He stands up from unloading the gifts he’s bought and regards the tree. I show him the new ornaments I bought—the boots, the fireman’s helmet, the Labrador puppy playing with a ribbon. He lingers over the dog, laughing at its ceramic antics, and then turns to fold me into a hug. “Do you need any help cooking?” he asks.
I laugh, knowing he’s just offering to be nice—if I actually asked Joel to help cook, dinner would probably be a disaster. “Everything’s all ready,” I tell him. “Go in and see for yourself.”
He goes into the dining room. A moment later, a low whistle comes through the doorway. “You really outdid yourself,” he calls.
I grab a tasting spoon from the kitchen and hand it to him. “Try the gravy. I followed the recipe your mother gave me.”
He dips the spoon in and takes a sip. “Perfect.”
“I wish she could have come to dinner,” I say.
“Me too,” he says, “but she sent an email from Paris earlier today. I’ll show it to you later. She’s having a great time on her trip.”
The doorbell rings. I gasp and yank the spoon from Joel’s hand, running back to the kitchen to rinse it and deposit it in the dishwasher. He laughs. “Someone’s a tad high strung, I see.”
“I worked all day on this house,” I say, my hand going to my hip. “I don’t want your gravy spoon messing up the perfect tableau.”
Joel laughs and goes to the door. From the kitchen, I hear the sound of it opening, followed by the low rumble of voices as he greets my father. This is the first Christmas Joel and Dad will be celebrating together, and I’m really looking forward to having the people I love most in my house for the holiday. I close my eyes for a moment, feeling warm and excited at the prospect of celebrating with them. Who could possibly ask for more?
Joel leads Dad into the kitchen, clearly midway through a conversation. “She’s been cooking all day,” he says, gesturing to me.
“That sounds right,” Dad says. “I hope you’ve been sneaking tastes away from her!”
Joel laughs. “When I could.”
“Did you make meatballs?” Dad asks me.
“Of course,” I say. Meatballs are a Christmas tradition in our family, and the recipe comes from my great-great-grandmother. It’s the first thing I can remember Dad teaching me how to cook.
He holds up a bottle of wine and a pie platter, upon which I see his famous pumpkin pie. Even I don’t know how to bake it—he’s kept the recipe a secret from me, promising to reveal it only on his deathbed. “Where can I put these?” he asks.
I take the pie. “The wine can go in the fridge,” I say.
“Shouldn’t we open it?” Joel asks.
“Let’s wait until everyone’s here,” I say.
Dad looks confused. “Who else is coming?”
I’m spared having to answer by the doorbell ringing again. “I’ll get it,” I say quickly. I wipe my hands on my apron as I make my way to the door. I’m sure Dad is questioning Joel behind me. For a moment, I wonder if maybe we should have discussed the full guest list with him in advance, but I put that thought out of my mind as I open the door.
Shadow looks much different than he did the last time I saw him. At the sight of me, a wide grin splits his face, and before I know it he’s swept me up in a hug. “Jenna, you look wonderful. Thank you so much for inviting me tonight.”
“Thank you for coming!” I step back and show him in. Shadow is carrying a tote bag, and when he sees our Christmas tree, he begins to lay out presents.
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” I say.
“Of course, I did,” he says. “It’s Christmas!”
Joel and Dad appear in the doorway. “Shadow,” Dad says, his eyebrows are raised in surprise, but not as I had feared, upset. “Your sentence is up, then?”
“Just last week,” Shadow says. “I turned on Boetsch eight months ago today, actually, so this is kind of an anniversary for me.”
“Did you do anything to celebrate?” Joel says with a grin.
“Well, I went shopping.” Shadow waves a hand at the presents he set out, notable by the wrapping paper that doesn’t match the design Joel and I chose.
“I told him he shouldn’t have,” I say.
“Nonsense,” Shadow says. “I spent six months in jail, and when I wasn’t thanking my lucky stars for such a lenient sentence, I was daydreaming of the moment I’d have the freedom to wander in and out of stores and spend money. You don’t have any idea how much you’ll miss something like shopping until it’s gone.”
“What are you thinking about for a job?” Joel asks. Shadow was, of course, fired from his job as a police officer when he was discovered to be colluding with Boetsch. Even though he turned on Boetsch and testified against him in the end, there was no way he was going to be able to continue working in law enforcement.
But Shadow is still smiling. “I have good news on that score too,” he says. “I had an interview last week for a position as a private bodyguard. Yesterday I was notified that I got the job. It actually pays more than what I was doing before, and the skill set is the same.”
“That’s amazing!” I say.
“Thanks,” Shadow says. “I’m excited about it.” He turns to Dad. “Fred, it’s good to see you again.”
“I didn’t know you would be here,” Dad says. His voice is stiff, and a flash of concern goes through me. Is he angry? Even Shadow’s smile falters for a moment, and he looks like he’s wondering if maybe he should just go.
But then Dad smiles, closes the distance between them in two strides, and embraces Shadow, clapping him firmly on the back. “Merry Christmas,” he says. “Nice to see you’re a free man once more.”
I let out a sigh of relief and catch Joel’s eyes. I can see by his expression that he’s feeling the same way I am. “I’ll go open that wine now,” he says, disappearing into the kitchen.
I show our guests into the dining room. “Sit down,” I say. I’ve been carefully timing my food preparations all day so that everything would be hot at the right moment, and I don’t want to let that go to waste. Thank God they weren’t late.
Joel makes his way in from the kitchen and sits down, and the four of us start passing dishes around, helping ourselves to meatballs, gravy, potatoes, ham, and salad. Joel pours the wine, and Dad raises his glass. “To family,” he pronounces.
“To family,” the rest of us agree.
When everyone has eaten as much as they can, Joel clears the table and carefully packs the leftovers into containers. We’ll be eating this food for the rest of the week, but I’m certainly not complaining—leftovers are one of my favorite Christmas traditions, and I’m already deciding whether I’ll eat the mashed potatoes or the meatballs first. Joel also washes the dishes by hand—Grandma’s china is too delicate for the dishwasher. Meanwhile, I lead Dad and Shadow into the living room.
I start to build a fire in the fireplace, but Shadow insists on taking over and doing it for me. I accept his chivalry, and while he works, I go to the hi-fi in the corner and put on my playlist of Christmas carols.
Soon, the fire is crackling pleasantly, the strains of old favorite songs fill the air, and Joel is making his way in from the kitchen, having finished the post-dinner chores. As the rest of us take our seats around the room, Joel goes directly to the tree. From a cardboard box we’ve been keeping on the floor by the baseboard, he produces a Santa Claus hat, which he plunks on his head. Shadow laughs.
It’s a pleasure to sit curled up in my armchair, listening to music and watching the warm flames from the logs in the fire, as Joel hands out Christmas gifts. I’m worried my pile will be obnoxiously large, since I’m the only one with a lover and a parent in the room, but my worry turns out to be for nothing. Joel and I did a great job of keeping our gift buying even, although we failed at the plan to buy each other only one present each.
I’m unwrapping one of the gifts from Joel when a hearty laugh escapes my lips.
“Oh, you are t
oo funny!” I say between chuckles. Dad and Shadow look over with interest.
“What is it?” Dad asks.
I hold up a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs.
Joel slides over to give me a hug. “Just something for you to always remember our first date,” he says while laughing.
When every gift has been opened, I bring a tray of apple cider out from the kitchen and pass it around. It’s strange to think, but this is the most wonderful Christmas I’ve experienced in a long time. The idea that Joel and Shadow could be exactly what our little family needed to make it whole is bizarre, but now that they’re with us, I can’t imagine a holiday without them.
I snuggle under Joel’s arm against the warmth of his chest, listen to Shadow’s tales of his hilarious misadventures in the Navy, and make eye contact with my father, who smiles. An unusual family it may be, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The End
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Secret Daddy Surprise
Layla Valentine
Time for a tease!
Up next is the first chapter of Secret Daddy Surprise, the previous book in my new series, Once a SEAL, Always a SEAL
Happy reading!
Layla x
Copyright 2018 by Layla Valentine
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Garrett
It’s a moonless night, and every other streetlight on this block is out—pretty standard for the Eastside of San Antonio, Texas. My headlights pierce the velvety black summer air and then merge with pools of light as I peer at the houses that pass.
“All right, Cole, which one is it? There’s one seventeen…it’s gotta be close.”
As always, Cole doesn’t answer me. Not vocally, at least.
He can’t.
He’s long gone—his body was laid to rest after being decimated by an RPG blasted out of a terrorist compound. That doesn’t stop me from talking to him, as though we’re still behind enemy lines and he’s my closest friend.
He was the twenty-third SEAL I’d personally known that had died during combat in the Middle East.
The twenty-third, and the last. During Cole’s memorial, I decided to leave the Navy for good.
I laugh, snorting softly as I peer out the car window at the passing houses.
“Pretty ironic, huh, brother?” I whisper. “Here I am, still killing for a living.”
I spot house one nineteen. It’s on the small side, but at two stories tall, it’s bigger than the other homes on the block. There’s a shiny SUV in the driveway—also much nicer than the other cars I’ve seen.
It’s all adding up; my employer got the address right. This is where my target lives.
Signs of drug money are everywhere; drug lords usually like to live in crappy neighborhoods, and they spend money on stupid shit. It’s not uncommon for me to roll up to a house and find signs of wealth pasted over an otherwise run-down house. It’s like they don’t know what to do with their money.
I survey the house, just like I would have scoped out a compound in Afghanistan, five years prior.
“What do you think…north or south side? Yeah, south’s darker. Less chance someone will read my plates.”
Cole always gives me good advice. It’s like we’re still at war, discussing how to gain a tactical advantage.
I stop the car and read over my target’s bio one more time. I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline beginning to tingle through my veins as I examine his picture and then the blueprint of his house. I’m ready to get to work.
I look through the information one more time. Then, I glance out of the passenger window to the house’s driveway. The white convertible sports car—the one that the drug lord’s wife drives—is not in its spot. It’s Saturday, and she’s out for the night, as per usual.
“Won’t be back from her girls’ night out for another hour or so, probably,” I whisper to Cole. “Yeah, better be in and out in thirty minutes, just to be safe. On it, buddy. All right, let’s get this show on the road.”
I talk to Cole often as I drive to my hits. It helps to calm my nerves. It helps to pass the time. As wacky as it may sound, it even helps to ground me.
But as soon as I step out of the car, reality always hits. Even though I like to imagine Cole’s presence, I know the truth.
I’m all alone.
I open the back door of the black rental sedan and pull out my backpack. It’s heavy, but I’m used to it. I shoulder the pack and slide a rifle into place underneath it, so that the long steel barrel lies cold and hard against my spine. It’s comforting. I won’t need it tonight, but my Navy training of always having a backup weapon has stuck with me.
Another gun, this one with a silencer attached, gets fitted into my hip holster. After wrapping a thick coil of military-grade rope over my shoulder, grabbing my collapsible ladder, and fitting a black mask and night-vision goggles over my face, I close the door and look around.
It’s pitch black here on the south side of the house.
The night vision goggles pick up the heat of two bodies, half a block away. Because of the darkness, I’m sure the two haven’t seen me. To them, my car door slamming is the sign of just another person arriving home from a night out.
I slip around the front of the car and press my back flush to the fence. It’s overgrown with ivy, and I know that I’m well hidden. I scan my surroundings again, and then, confident that no one is around to see me, I scale the high, metal, chain-link fencing.
Before my feet hit the ground on the other side, I have a tranquilizer gun aimed at a Rottweiler who is fast approaching. As the dog’s mouth opens to let out a volley of barks, I shoot a dart at him. The mutt is immediately silenced, and he falls softly against the layer of patchy, dry grass.
I love dogs. Never been able to have one since I move around so much, but it’s always been a dream of mine to have one ever since I was a kid, moving from foster house to foster house.
Squatting down by the black and brown animal, I’m reminded of how much I’ve always wanted a furry companion. Though I’m pressed for time—thirty minutes in and out is my goal, and I still have to climb up to the roof—I take time to pet the dog and lay a treat out by his nose. I’ve been shot with a tranquilizer gun before, and I know that coming out of the stupor is no fun, to say the least.
“Sorry, buddy,” I whisper, giving him one last pat. “You enjoy a treat on me when you wake up, ’kay, my man?”
With that, I’m on my way again. The metal of my light-weight ladder scrapes against the house’s cheap, stucco siding as I climb to the second story.
Every time it moves, I freeze. A sense of timing is always on my mind, but I’m careful not to rush things. Careful is smooth and smooth is fast, as we used to say in the SEALs.
When I step out onto the flat roof, I mentally bring up a picture of the house’s layout in my mind. The master bedroom is on the west side of the second story, so I cross the flat roof, stepping silently over the tiled surface.
Once again, I scan my surroundings. This side of the house is better lit, but it doesn’t matter. Neighbors might glance around the ground story windows or main entrance of a nearby house once in a while, but they’ll rarely spend time looking up at the roofline. No one expects a break-in from the second story. That’s why it’s m
y go-to method of entry.
I fasten my harness and tie an anchor point without thinking much—it’s all muscle memory. That’s how we were trained. When we learned a new skill, we repeated it one hundred to two hundred times, until our fingers bled raw and our minds were numb with the repetition. It was never a pleasant experience, but it worked.
Now, my mind has time to focus on other things. I’m looking down the street for approaching traffic. As soon as the last car I’ve sighted drives by, I make my move.
My feet pad against the side of the house. I use momentum and a few light bouncing steps off the side of the house to reach the window. Most of them are sealed shut, and I have to take careful side steps, gripping window trim, before I find a smaller window that slides open.
See? No one expects entrance on the second story. It’s the same every time. Not only that, but I hear my target snoring as soon as I slide through the window.
This is almost too easy.
A part of me is disappointed. At war, I was used to missions that culminated in firefight. Now that I’m a hitman, my marks rarely fight back. Maybe I’m just too good at my job.
I look at my watch. It’s been twenty minutes.
I have ten minutes to make the kill and my exit. Plenty of time. I take two deep breaths, quieting my heartbeat and the rush of adrenaline in my body. Though the entry’s been easy so far, it never gets so easy that my body stops reacting. I’m still human, after all.
I feel a sense of control come back into my body, and my thoughts become more organized. My heart’s still hammering in my chest, but it’s nothing that I can’t handle.
My Protector (Once a SEAL, Always a SEAL Book 5) Page 15