Hot SEAL, Dirty Martini

by Johnson, Cat

  HOT SEAL, DIRTY MARTINI

  SEALs in Paradise

  CAT JOHNSON

  NY Times & USA Today Bestseller

  "adorably hilarious love story!"

  He wants seclusion. She craves the spotlight. The deal they make could give them both what they need . . . if they don’t kill each other first. Home renovation has never been so hot!

  Navy SEAL Clay "Dirtman" Hagan's retirement plans are simple. Buy the dilapidated beachfront cottage he found listed for a song, fix it up, and live out his days in solitude. Everything is set until an anonymous bidder drives up the price of his future paradise.

  TV talk show host Tasha Jones is flying high, until one word—CANCELED—sends her crashing. Now she's looking to resurrect her career with a new home renovation show if they can get around the buyer standing in the way of the perfect property.

  When the competition turns out to be none other than the obnoxious a-hole from her embarrassing drunken one-night stand, the battle for the property really heats up as the insults—and the sparks—fly. The producer notices the chemistry between them and decides the viewers will too and the concept for "Hot House" is born.

  If Clay agrees to have the self-centered star and her cameras in his house for the duration of the show, he walks away as the owner in the end. If Tasha can put up with living in the bungalow with the Neanderthal control-freak during the construction, she gets a hit show and her career back. Win-win.

  It shouldn't be too hard since the director loves when they argue on camera, which is good since they agree on nothing. Well, almost nothing. They do agree they hate each other and neither wants a repeat of their one night together . . .

  So why does it keep happening?

  Get new release and deal alerts

  EXCERPT

  “That’s my house.”

  One of the women glanced up at Clay, looking surprised. “You’re the seller?”

  “No, I’m the other buyer you keep outbidding.” He scowled, trying not to tell them exactly what he thought of their swooping in and trying to steal his purchase.

  Tasha turned to face him. “Then it’s not your house, is it? If they bid higher and the seller accepted their offer over yours, then it’s their house.”

  Clay stood to his full height and took a step forward, closing in on Tasha, knowing full well how intimidating he could be when looming over someone smaller.

  He’d backed men far larger than her into corners with his glare alone.

  “Well, Miss Know-It-All, the seller hasn’t accepted their offer. So it’s nobody’s house yet.”

  “I have no doubt they can outbid any amount you can come up with.” Her gaze dropped down his body, as it had the night before when she’d been sizing him up.

  His brows slammed down over his eyes in an angry frown. “You know nothing about me.”

  “And you know nothing about me, in spite of . . . of whatever happened.” Her expression turned insecure, questioning and almost fearful.

  His mouth dropped open in realization. “Oh my God. You can’t remember last night, can you?”

  ONE

  “As you can see, the view is amazing.”

  Like a shadow, or the stink that clung to the inside of a gym bag, the real estate agent followed Clay to the expansive picture window that faced the Pacific Ocean.

  Clay made a non-committal grunt to acknowledge he’d heard the man, but didn’t comment. He didn’t mean to be rude to Russell Ramirez, real estate agent extraordinaire, but this was business. Hundreds of thousands of Clay’s dollars were on the line here.

  On the outside Clay remained cool as a cucumber. On the inside he was doing backflips, because even with as annoying as Ramirez was by being up Clay’s ass throughout the duration of the showing, the man was right. This was one of the most amazing views Clay had ever seen—and that was saying something because he’d seen a lot in his twenty-years in the Navy.

  The good news was the view came with a ramshackle bungalow that had seen better days. That was good news because it had a bargain price tag to match its downtrodden state.

  The only reason a developer hadn’t already snapped it up had to be the size of the lot and the zoning laws. The structure couldn’t be added on to. Not up, since a second story wasn’t allowed. Definitely not out, since the building just about rode the property line as it was.

  Restoration of the original home was the only option, and that was fine because Clay had no intention of expanding. The house had character just as it was—unlike some of the other buildings he’d seen.

  The 1950s single story, one thousand square foot bungalow located in Imperial Beach suited him just fine.

  He didn’t need or want more space than that. He’d lived in the bachelor barracks for enough years, he didn’t have much stuff or need much room. Just a bedroom large enough to fit a bed and space outdoors for a barbecue grill.

  What would he do with a big piece of property anyway? He sure as hell didn’t want to spend his retirement years tending a yard.

  Here, the Pacific could be his backyard. It was perfect. His own little piece of paradise.

  “So what do you think?” the agent asked. When Clay didn’t reply immediately, he said, “Mr. Hagan?”

  It had to be driving the man crazy that Clay had yet to comment.

  After two decades in the Navy, the majority of that time spent as a SEAL, Clay knew well how to bide his time. The team would prepare, and then wait. And then wait some more. Finally, only when the time was right, they’d jump into action and spring on their prey—which was usually someone who wanted them dead.

  Compared to Clay’s experience with armed insurgents out to annihilate him and all he held dear, one California real estate agent was nothing.

  Clay lifted a shoulder and said, “I don’t know. It needs a lot of work.”

  That was the truth, but it was mostly cosmetic. He knew the bones were good. The house was solid. Amazing, considering its beachfront location. It was a testament to the craftsmen who’d built it so many years ago. Back when quality mattered.

  “It’s the perfect restoration project for the right person.” The agent was a good salesman. With one sentence he’d deflected Clay’s criticism and turned it into a challenge.

  Oh, Clay was the right person, all right. He’d grown up with a hammer in his hand, fixing and building whatever he and his carpenter-by-trade father could find.

  He was the right person—but he’d be damned if he’d pay asking price. Only suckers didn’t bargain for a better price.

  Clay turned to the agent. “Can I think about it and get back to you?”

  “Yes, but be aware there’s been a lot of interest in the property recently . . .”

  Bull shit. Clay had done his homework. He’d looked up the history of the listing online. The house had been on the market for two years and the seller had dropped the price by nearly a hundred thousand dollars total during that time.

  He kept that knowledge to himself and let the agent pretend there were other interested parties.

  “I understand. I’ll get back to you.” Confident there really was no competition and the house would be his—and for twenty thousand below asking, which was what he planned to offer—Clay extended his hand to the agent. “Thanks for your time.”

  “No problem. I look forward to hearing from you soon.”

  With a non-committal nod, Clay pivoted and headed out the front door and toward his pick-up truck.

  It wasn’t until he was behind the wheel and pulling away that he allowed himself to smile. This house was as good as his. No doubt about it.

  He navigated to 75 North, heading toward Coronado and his current, hopefully
short-term, furnished rental that he’d moved into when he’d retired two months ago.

  He’d been looking at properties since then but today’s was the first to get him excited. That called for a celebratory drink. He hit a name in his cell’s contact list to dial one of his buddies, put the call on speaker and listened to the ringing.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Knots. You up for a visit to McP’s?”

  “Dirtman! You know it. I’m always up for McP’s.”

  Clay smiled at his teammate’s willingness to be swayed into day drinking, even during the week. Asher “Knots” Dillon never did say no to an invitation.

  “You sure you can get away?” Clay asked. Asher was still on active duty at the base.

  “Yeah, sure. Nobody will miss me for an hour. Nothing going on here anyway. I’m basically killing time until my leave starts.”

  Clay remembered those days, counting the days and hours until leave started, but he wasn’t in that world anymore. Now, his whole life was one long leave and today, he intended to take advantage of that and celebrate his new house with a few cocktails.

  “Perfect. See you there in about ten?” Clay said.

  “Um. Better make it fifteen,” Asher corrected.

  “You got it. I’ll have a bourbon neat waiting for you.”

  Asher laughed and said, “Well, in that case, I’ll be there in ten.”

  Another check in the pro column for this house—it was less than fifteen minutes away from his and his friends’ old stomping ground at Coronado.

  It really couldn’t be more perfect.

  Clay’s mind buzzed as he tried to decide how long to wait to call the agent and put in his bid for twenty thousand below asking price.

  Three days maybe? Just so he wouldn’t look too anxious.

  Nah. No way he could wait that long. He was too excited. He wanted in that house as soon as possible so he could start fixing it up. He had a sneaky suspicion he’d be calling tomorrow.

  Apparently playing hard to get wasn’t his strong suit.

  Hitting the accelerator, he sped faster. A dirty martini, served up in a chilled glass with extra olives, awaited him.

  TWO

  “Tasha. Jane. Can you two come into my office, please?” Jerry had popped his head into Tasha’s dressing room and then disappeared just as quickly as he’d come.

  Still facing the mirror, Tasha frowned and caught her assistant's gaze in the reflection. “We go on air live in fifteen minutes and he wants to have a meeting now?”

  Jane shrugged. “He’s the boss.”

  “Humph.” That was all Tasha had to say in response, because even though Jerry was the executive producer of Good Day, San Diego, there’d be no show without Tasha.

  Viewers tuned in daily to see her.

  The Daytime Emmy Award for Best Host of a Lifestyle Program displayed on her mantelpiece had the name Tasha Jones engraved on it. Not Jerry Bernstein’s.

  Tasha took one last glance at herself in the mirror above her make-up table.

  Why she bothered looking, she wasn’t sure because however she looked right now was how she was going on air. There’d be no time to change anything now. Not with a command performance in Jerry’s office and then the show going live in—she glanced at the time—about thirteen minutes.

  She sighed and stood. “Might as well get in there and see what’s so important.”

  Jane nodded and they made their way down the hall together and into Jerry’s office.

  “Shut the door.”

  Tasha pivoted to do as Jerry had ordered, without benefit of a please or thank you from him, she noted.

  When she turned back toward the desk, she also took note of the deep furrow between his brows. The man’s entire demeanor broadcasted stress.

  For the first time since getting this mysterious summons to his office, she stopped being annoyed and began to get worried.

  “Jerry, what’s wrong?” Tasha lowered herself to perch on the edge of a chair. She had a feeling she might need to be sitting for this.

  Next to her, Jane did the same. Tasha resisted the urge to reach out and hold Jane’s hand for support—support for herself, not for Jane. Call her selfish, but she was getting scared.

  “I wanted you to hear this from me first.” Given Jerry’s expression and those doom-filled words—nothing good could follow that sentence.

  Her pulse whooshed so loud in her ears she barely heard the rest of what he said as he continued, “The network is making the official announcement later today. The show’s not being renewed for next season.”

  When she exhaled the breath she’d been holding she realized she couldn’t get new air into her lungs. For a few panicked seconds it was as if she were underwater, drowning, unable to draw breath.

  A few shallow breaths in quick succession convinced her she wasn’t going to suffocate, but she might pass out.

  “Are you all right?” Jane asked.

  Tasha shook her head. She wasn’t now and wouldn’t be for a long time.

  How could she be all right? She’d just bought a condo. She had a huge mortgage on it because she’d expected the show to be renewed.

  The ratings were great. She’d just won the Emmy. She’d foreseen no earthly reason why they’d want to cancel a successful show. She still couldn’t fathom their motivation.

  “Why?” she asked Jerry, appalled to hear her voice sounded as breathless as she felt.

  “The network wants to go another direction with their daytime programming.”

  “What other direction?” she asked, shaking her head, baffled.

  He lifted one shoulder. “Harder hitting stories. Political commentary. Big name interviews both from Hollywood and Washington.”

  She felt the frown form on her brow in spite of the Botox injections she’d gotten at thirty-two years old because she knew she’d better look good on camera for this thankless ageist network that didn’t appreciate a successful show when they saw it.

  “The viewers like what we do. They love the cooking segments, and cocktail recipes, and the fashion advice, and the celebrity interviews. And the ratings are—”

  Jerry’s continuous head shaking cut off the rest of Tasha’s list of proof that the network was wrong.

  “I know, Tash. Everything you’re saying is true. Ratings are good but they’re stagnant. There’s been no growth in viewership for more than two years.”

  “How can we expect growth? With all the cord cutting and streaming channels out there, no network show is showing growth.” In fact, in Tasha’s opinion, holding steady was a miracle.

  She considered not losing rating points a win in this environment where there were so many other things vying for viewers’ attention.

  Jerry lifted one shoulder. “Hallmark Network has seen a considerable gain since twenty-sixteen.”

  Tasha frowned. “Really?”

  She considered what he said, which must be true. Jerry might be cold hearted and have horrible timing, but he wasn’t an outright liar.

  But Hallmark played the opposite of deep political shows. They catered to viewers who wanted light escapism, which was exactly what her show was and what her network wanted to move away from. It only proved her point—the network’s new direction was wrong.

  She opened her mouth to explain just that when Jerry held up his hand and stopped her words before they left her lips.

  “Look, Tash. It was a good show. We had a good run. Five years is longer than most shows make it. But the decision has already been made. They’re not going to change their mind no matter what anyone says. Believe me, I tried.”

  He was already using the past tense when speaking about her show and by association, her career too. It felt like a post-mortem.

  She sat, stunned into shocked silence, leaving a long pause in the conversation that neither Jane nor Jerry interrupted.

  “When?” she finally asked.

  “This season will end as scheduled. Today is the last day of the li
ve shows. As planned, we’ll run previously aired content over the summer. The network will launch the new show replacing yours in your time slot in September, beginning the week after Labor Day.”

  Deep down she hoped ratings sucked, the viewers hated the new show and the network regretted their decision, and she didn’t feel at all bad about thinking it.

  Even so, none of that would do her any good. If the new show failed nothing would change for her personally.

  The news was still going to go out on the wire today that her show hadn’t been picked up for another season.

  This time of year announcements like that were daily occurrences as networks ironed out their schedules for the upcoming fall season. Shows didn’t get picked up all the time, but never her show.

  It might be foolish to think so, but the cancellation felt like a blemish on her record. A stigma. One that could never be erased.

  Blowing out a breath, she steeled herself to move forward—at least through the next hour. After that she could fall apart.

  “All right.” She stood and smoothed her pencil skirt with her hands.

  Turning, she somehow managed to walk out of the office under her own power even though her legs felt as weak as when she’d been crazy enough to run that half-marathon.

  Out in the hall, she looked closely at every face she saw, studying the expression, trying to decide who knew, who didn’t.

  They were all in the same boat. They too were out of a job. Every one of the crew. Her crew. Though not hers anymore. Not after the end of the show today.

  That was it then. Next week, instead of going on hiatus and into contract negotiations for what she’d planned on being a nice bump in pay for next season, she’d be unemployed along with everyone else here today.

  God, she was so screwed. Her savings weren’t going to get her very far. Not after splurging on new furniture to go in her newly purchased condo.

  She had to call her agent. She had to start lining up auditions for another job . . .

  And she couldn’t do any of it until after she got through a one-hour live show, smiling and cheerful on what had to be the worst day of her life.