs a hell of a lot of crap in his BDUs. If the guy fell into the ocean, he’d sink from the weight. He’s also got gears, springs, and bits of mechanical innards that look suspiciously detonate-able. Whatever. Every man needs a hobby.

  I assess the weapons at my disposal. Four dollars and seventy-five cents. Nineteen chances to win. It’ll have to be enough. I plug in the first quarter.

  “You bored?” Ro leans against the wall, watching. Vann has my back. It feels like old times, except we’re not clearing a street in some godforsaken desert town, and I don’t have to watch the road for IEDs on the way back to base. Nobody’s looking to blow us up today.

  I shoot Ro a grin. He’s a man who appreciates a plan. “My new girl deserves a ring.”

  Ro shuts up at that, his brow crinkling as he assesses the machine. It’s full of cheap-ass plastic gimcracks in little plastic bubbles. In short order, I acquire a lifetime supply of superballs, a rainbow tattoo, and a selection of mutated princess dolls that are approximately an inch tall. The sheriff’s badge is kind of cool, though. Vann must think so, too, because he promptly swipes it and pins it to the front of his shirt.

  “I’ve got a screwdriver,” he volunteers. “I could get you inside in thirty seconds.”

  Vann’s our resident MacGyver. If you dropped him on a desert island naked, he’d have figured out how to build an entire textile factory to manufacture three-piece suits out of coconuts by the time you came back for him in a week. I appreciate the offer (and honestly? A rock would accomplish the same thing, albeit with more property damage), but it feels right to leave this to chance.

  I hit the mother lode two dollars in. I turn the silver wheel, and the clear plastic bubble that comes shooting out holds a ring. Yes—I’m doing my ring shopping at the Piggly Wiggly because I’m a class act. Vali’s new ring has an egg-shaped “diamond” on an adjustable gold band. It probably costs less than a penny to pop this bad boy out in China, which means the Piggly Wiggly makes a killing on the mark up.

  Huh. I consider popping the bubble open and then decide against it. I should let Vali unwrap it. Girls like that shit.

  “Hey,” Ro protests when I shove the ring and the unused quarters into my pocket. “Don’t I get my change back?”

  I flash him the bird. Sometimes, the guy requires pictures. “Finders, keepers.”

  “There was zero finding involved,” Ro mutters. “And you’re the guy in line for a million bucks.”

  The hand that snakes into my pocket is lightning quick. Ro’s getting faster in his old age. “You think she’ll wear that?” He turns the ring over in his hand. “She might prefer Tiffany’s.”

  I slap his hand away when he attempts to make a return trip into my pocket and snatch the ring back.

  “Watch the family jewels.” Vali’s welcome to fondle my dick. Ro, however, can keep his hands to himself. “And yeah. Her mom’s gonna wonder if her ring finger stays bare. How the fuck do you know what Tiffany’s is, anyhow?”

 
Ro lifts a shoulder. “You know what it is.”

  Mr. Logic strikes again.

  “Blue box. Big price tag with matching expectations,” Vann adds helpfully, just in case I haven’t figured it out. “No pressure.”

  Honestly, Vali deserves the biggest, sparkliest, most goddamned expensive ring in the universe. I haven’t known her for long, but I already know that much. Since she’s decided to borrow me for her drama, however, she gets plastic and… I squint at the ring. “What the hell do you think they make this thing out of?”

  I’m pretty sure I could drive the Jeep over the “diamond” without cracking the surface.

  “Plastic?” Vann deadpans.

  So. Not. Helpful. Ro, Vann, and I have traded shit for years. Usually, it’s a fun game of give and take. And usually, I’m doing more giving than taking. I’m probably a candidate for canonization. Forget porn pictures or booze when you’re stuck in a foxhole or deep undercover in some mosquito-infested, sweat-inducing South American jungle. That’s when a good joke and a good friend is a lifesaver. So ordinarily, I don’t mind taking one for the team. It’s practically in my job description, and it’s easier to laugh off the shit hands that life sometimes deals us.

  It’s just that this is Vali’s ring. All three dollars worth.

  And I kinda suspect she deserves something more.

  T-10 days

  FINN

  I have no problem with making a spectacle out of myself. I wasn’t always so laid-back about shit, but you live and you learn. When I was a wet-behind-the-ears Navy man, fresh out of high school, I was way more uptight. I had to be bigger, stronger, and badder than the sailor next to me, no matter what. I hadn’t learned to laugh at myself yet, although I had a hell of a time laughing at others when they did something stupid. Dumb fuck that I was, I hadn’t figured out yet we all screw up eventually. Even God probably has days when He asks Himself what the fuck He was thinking, creating people.

  I was the center of attention in those days, and not for the right reasons. I ran faster, harder, and longer than any other guy at my high school, but I was also the fucking epicenter for trouble. Fast cars, broken laws, empty beer bottles, pretty girls, and a punk-ass attitude—I was to blame for it all.