Issued (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 1)

by Paris Wynters

  I snort. I should’ve known better than to trust fate. But I had to go through the screening process. God only knows what the repercussions would’ve been if the military found out I wasn’t serious when I filled out the application. But since finding a match could’ve taken a while, I did have the option later to withdraw my application.

  Except my circumstances changed in a terrible way. This new program is now about to become my saving grace . . . with a man whose name and address are on the piece of paper in my pocket. But who in their right mind signs up to be “issued” a husband, even with a rigorous screening process? At least I won’t have to look over my shoulder here. Or be reminded of everything that I lost at every corner.

  My heart twists sharply at the memory of all that’s vanished forever, before kicking up to a rhythm of stampeding wild horses the closer I get to the two-story, cobalt-blue Colonial house where my future husband and the officiant are waiting. Holy hell, I’m going to be someone’s wife by the end of the day.

  I pull up to the curb, kill the engine and push out the kickstand. Dismounting, I take a moment to look around while my ears adjust to the quiet after hours on the road. The landscaping is immaculate. The Ford F-250 looks brand new, or at least it’s washed and shined to reflect even the dimly lit morning. The rocks lining the walkway to the front door are perfectly spaced, like someone had laid them in rows by hand.

  Everything is just . . . too perfect.

  I close my eyes and mutter a prayer this man isn’t one of those people who has to line up his cereal boxes in size order. Or worse—alphabetically. Because I’m anything but organized. And I can’t cook for shit.

  I shake my head and pull off my helmet and roll my shoulders before reaching back to rub along the crease between my neck and trapezius muscles. Upper body muscle kinks are the one thing I hate about long rides.

  I take a deep breath and make my way up the stone walkway. Time to rip the Band-Aid off. This marriage is my choice. My chance at a new life in a new place. No sense in stalling now. Each step is slow and methodical until the heel of my boot strikes the first stair of the porch, while my fingers grip the white railing like a lifeline. My feet stall at the mat in front of the storm door, eyes unblinking and focused on the small eggshell button to the right. My finger stops merely a hair from the bell.

  Somehow, my situation hasn’t felt real until this moment. The call from the Issued Partner Program committee the day after my house burned down was a miracle. I’d nearly forgotten about the application. The final interview had been three months prior and then radio silence. Perhaps fate does have something in store for me. I try again to press the doorbell but my hand freezes midair.

  I shake myself. Get your shit together, Taya. You can do this. My finger crashes into the ivory button. Crap. Bending over and mumbling a string of curses, I yank at my finger joint to unjam it. The door clicks, and I recoil. A behemoth of a man stands in the entryway, tightlipped and unblinking. My earlobes burn from embarrassment. Every time I do something stupid, my earlobes decide they’d like to change colors. I hate it.

  “Um, hi. I’m Taya.” I extend my hand.

  The red-bearded giant stands there, arms folded across his chest. Staring.

  I stare back, blinking. “I’m . . . uh . . . your soon-to-be wife. I guess. Sort of.”

  “Not mine.” The gatekeeper smiles wide and steps aside, his arm holding open the door. “He’s inside.”

  I curse myself. Perfect. I’ve already managed to misidentify the groom-to-be. And here I thought the most awkward part was over. Would’ve been helpful if the military sent me a color photo instead of a black-and-white, clean-shaven image. At least then I wouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake. I suck in a deep breath and squeeze between the meaty body in front of me and the doorframe, finally entering the foyer.

  “Jim, your future wife’s here,” the giant bellows behind me, causing me to jump.

  Inside, a low, smoky growl rumbles from the man leaning against the archway between the hallway and living room, thumbs tucked into the waistband of blue jeans, his frame seeming to take up the entire entryway. The bill of his green, tattered baseball cap dips down and casts a shadow over his eyes. His mouth twists into a scowl while the sunlight seeping through bay windows spotlights the hard angles of his jaw.

  Pushing off his shoulder, the man stands tall, his head almost touching the top of the archway. The fingers of my left hand curl and the padding of my helmet squishes beneath the pressure as my mouth goes dry. His charcoal-gray T-shirt stretches when he folds his arms across his chest, the sleeves tightening around flexed biceps. His lips press into a thin line while his fingers drum against taut forearms. “You’re late.”

  The corner of my eye twitches, and I bite hard into the wet flesh of my inner cheek, trying to contain the angry words threatening to erupt. While I’d like to blame it on being distantly related to the Huns, Mongolians are generally a calm race, contrary to popular belief. But he sounds just like my stepmother, who blew a gasket when we first met because I ran ten minutes behind for lunch. And growing up with the emotionally abusive bitch for a primary caregiver had been a special kind of hell, always having to defend myself and my actions to her. Maybe I should’ve looked for a program to be a mail-order bride to a yogi. Serenity would do me some good.

  The redwood tree behind me glides past. For such a large guy, he’s not only graceful but makes no sound when he walks. Like a freakin’ ninja. He stops and his gaze bounces between me and my future husband, then smirks. “Officiant’s waiting. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  My soon-to-be husband glares at the other man. “Glad you’re enjoying this, Bear.”

  Bear—awesome name, by the way—continues to the kitchen and I follow with Jim taking up the rear. The tension in my body eases a small degree. Being between two large men, two SEALS, offers a level of safety I haven’t had in a long time. If only it could last forever.

  I peek around Bear when we get to the archway. Holy shit. The kitchen is amazing and spacious. Everything is white, including the tiles of the backsplash, the gray granite countertops contrasting nicely. And the ceramic jars in size order. Countertop appliances lined up. Not a utensil out of place.

  Just great.

  My eyes drift from the stainless steel appliances over to the corner to the nook and my knees practically buckle. I can’t wait to sit there and read in the sunlight. Especially with the oversized windows.

  Bear steps forward and my gaze bounces back to the center of the room to the huge island where Jim is standing next to a man, who must be the officiant, while he glares at me as if I just ran my key across his pristine truck. Why the hell did he volunteer to have a wife assigned to him since he seems pissed as hell I’m here? Or maybe it’s just me that rubs him the wrong way.

  I focus my attention to my feet when my heart begins to bang against its boney prison. During the final interview, the member of the committee assigned to me explained how the military hopes the program will reduce the divorce rates among special ops personnel by pairing them with compatible spouses. I’m starting to think they have a few kinks to work out of their system, though. How else could they think I’m a good fit for him?

  When I look up, everyone is staring at me. Guess this is it. Time to get married. I force a smile onto my face and walk over to stand next to Jim, placing my helmet on the countertop once I’m beside him. Bear stands across from us, arms folded, and the corners of his lips twitch as if he’s fighting a smile. Glad someone finds this amusing.

  The man looks up from the paperwork splayed out in front of him. “Now that everyone is here, I just need both of you to look over the marriage license. Make sure your information is accurate. Once that is complete, I’ll have your witness sign it.”

  “Witness? I didn’t bring one.” My voice cracks at the end.

  “Senior Chief Stephens requested Lieutenant Commander Donaghue be present. But there’s no statutory requirement that witnesse
s be present at the marriage ceremony in Virginia,” the officiant says as he hands me the license.

  I take it and glance over my information. Everything is perfect. Well, except for the fact that my former street address is now a vacant lot since the fire. My throat tightens and my palms start to sweat. Fire? That was far too kind. Arson. A monster, formerly one of my best friends, had burned my house to the ground, and that knowledge has haunted me every day since.

  I can’t think about this now. I swallow past the lump in my throat and hand the license over to Jim to peruse. When he is done, he hands it back to the officiant.

  Once he completes his section of the license and everyone signs off, Jim walks the men out. I follow behind but stop in the foyer as the rest of the group heads outside. My shoulders sag as I sigh, not sure if I am relieved or sad. This is my new life, complete with a new home and a new husband. If only it were under different circumstances. At least for me.

  The Eldorado stone fireplace in the living room to my right captures my attention. Since I was a young girl, I’ve dreamed of a home where I could cozy up in a room warmed and illuminated by the flickering light of a fire, breathing in the scent of pine as it burns. I walk over, running my fingers along the richly carved mantel lined with various pictures of Jim, the largest frame showing him in uniform.

  Navy.

  My hand involuntarily lifts and I’m tempted to touch the thin gold line that trails down the cobalt-black picture frame. I hold back. Jim might not appreciate me touching his things.

  Instead, I examine his face.

  His expression is neutral, but his eyes are intense. I take a step back and his gaze burrows straight through me. I squint and lean in to examine the picture. Rows of service ribbons and medals adorn his uniform. The purple service ribbon and navy-blue service ribbon with a white center stripe grab my attention.

  Purple Heart and Navy Cross.

  Not every person shows extraordinary acts of heroism when the shit hits the fan.

  “You can sleep in the guest room. I’ve moved most of my stuff out of there.” Jim’s baritone voice vibrates through the room.

  I spin around and find him standing in the foyer, his gaze bouncing between the picture and me. Without saying another word, he pivots and begins to head up the stairs, pausing after a few steps to crane his neck over his shoulder, his large hand wrapping around the wooden banister. “You coming?”

  My cheeks heat as I nod and make my way over to the staircase then climb up behind him. My gaze roams over Jim’s jeans, boot-cut and frayed at the seams. They’re worked in and worn, sitting on narrow hips. I swallow hard when my eyes travel lower. But then his smooth gait from moments ago falters and his cadence worsens with every step.

  We’re halfway up when he pauses. His shoulders slump and he drops his head. His stance is achingly familiar. How often had I struggled to take one more step forward only for life to suck the energy out of me?

  My gut twists and I remove my hands from my pockets in case I need to catch Jim should he falter. Who am I kidding? He’s such a goliath. Both of us would go crashing down to the first-floor landing. When Jim continues up the stairs, I follow without hesitation.

  He leads me down the hall. His steps are smoother now, though he’s noticeably slower than he had been downstairs. I’m so intent on studying his gait to make sure he’s alright that the rooms we pass do so in a blur.

  “This is it.” He opens the door midway down the hall and steps aside so I can walk in.

  The curtains are white lace and look more like the doilies my emee used to knit than actual window coverings. I chuckle. Maybe Jim’s own grandmother helped him decorate. A giant stuffed bear is stationed in the corner to my right and a garish pink lamp, glass crystals dripping from the lightshade, adorns the bedside table. I’ve never been much for interior design, but the inside of my bedroom looks like the crew of HGTV uses the space for ritual sacrifices once a month.

  I blink rapidly, trying to take in the sight before me. “Dear God.” Millions of flowers and decorative designs compete for dominance on the quilted blanket covering the bed, but nothing can distract from that bold neon pink.

  “I have the receipt. If you want to exchange it for something else, you can.” He’s still standing by the door, but he slouches and runs his thumbs across his fingertips, dipping his chin.

  I want to laugh at the absurdity of the room but the vulnerability in his stance stops me mid-smile. Crap. This is unfair.

  He crosses his arms again and tilts his head to the side, and I can’t help the small smile that spreads across my lips. God, my father used to cock his head like that whenever I took too long to answer.

  Pain stabs at my heart at the memory. To hide my reaction, I step farther into the room and make a big production of placing my helmet on the desk over by the window. The quilt and all of its flowery glory is certainly an eyesore, but in the scheme of things, what difference does it make? I’d wear nothing but pink and flowers for the rest of my days if it meant bringing my dad back. Besides, I don’t want to hurt his feelings. The guy did make an effort to set up my room even if he was way off the mark. “No. I love it. Thank you.”

  He nods and shifts from one foot to the other. He reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Gotta get to work. My number is on the island in the kitchen if you need anything.”

  Jim turns, and I step forward. “My stuff is still outside. Mind if I park my bike in the driveway?”

  Hand on the doorframe, Jim’s head cranes around and for the first time, his piercing green eyes are completely visible. His gaze lingers, traveling up and over the length of me, and my body clenches.

  “I’ll meet you outside. I, um, need to use the restroom.” My fingers drum against my outer thighs as I wait for a response.

  He nods then walks away, leaving me standing in the room struck by a pink tornado. So, after inhaling a long breath, I head toward the bathroom. Why the hell is there only one bathroom in this freakin’ huge house?

  A minute or so later, I dry my hands and head downstairs. The sun kisses my cheeks when I step out the front door, and I welcome the warmth. While the air is crisp and refreshing, I miss the blare of sirens and the backfire of passing buses. Virginia Beach is too quiet. It’s not home.

  I don’t know if I’ll ever have a real home again.

  Jim is standing by his pickup, staring up at the sky. When the door closes behind me, he turns my way, then walks over to the driver’s side door and climbs up into his truck. So much for a goodbye. With a shrug, I head over to my bike. A moment later, a grinding noise fills the air and I look over my shoulder to see the garage door lifting. When Jim pulls out, he stops next to me and rolls down his window. “Park in the garage. Looks like it may rain.”

  I glance up at the blue sky with hardly a cloud in the sky. A smile finds its way to my lips. I appreciate his show of kindness, even if the concern for my bike seems misplaced. Guess he knows something about the weather I don’t. Can he be any more like my dad?

  My smile turns bittersweet as I look back at him and nod. Once he drives off, I pull my bike up the driveway and into the garage, fling the two duffel bags over my shoulder and press the button to close the garage door before heading back inside.

  No sooner do I make it back up the stairs and into the guest room when the annoying chimes of my phone go off. I really need to change that ringtone. But the sound is loud enough to be heard over the roar of my bike’s engine. Dropping the bags onto the floor, I pull the phone out of my back pocket.

  A blocked number.

  Crap. Did Marco find my new number? My hand trembles as my finger hovers over the green answer button, but on the third ring I answer. No sooner do I put the phone to my ear than an annoying recording starts about ways I can make money working from home.

  Seriously? I’ve had this number less than two weeks and I’m getting telemarketing calls already? What the hell? I groan, end the call, and plop down on the bed. Oh my God, I’ve lan
ded in a pile of marshmallows. Or maybe after the eight-hour ride on a motorcycle from New York, any mattress would feel like heaven.

  The house emanates pure masculinity, with testosterone practically seeping out of the walls, except in my room. A burst of laughter escapes the depths of my throat as I glance around the room once more. I can’t even imagine Jim going shopping for all those items. He put a lot of thought into setting up the room, although he might as well have been shopping for his grandmother’s arrival.

  I snicker. If he thinks all women are uber-feminine and love nothing more than pink and flowers and hearts, I must have given him a heart attack when I drove up on my bike.

  Lifting my phone, I open up my photo gallery. Thumbing through the pictures, I select a bunch of Marco and hit delete. My chest tightens and my pulse thunders in my ears with each image of my former best friend that loads onto the screen while my free hand clenches the blanket, strangling the puffy cloth beneath me. Maybe I should’ve just gotten a new phone.

  But then I’d lose the pictures of my dad and Lyons.

  I pause on a photo of Lyons, Marco, and me. For years, we’d been the closest of friends. Lyons is the jokester while I’m the risk taker of our crew. Marco was the grounded one, the one I would count on to tell me the truth, no matter how blunt. Like the time I asked for his opinion on my prom dress, and he told me I looked like a poorly wrapped, silver Christmas present. They were like the big brothers I never had.

  My throat spasms. Somewhere along the way, Marco had changed, had gone to work for Santoro, and used his family’s bakery for illegal activities. He started lying and then one day he used me to get to my father. My fists clench and unclench. No way some random guy robbing a convenience store got one up on Dad. Especially for a head shot. Dad’s death was a hit and it was my fault. I’m the reason Santoro found out about the investigation.