Sweet For A SEAL

by Anne Marsh

  Ro makes a rough sound. “Because he won it last night.”

  Say what?

  “I’m winning our bet.” I could call Vali. I have her number. Talking about her early morning departure would be mature, right?

  Ro crosses his arms over his chest, and I get the feeling that his posture is the only reason he’s not taking a swing at me. “You had sex.”

  What I and my penis do is actually none of his business, but I assume he’s worried about Xander horning in on our position. Despite his time with the SEALs, Xander isn’t all that familiar with the words partner, team, or plays well with others. He’s more of a supreme dictator, hostile takeover and evil billionaire overlord kind of guy. I wouldn’t want to try working with him either, not without the ability to lock his ass up in the brig for insubordination.

  “I have a committed relationship,” I say. Fuck. I actually sound both sincere—and proud of myself.

  Ro snorts. “You think Xander’s gonna buy that?”

  Honestly? Yeah. And for one simple reason—because it’s the truth. I’m new to this relationship business, but I kinda… like it. I like Vali and I like the way she makes me feel. I’m a better version of me when I’m around her, although I still need to figure out where the hell she’s gone.

  Ro growls something entirely uncomplimentary. “Lose someone?”

  It’s none of his business.

  “I drove her home,” he tells me, proving that my personal shit is, in fact, now his business.

  “Why?”

  He looks at me like I’m a dumbass. “Because she wanted to leave?”

  “Why?” I sound like I’m five and stuck on auto-repeat. This isn’t the happiest realization of my life, and Ro repeats the dumbass look.

  “Because she wanted to leave,” he enunciates. “Because she was done with your sorry self.”

  She can’t be done. I’m not done with her.

  Feelings are really fucking inconvenient, aren’t they?

  Ro runs a hand over his head. He looks like he’s considering ripping his hair out. “Do you really care about her?”

  I open my mouth. Close it. Since when do we discuss feelings? I’ve never seriously considered dating anyone long-term and, honestly, my dating life mantra has been the more, the merrier. But Vali is different, and I want to hang onto her. She’s someone special. She matters. And more importantly? I want her to hang onto me.

  “Fuck yeah,” I mutter, proving I’m not getting the gold star in communication skills for today. But it’s honest. I mean it.

  Ro groans. “Go after her. Try talking instead of…”

  He trails off and turns away, but his message is clear. No fucking. More words. The odds were always high that I’d screw this up, but I was planning on having things end with Vali today. Or tomorrow. Or even next week, next month, or next year.

  Fuck. Me. I go back inside, grab my keys and the rest of my clothes, and hope inspiration strikes before I reach her place.

  VALI

  Finn knocks on my door. At least, I’m betting it’s him, because the knock is firm, loud, and annoyingly long—all traits I associate with him. If assholery had a noise, I’d be hearing it right now.

  Unfortunately for Mr. I-make-million-dollar-bets, I have a hot date with my kitchen. Usually, I can lose myself in baking, but today… my attention’s way too focused on the door and the man on the other side. He bangs and knocks, the staccato rhythm morphing into shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits, and then something that might be rap. Or maybe that’s how they teach SEALs to batter down a door.

  Nope. Still not answering.

  I beat the egg whites until they’re foaming and then drop spoonfuls of heated sugar into the white froth that clings to the wire beater. Salt, cream of tartar, vanilla. Meringue kisses are beautifully simple. I fold in the pink color and then pour everything into the pastry bag. Tiny kisses, one after another, dot the baking sheet. They’ll be melt-on-your-tongue sweet in another thirty minutes.

  Finn bangs harder on the door. I’m pretty sure he calls my name, but I thumb up the volume on my iPod and pretend that I’m having a really great time. Without him. I almost wish he’d force his way in, make me talk to him, except what could I say? Who’s Xander? And I wasn’t worth a million dollars? The last kiss sort of plops onto the tray, looking more like a mutant blob than anything sexy. Appropriate, right?

  Finn stops knocking, my phone stops vibrating with his texts, and I’m happy. Really happy. I make another tray of meringues, and these are a deep, inky purple because the pink was too goddamned cheerful.

  When my kitchen window flies up ten minutes later, I instinctively fling the tray at the intruder. Dios, who breaks in the second-floor window?

  Finn deflects the tray one-handed and hauls himself through my window. His hair’s rumpled like he ran his hands through it. He’s wearing his standard uniform of a faded T-shirt, jeans, boots—but I don’t spot any wings sprouting from his back. How the hell did he get up here?

  “You should answer your door,” he says, swings his legs over the sill, and plants his boots on my kitchen floor.

  Wish granted, my heart sings. No. Not my heart. Some lower, earthier, girlier part of my anatomy. I’m not happy he’s here, and I’m definitely not thrilled he’s ignored my very pointed dismissal of his previous attempts to communicate.

  “Breaking and entering is a felony in the fine state of Florida,” I counter and glare at the timer on my oven.

  He gives me an innocent look. “Nothing’s broken.”

  Says him.

  When he opens his mouth, though, I cut him off. I’m not interested in whatever he has to say. If I were, I’d have opened my door. “You can’t just climb up a two-story building and force your way in my window.”

  He looks at my open window and the… grappling hook? Who carries that kind of stuff around with him?

  “You shouldn’t date a former SEAL,” he says calmly.

  Deflect. I play my ace card. “Who’s Xander?”

  Finn blinks. “You know Xander?”

  I drop the mixing bowl into the sink a little harder than is strictly necessary. “I know he texts you. I know he likes blondes with big boobs. And I know he makes some really dumbass bets. You want to try again? Who is Xander?”

  Finn prowls closer. “An asshole. A billionaire. A former SEAL. Possibly, D. All of the above.”

  I hold up a hand. “Stop right there. Why is he texting you about a no-sex bet?”

  Finn braces his hands on the other side of my kitchen island. He looks sexy and rumpled, and I’m way too aware of the bed that is mere steps and a hallway away. So what if he’s pretty? And has really, really talented hands? I don’t even want to think about the million-dollar price tag. Or the fact that apparently I’m the very stupid, very oblivious monkey wrench in that particular deal.

  He leans toward me. “Why are you reading my texts?”

  “You should buy a clock,” I snarl. “All I wanted was the time.”

  “Shit,” he says, and I agree one-hundred percent. Shit sums this morning up in four letters.

  “We agreed to keep things casual,” I tell him in a deliberately casual tone. “We’re not serious. I just hope the sex was worth a million bucks.”

  His smile is slow and confident, which makes me want to throw something else at him. On purpose this time. “I should explain our bet.”

  “Not interested.” Please let me sound confident.

  He takes a step to the right, clearly intent on coming around the island to me. Not. Happening. I slide right and glare at him.

  “Xander bet me I couldn’t stay celibate for a month,” he says quickly.

  “And you didn’t.”

  He stares at me intently. “He made an exception for sex in a committed relationship. I’m committed to you.”

  We’re having—were having—fun together. We were supposed to be light and nothing serious. Our engagement is a game, a sham, and the opposite of commitment. All of that i
s true—so why do I want to believe Finn’s telling me the truth? He’s a player, like his friend Xander, and he’d probably “date” either or both blondes in Xander’s picture.

  “You’re not a commitment kind of guy,” I tell him. I wish… I don’t know what I wish.

  He flattens his palms on the island. “I’d like to be.”

  Huh. I try and fail to imagine a monogamous Finn. As the timer counts down the remaining minutes in slo-mo, I say the first thing that comes into my head. “Since when do they let billionaires join the Navy?”

  He shrugs. “It’s an equal opportunity country. Uncle Sam’s more concerned about how well you storm a beach while taking enemy fire than the state of your bank account. Gotta say that I agree. Xander was a good man in a fight.”

  Yeah. Nothing to say to that.

  Guess Finn agrees because he sort of mutters “Fuck this” and then vaults over the island. I’m pretty sure my eyes go round with surprise—he’s just cleared three feet in as many seconds—and I spin around. I need to leave, to go somewhere else, anywhere he’s not. But he’s right there in front of me, his arms gently caging me in place.

  “Hi,” he says roughly. “I missed you.”

  “So you scaled my house?”

  He lowers his head until his mouth almost brushes mine. “It seemed like my best plan.”

  “Xander?” FYI? This would be me caving in.

  “He’s an idiot. I’m an idiot.” Then he kisses me, and somewhere long before the meringues are done baking, I’ve agreed to give him a second chance.

  T-4 days

  FINN

  This is the penalty flag day, the day I make my general dickishness up to Vali in the matter of her choosing. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean bondage games. Nope. It means running errands with her… which is a very couples thing to do.

  I’ve got pictures of Vali on my phone. I thumb through them while I wait for her to finish up whatever it is she’s doing inside Bee Sweete. Most of them are just her, quick shots I snapped when she wasn’t looking. The only one I’ve got of the two of us Captain Dickwad took when we were parasailing. He caught us just as our asses hit the water. We’re bouncing, spray flying everywhere, and he’s practically snapped a crotch shot. Vali’s shrieking, and I’m laughing at her because after you’ve HALO jumped, getting your butt wet on a landing is the least of your worries. She hates that picture, but I think it’s cute.

  I’m waiting with the camera app up and ready when she comes flying out the side door of Bee Sweete. She’s late and she knows it, because she’s moving.

  She comes barreling toward the Jeep, an enormous cardboard box obscuring her face. This means I can see the bottom half of her T-shirt and two inches of tanned tummy above the waistband of her shorts. Those shorts deserve to be memorialized, so I raise my cell phone, take aim, and snag myself a couple of pictures before I haul ass out of the car. That box looks heavy, and when I pluck it from her arms, she doesn’t protest. I get that she’s capable of carrying her own crap from Point A to Point B, but why should she if she has me to handle her dirty work for her?

  She huffs with relief, shaking out her arms as I load the monster box into the Jeep. Her cheeks are pink too, and I hope she didn’t haul that load down from the second floor. Vali’s stubborn sometimes. Okay. Most of the time.

  I slide into the front seat, and while she makes herself comfortable next to me, I inspect my latest pictures.

  “What are you doing?” She leans over, her arm brushing mine.

  “I’m admiring my trophies.” I hold up the phone so she can see.

  “Those aren’t trophies,” she protests. “They’re more like blackmail.”

  Honestly? No. I pocket my phone—leaving it on the front seat is an invitation Vali doesn’t need—and start the Jeep. “Have I ever forced you to do something you didn’t want to do?”

  She gives me a look. I’m probably supposed to read all sorts of things into it, but fuck if I can figure out the language there.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  She gives me another look. Unfortunately, she seems to have a bottomless supply of them, and none of them are in English. This would be easier if she came with a user manual. “You’re the one who said he wanted to run errands with me.”

  I flick her a two-fingered salute. “At your orders.”

  “Uh-huh.” She laughs, and the husky, low sound reminds me of the dulce de leche she makes. “We’re going to the post office.”

  Honestly? The post office is not high on my fantasy list. I’m sure I’ve mentally imagined banging a mail carrier at least once, but the actual workplace of said fantasy girl is full of lines and grumpy people. No offense to the US Post Office, but no one hanging out on the public side of the counter seems to know how to address an envelope or tape a box shut. I risk a glance inside Vali’s box. It’s full of other, smaller boxes.

  “Getting a start on your Christmas mailing?”

  She tosses me something, and I catch it automatically. She’s given me a… small pink boob? It’s hard to keep my eyes on the road when she teases me like this.

  “It’s edible,” she announces, and that smile of hers is enough to make me consider pulling over and screw the post office.

  I’ve eaten plenty of things in my life. Mini-boobs are not one of them, so I wait because clearly she’s dying to explain.

  “I make candy for women undergoing chemo.” She points to the ribbon attached to the plastic package in my hand. Being thoroughly distracted by the pink titty candy, I haven’t gotten around to reading the words yet. Together we can lick this.

  Jesus.

  “You’ve got a filthy mind.” Mind you, it’s not a complaint. I adore Vali’s filthy mind. It comes up with all sorts of downright naughty things to try when we’re in bed together. It’s just that if I’d ever thought about breast cancer, I’d have assumed it was one of those Serious Subjects. The kind you don’t joke about. Ever.

  I put the Jeep in drive and tuck the candy into my cup holder. I can think of several things to do with all that pink sugar, starting with rubbing it on Vali’s tits.

  She grins at me as she twists her hair up into a messy bun. I don’t drive slow, and with the Jeep being sans doors, she’s practically eating her hair. “Be glad it’s not for ovarian cancer.”

  I think about that while she talks about something else. Honestly? I’m not really listening. My brain derailed when I imagined licking Vali’s sweet, pink lips—and not the ones talking a mile a minute, either.

  “You’re not listening,” she accuses after a couple of minutes.

  Which is entirely her fault.

  “You brought up vaginas,” I point out. She’s lucky we’re still on the road and not in another ditch.

  “I mentioned ovarian cancer,” she counters. “Ovaries aren’t pussies.”

  Potato. Potatoh.

  The post office is a ten-minute drive from Bee Sweete. Since Vali’s car is now officially in the shop having cosmetic surgery after its road trip into the ditch where we met, I volunteered to take her where she needs to go. The post office is a one-story pink stucco building flanked by an orderly row of mailboxes and palm trees. It’s laidback and lazy in the sun, and it doesn’t take us long to get inside. Mailing the four hundred million baby boxes takes the better part of twenty minutes, however.

  The older woman in the post office uniform clearly knows Vali, and the two of them chitchat back and forth about the weather, the books they’ve read, a recipe for something unpronounceable that I’ll have to coax Vali into making for me, and who in town is sporting a new baby bump. That’s information I didn’t need, but it makes Vali grin from ear to ear.

  I reach around her and shove the door open. “You come here often?”

  She nods and hightails it for the Jeep. “Once a week.”

  I mentally re-count the number of boxes we just mailed. “You know that many women with breast cancer?”

  She doesn’t answer until we�
�re well out of the parking lot, and even then she avoids the question. “Thanks for driving me here. It was really nice of you.”

  The thing is? I’m not a nice guy. My post office field trip is the direct result of my wanting to spend time with Vali—and not because I’m trying to earn a gold star for niceness. She really should understand that.

  “I want to get in your panties,” I tell her and wink. “And you’ve got a soft heart.”

  She doesn’t smile back. Doesn’t give me shit, doesn’t make that cute little disgusted sound that’s more snort than sexy.

  “Pull over,” she orders. “Park.”

  Jesus. Is she sick? Did I actually piss her off so much that she’s decided to swim home? The expression on her face is hard to read—she’s not laughing, not even with her eyes. Fuck. It’s not like I can read her mind. All this time we’ve spent together? I’ve been thinking about banging her—not about practicing my telepathy skills.

  I pull over, and she reaches over and kills the engine for me. Okay. This isn’t a five-minute pit stop and she’s not puking. I’m still clueless, though.

  “Cancer’s not a joke,” she says, even though she was laughing just a few minutes ago.

  Okay. We’re actually in violent agreement there. The people in my life tend to go out with a bang—assault rife, IED, Hummer rollover. It’s louder and faster than cancer, but dead is dead. Also? Vali looks like she’d be happy to kill me.

  “Not a joke. Got it.” Shit. This is where I’m supposed to say the S-word. Sorry. And I am sorry. I’m a sorry piece of shit. I’ve lost people. She’s lost people. And now she thinks I’m making light of those dead people she carries around with her? Not a chance.

  I shift in my seat. “I’m sorry—”

  She moves so fast that my drill sergeant would be proud. One minute she’s got her ass parked in her own seat, and the next she’s straddling me. Her hand hits the seat lever, I fly backward, and she slams a palm into my chest.