by Anne Marsh
Uncle Sam knocked me on my ass, which I didn’t see coming. I was young, ripped, and stupid as fuck. I thought I had BUD/S licked. We kicked off our mornings in Coronado with PT at an hour so early most guys were still stumbling home from the bar. We’d hit the sand at a dead sprint followed by working the ropes on the O-course like fucking monkeys on crank. They’d march us into the ocean, arms linked, and leave us submerged on our backs for fifteen minutes at a time. If you didn’t have hypothermia after that, you passed and got to do it again. I learned to find my zone even if I had my ass planted in the ice-cold Pacific. There was no excuse for failing. That’s when I met Vann and Ro. Ro was on my left and Vann on my right, and none of us planned on ringing out or freezing our nuts off.
I learned a lot about myself.
I learned I hated being cold, that sand could and would rub your nuts raw, and that I could tough out anything. The only person to blame for my quitting would be me—so I stuck it out. I flipped my COs the bird (mentally, because even I wasn’t that stupid), and I learned the value of having teammates who’d kick my ass and smack me on the back when I got it together. Got through it together.
It’s the day after I acquired a ring, and I decide to run to Bee Sweete. I may not be active duty Navy anymore, but I keep that control. Play hard, train harder. That’s my motto, and that’s sometimes all that gets me through the days. The Navy’s good at training you to put one foot in front of the other, even when your body is screaming that lying down and quitting might be preferable. They’re not so good with the head stuff, though, but if I run hard enough, far enough, there’s no room for anything else.
The Florida Keys are way prettier than Fallujah, that’s for sure. Instead of a desert, where it’s a hundred degrees in the dead of night and pushing one thirty by noon, I’ve got ocean to my left and right. I’m not one to admire the scenery unless it has tits and comes in a string bikini, but the road is goddamned pretty. The ocean is a see-through blue with dark patches of coral around the highway that connects our key to the rest of the world.
I pound down the shoulder. This probably isn’t my best idea, but there’s no point in waiting. The highway is elevated above the ocean, so I could pretend to be a fucking bird if I wanted. I’m happy with who I am, though. This is good.
Florida may not be Fallujah, but it’s warm as hell. Or heaven. There’s no way this handful of islands is anything like the sandbox where I fought for my country. I yank my shirt over my head and soak in the sunshine. It’s goddamned peaceful, nothing but the surf, the sound of my boots pounding asphalt, and Rex One.
Angel Cay is two miles long and a mile wide. We’ve basically got one small island all to ourselves and then the ribbon of highway connecting us to two cays on either side. It’s not a long run, so I set a fast pace. Yeah. I still run in steel-toes. Gotta keep my hand in, and the pain is something familiar.
The dog running beside me likes it fast and hard, too. I keep an eye on him, but Rex One was born to be a SEAL. He lopes by my side, although he could go faster. He’s a pro at jumping from ten thousand feet, and our enemies won’t know what hit them.
When I come down off the highway, hitting Angel Cay’s main street, I smell Bee Sweete before I see it. The whole town smells good, like fruit and flowers. It’s nothing like the fetid alleyways of Fallujah. I slow to a halt and consider my options. Front door. Back door. I’m sure there’s a dirty joke in there, but Rex One doesn’t need to hear it.
I’ll save it for Vali.
I go around back where she’s propped the side door open and the fan hums overhead, trying to clear the heat and humidity out of her kitchen. It’s a losing battle.
Vali is in the kitchen, humming at the top of her lungs as she rolls little balls of chocolate in cocoa powder. Scoop, roll, and then she sets them onto a tray in soldierly rows. Tops them with these ridiculous little white flowers that I’ll bet are edible, but not as edible as her. She bends over the table, reaching for something, and she’s such a tease. Her hair’s all twisted up on top of her head, little runaway curls trailing down her neck, and I’ve got to appreciate those long, toned legs of hers.
She’s bare from two delicious inches short of her ass.
Maybe she’s hiding a teeny pair of panties under her shorts, but I don’t mind if she’s skipped the undies today. I’m already making plans to strip her out of her T-shirt, although I might leave the frilly yellow apron that hits her knees. I’d like to see her in just the apron—try out a few French maid fantasies of mine.
God. She’s gorgeous.
I lean against the doorway, enjoying the view. Coulda watched all day, too, but Rex One needs water, and he barks happily to let Vali know we’ve just shown up on her doorstep. She lets out a little shriek, and one of the chocolate thingies rolls away from her. I shove off the doorway and catch it. Then, yeah, I eat it. A little dirt never killed a SEAL, plus whatever it is she’s baking tastes awesome.
Her eyes narrow. “You owe me three dollars.”
Really?
She plans to charge me for the crap that I ate off her floor? She’s picky when she’s pissed. And goddamn, but she can cook. Or candy-make. Whatever what she does is called. The sweet taste of chocolate floods my mouth, and it’s way better than anything I’ve had before, or maybe that’s just because it’s stolen.
“You’re a genius,” I tell her when I’ve swallowed. “And worth way more than three bucks.”
She’s got a smudge of cocoa on her cheek and more streaks on the front of her apron. There’s sugar or something in her hair and a dusting of something white on her chin. Somehow, I’d always imagined that cooks were pristine. Super neat. Vali is wonderfully, fabulously messy. It’s like she’s been dipped in sweet just for me.
I can’t wait to lick her clean.
Ignoring me—and I’m not making that easy for her—she rolls more balls in cocoa, and I weigh the odds of my snagging seconds. Probably should hold back, I decide. I don’t want her evicting me.
“I brought presents,” I croon.
She tilts her head and grins, running her gaze down my body. She’s welcome to look all she wants. “Must be a mighty small present.”
Yeah. An answering smile lights up my own face, and I know it’s sappy, but she makes me happy. She’s distracting me from my mission, though, so I shove my hand in my pocket and pull out the ring. Then, because I might as well do this the right way, I drop to one knee on the kitchen floor. Shoulda brought knee pads, because her floor is hard. As is another part of me.
“Marry me.” I wrap her fingers in mine, pressing the ring into her palm.
She blinks, examining me like I’m some weird specimen that crawled up out of the ocean and into her kitchen. “You bought me a ring?”
“Nothing but the best.” I decide that’s a yes and surge to my feet. Honestly? The longer I’m down there, the dirtier my thoughts get, and Vali hasn’t said yes to that. Not yet.
But she will. And while I’m making a mental to do list for her, I add screaming my name and a couple of kitchen table fantasies. A guy’s gotta dream big.
She pops the top on the plastic bubble holding the ring. “We probably should work on your definition of the best.”
“I know,” I deadpan. “I’ll spoil you for other men.”
In bed? Sure. That’s my new mission in life. While she thinks about that, I scoop the ring out and slide it onto her ring finger. Since the band’s adjustable—God bless made in China—it’s the perfect fit. I’m a genius.
Vali admires her finger for a moment, turning her hand this way and that. She’s got long, graceful fingers, the nails trimmed short and painted with some kind of glossy polish.
“I need a picture,” she announces and heads for the world’s biggest bag. Red and white and containing a mountain of girl crap that overflows the bag’s top, it’s propped up on a desk on the opposite side of the kitchen. Apparently, Bee Sweete doesn’t have a separate office, because the desk is almost invisible beneat
h a mound of paper, miscellaneous office supplies, and candy boxes. In keeping with the fucking adorable bee motif, the boxes are yellow and white.
Vali rummages in the bag, and I wonder if I’m going to have to stage a rescue mission to pull her out. I wander closer. Just in case. Plus, the way she’s bent over the desk is downright hot.
Okay, so everything about Vali is hot.
It might be quicker to dump the bag out and pillage the contents. I’m about to make this suggestion when she makes a gleeful sound and produces a bright pink iPhone decorated with little ribbon stickers. Let the photo documentation commence.
Vali snaps a couple of awkward one-handed pictures. I’m fairly certain that she has no future as a professional photographer because she’s cut her hand off in at least half of the shots. Whatever. I’m not the one who needs proof of this moment. I amuse myself by examining the contents of her desk. There’s a ginormous poster board propped up against the wall that looks like a toddler’s arts and crafts project. Vann has several nieces and nephews, and he receives monthly envelopes that he uses to decorate our break room. This makes me an expert, and whoever glued those pictures to that board needs remedial kindergarten.
Vali makes a noise. “A little help?”
I turn and see Vali trying to snap a selfie with both her head and her hand in the shot. Coordination is not her strong point.
“I gotcha,” I answer and pluck the phone out of her hand.
I take a couple of pictures, then sling an arm around her shoulder and pull her in close for the group selfie.
Then I go for gold. “Pucker up.”
Before she can react, I go in for the quick kiss. Press my lips against hers, breathing her in while I snap our picture. “I want a copy of this one, and you can feel free to send me pics of any other favorite body parts you might have.”
I grin at her. Not like I can keep my hands off her for real for much longer.
“Enough!” She grabs the phone from me, laughing. I actually consider playing keep away because when she lunges, her fingers closing over the plastic case in my hand, the ginormous fake bauble on her hand scratching my palm, her breasts brush against my arm. It’s pretty fucking perfect.
“So.” I crouch down and eye the poster board. “Are you an artist in your spare time?”
Yeah. I’m laying it on thick, but she’s my (faux) fiancée, so I’m supposed to be nice. And… I like her. She looks up from her phone where she’s apparently just sent all two million pictures to her mother. I hope they both have good data plans.
It’s been a long time since a woman I dated blushed. I mean, there’s kinky stuff that works up some pink and there’s seeing mad red, but Vali turns a color I haven’t seen since Ro threatened to paint our center something called Pink Passion Flower if Vann and I didn’t start ponying up our opinions on his interior decorating scheme.
Pink looks way better on Vali than on our walls.
“It’s a dream board. Things I want to do in the future,” she says, and then she looks anxious, like maybe I’ll denounce her as some kind of freak because she actually has a vision for her future.
Rewind. Is that like one of those summer camp projects you hang from the rear view mirror of your car? I take a closer look, and boy am I wrong. The poster board is crammed full of inspirational quotes in curly letters, plus about a million pictures of crap that make no sense. I fantasize about sex. Vali apparently fantasizes about her happy place (I could work with that), “living in the moment” (again, not a bad plan), being fit and sexy (nailed it), and creating the life she was born to live. I have no idea what that last one means. Reincarnation? Pottery? Her dream board doesn’t have footnotes.
She taps a picture that looks suspiciously like a HALO jump without oxygen. “These are things I’m doing this year.”
Jesus. Does she want to live—or does she have a death wish?
“You got a lot of stuff on here.” I inventory her arts and crafts project and decide it would take at least five years to work through the shit she’s glued to the board. She’s got pictures from at least three continents.
“I’m dreaming for three people,” she tells me. “I lost my tía and my sister to breast cancer two years ago. These are things we wanted to do together.”
I tug the board closer. “You wanted to do all these things together?”
I know all about living for the team members who didn’t make it home. I’ve got B.B. riding shotgun on my shoulder. Bet he’d totally love some of this shit. Maybe not the parasailing—we’ve inserted into hostile territory from fifteen thousand feet after all—but treasure hunting? Hell, yeah. I’d bet he’d be into the airboat racing thing. Diving with sharks is iffy—we had an unfortunate encounter with sharks in the Red Sea—but swimming naked in the moonlight is another hooyah. B.B. was the craziest bastard ever. We all swore he’d been a stuntman in another life and merely reincarnated as a SEAL. He took the most insane chances.
Not going there.
I nudge Vali’s thumb out of the way, and her blush deepens. And yes, that last picture is of two people having some very creative sex on the beach. It’s clear why Vali moved to the Florida Keys—and I’m just the man to help her with that last item. “The three of you wanted to make out on the beach together?”
She elbows me. “Not together.”
Good to know incest hasn’t made her fantasy list.
She sighs. “You think it’s stupid, right?”
I commit the board to memory. “Not at all.”
“Really?” Now she sounds hopeful. I’ve never understood why people are embarrassed by the fantasies they have.
“Really,” I say firmly, holding her gaze. Guess she doesn’t know how you train a dog, because I’m establishing a connection between us—and my next move is to make sure she knows I’m the alpha. “You just gotta tell me where you want to start. If you need a suggestion, I’ve got a blanket and know all the best beaches.”
Turns out, Vali’s blush can get deeper.
So. Goddamned. Cute.
T-9 days
FINN
Naturally, Vali doesn’t pick sex on a beach. I’m holding out hope for our date, though, since we’re now officially in a committed relationship. Her mom’s been informed, the ring’s been bought, and I’m just waiting for the yes.
But parasailing it is today.
Because I’m polishing my gentlemanly skills, I pick her up in the Jeep. Bee Sweete is just as yellow and ridiculous-looking today as it was yesterday. Thank God I’m not the one who has to wear that T-shirt.
“Come on up,” she bellows down the stairs when I get out of the Jeep. She’s got a healthy set of lungs. I take the stairs two at a time because, yeah, I’m eager to see her. She’s easy on the eyes, and Vann promised she’ll hang on tight the minute her feet leave the boat this afternoon. Sounds like a plan to me, so I’m grinning when I knock on her screen door. Even more so when I step inside, because she’s rummaging underneath her couch, ass in the air.
“You know how to greet a guy right,” I tell her when she jumps and curses. Since I learned all of my Spanish in port bars in Rota, Spain, I also know exactly what she just said. She’s definitely got a potty mouth.
“I’m looking for your kittens,” she emphasizes before I can call her on the cursing, and then she dives back under the couch. Little buggers must have gotten up inside her upholstery. I drop down beside to offer moral support or a hand if she needs it, but when she starts inching her way out backwards, I lose my train of thought.
“Bob and Bobette aren’t cats,” she accuses.
I look at the two kittens cradled in her hands. Two ears, four legs, a tail, and plenty of attitude. That’s quintessential cat for you.
“They’re demon spawn,” she continues. “They don’t sleep. They poop all the time. They like to hold lengthy conversations at two a.m.”
“You named them.” I wink at her. “That means you like them.”
Fortunately for me, I hadn�
��t had time to name them before I dropped them off. Ro teases me mercilessly about my menagerie, but fuck him. Animals are decent. They don’t expect much, and they give you everything back. He’s just bitter because Señor Seagull pooped on his shirt the day they met. And pretty much every other day after that, but who’s counting?
Not me.
At least it isn’t personal when a bird shits on you. The only reason is lack of a sphincter muscle.
“What am I supposed to do with them?”
“Keep them temporarily?” I give her my best smile.
She groans. “As in temporarily for the rest of their natural born lives?”
She sounds grumpy, but the finger she strokes across the tabby’s head is soft. I pluck the kittens out of her hands. Their fur smells like Vali’s body lotion—strawberries and something citrus. Goddamn, but I like the way she smells.
Since getting a boner in her living room isn’t actually part of my plan for the day, I need to get us out of here. “Don’t forget your bikini.”
She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t planning on parasailing naked.”
So much for my good intentions. The boner in my pants does its best to jump out at her. Real subtle. I squeeze her shoulder. “Don’t pass up on that opportunity on my account.”
She’s close enough that I can feel her laughter, her body shaking as she tries to hold it back. “You want something to eat while I grab my things?”
I can cook the basics and know how to order take out, but I’m not stupid enough to pass up a free meal. If Vali cooks anything like she bakes, I should marry her for real. When I nod, she heads for the kitchen, and I follow her.
Vali’s kitchen smells like heaven. A thick, meaty aroma fills the room. Thank God she’s not a vegetarian.
“Ajiaco,” she says and nods toward a nearby shelf. She’s got bowls and plates stacked on open shelves where you can grab them. Her kitchen is an invitation to eat. I grab a bowl and let her load me up.