by Zoe Dawson
She giggled when she got to her bedroom and grabbed her phone, pulling up YouTube. Payback was a bitch, even a mock and silly payback.
With the song “Short Shorts” playing loudly, she pranced into the living room. Hemingway’s head jerked up, his hips encased in his sexy towel. It took him a moment, but he recognized the shorts as the song played out, and she talked over the repetitive lyrics.
“In my professional opinion, a five and a half to six-inch inseam is the Goldilocks sweet spot.” She leaned forward, the bouncy beat to the song filling the room. “But, no-o-o, Navy SEALs have to live dangerously, with a skimpy is my junk showing inseam.”
He didn’t take his eyes off her, but they started to gleam. “You’re mocking an iconic piece of frogman gear, lady. I believe that is a capital offense.”
She adopted a Betty Boop posture and covered her mouth, her eyes innocently wide. “Is it the plank for me, Captain Bly? But I’m afraid of splinters.”
He rested his forearms on the counter and dropped his head, his smile flashing out of sight. “With that kind of sass, do you think you deserve pancakes?”
“Blackmail?” She danced around and shook her butt at him. “I’ll take chocolate chips in mine.”
His mouth twitched, but his face remained expressionless. “We frown on people pretending to be SEALs.”
“But they’re so cute, especially when they balance that ball on their noses.” She gave him a wry grin.
The muscles in his jaw clenched to keep from laughing. He was trying to be so tough, but a warmth gathered in the pit of his stomach, spreading out everywhere like sunlight. “It’s all about balls, babe. So you going to hand them over?”
She gave him a rebellious lift of her chin, her brows rose. “Balls? A SEAL never gives up his…uh…balls.”
He lowered his head and his jaw clenched.
She held back her own mirth.
“As I pointed out, you’re not a SEAL.” He raised his eyes and looked at her, his face expressionless, the steadiness in his eyes making her think of a hunter’s eyes, the angles of his face accentuated in the dim light. He was so still. Too still. “You might want to remove that official Navy equipment before I have to remove it for you.”
“Oh, you can do that, tadpole?” She fanned herself, her voice deliberately breathless. “You’re not even surf torture wet behind the ears yet. I can take you without wrinkling my official Navy frogman accessory.”
He straightened and the anticipation of tussling with him made her set her hands on her almost bare hips.
His eyes were dancing even though they narrowed in mock outrage. “Accessory?” he growled.
She laughed, enjoying him, enjoying most everything about this man. More than she would have ever expected.
“It’s much too little to be more than an adornment. You know, like lipstick or a nice pair of earrings.”
He gave a derisive snort as he shot her a chastising look, then resisting a smile, he said, “Really, woman, do you want pancakes or are you going to duel with me over UDT short shorts?”
She stared at him, a slightly tenacious set to her chin, and he raised his eyebrows in a knowing see-what-I-mean expression. Realizing that he had her by the short…shorts, and the joke may be over, she couldn’t help saying, “Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to keep your junk contained while you wrestle sharks and defuse depth charges.”
He was almost on her before she could react. He was that fast. She squeaked and back peddled, but it was too late. He grabbed the waistband of the shorts and dragged her to him. She struggled, and in the ensuing battle, they lost their balance and fell to the carpet. By this time, she was breathless with laughter. When he tried to yank the shorts off, she wrapped her legs around his waist and locked her ankles.
“Dammit, woman.” He tried to loosen her legs, but after lifting, running, swimming, and cycling as her normal routine, her legs were as strong as hell. He bucked, but she held on like a limpet. He rolled to his back, and she had to untangle her legs, forcing her to bring out the big guns. She dug into his ribs, and he contorted with a breathless bark of laughter, grabbing for her hands. But she was relentless, and he was forced to roll her onto her back, where she promptly locked her legs around him again. “Shea….” he said, his tone had all the mock threat in it that only made her laugh harder. He stopped and looked down into her eyes. She could see him calculating.
Softly she said, “Daisy Duke called. She wants her shorts back.”
He tipped his head back and laughed, and Shea got hit hard with a sudden fizzling sensation that made her catch her breath. There was a lighthearted buoyancy that reached out and encompassed her as warmly as sunshine, and she sunk a little more into the deep end of Hemingway’s pool. The fizzle turned into an intoxicating rush. He brought out a part of her she thought was gone—the playful her that she believed had died along with her sister.
He shook his head and expelled the last of his laughter on a deep sigh, his eyes still dancing as he grinned at her. “How long were you holding onto that one?”
“The whole time. It was burning a hole in my mental pocket.” Sensing she had an advantage, she said, “Chocolate chips and hot coffee. It’s on the table.”
Hemingway studied her, his eyes narrowed in a gauging, speculative look. He said, a tone of warning in his voice, “Navy SEALs don’t negotiate.”
“Hardass.”
He was basically in the push-up lean rest, keeping his weight off her body, the swell of his biceps bulging, tan and enticing. Then her eyes flicked down his body. The towel was unlatched and hung loosely off his strong hips as he watched her through bright narrowed blue eyes. “You want your shorts back?” she asked, her voice sounding compressed. “I have Daisy on the other line.”
Shea experienced an odd flustered feeling when he gave her a knowing half smile, as if he knew exactly what had been going on in her head. He studied her a moment longer, his gaze cool and analytical, his eyes never leaving her. Then he rocked slightly forward, displacing the towel to give her a tantalizing view of his lower abdomen and tease of his groin. The man was powerfully built and gorgeous.
Her legs slipped imperceptibility, and the lapse, calculated or not, was all he needed. He broke her hold, flipped around and got his shoulder into her upper chest, rolled and came up into a standing position in seconds, stark naked as the towel was left behind. Then, from there, he had her on the couch and the shorts stripped from her body before she could do a thing.
“Mission accomplished and believe me when I say, I’d rather fight a shark than you, babe.”
“You cheated.” Now she was half-naked.
“A little, but you had leverage. I bet Daisy drives a mean bargain.” He reached out his hand. “Chocolate chips in light, fluffy batter,” he offered.
She laughed softly and grabbed his hand, pulling him down on top of her.
The humorous moment gradually faded, and in its place something more intimate and sensual simmered between them. His eyes softened, and he lowered his head as if he was going to kiss her, but then he playfully caught the edge of her nose with the flat of his index finger and flicked it. “Since you defiled Navy SEAL property with your delicious girly scent, I’m going to have to fine you. Labor comes with fluffy and chocolate chips.”
“Oh, come on,” she said in a wheedling tone. “I almost had you beat.”
“It pays to be a winner,” he murmured and rolled off her. “You’re going to have to help me make them now.”
She lifted her chin and gave him an eye-batting look. “But I don’t know how.”
“Don’t give me that clueless look. You run triathlons. You can make pancakes. I’ll teach you.”
She scrunched up her face. “I’m terrible in the kitchen.”
“That face may be the most adorable face I’ve ever seen, but no dice, babe. You’re cooking and I’ll help,” he said in a reverent tone.
Shea made an imprudent face at Hemingway while she pushe
d up off the couch and headed for the bedroom. As he slipped into the shorts, there was something disturbingly intimate about the look in his eyes. A heady warmth spread through her as she disappeared through the door. It intensified as she grabbed underwear and a pair of yoga pants and slipped into them. It lasted with such promise, but she forced herself to sever the connection. She tried to draw a breath past the sudden tightness in her chest as she struggled to collect her composure. If she thought she was heading for big trouble before, she thought wryly, it was nothing compared to where she was right now.
Taking another deep breath to try to calm herself, she stepped back into the living room.
He looked up, still bare chested and still wearing those shorts. She grinned and with the same wavelength between them, he grinned back.
“Come on, Daisy, let’s get cracking. These pancakes aren’t going to cook themselves and I have to leave for base by zero four hundred to get to SUROBS on time or Professor will have to do it by himself and cover for me. Can’t have that. If we’re not on the money for the surf report, the whole class pays for our mistakes.”
He pulled out an electric skillet as his brows rose, a glimmer of humor in his eyes, and she shrugged.
“I can cook bacon.”
His brows rose higher.
“Okay, my brother bought me all the kitchen stuff.”
He chuckled, setting it on the counter, the half-smile deepening into something warm and disarming, something sensual and intimate. “Bowl?”
“Lower left cupboard,” she said, crossing the room. One smile from him and she could feel every pulse point in her body. “I was surprised you made it here so fast.”
Standing next to him still had a sensual punch, even after the shower and the tussle on the floor. “Professor also took on my chores so I could spend more time with you. Let’s not let his bro sacrifice go to waste.”
“That’s a good friend.”
“He’s shaping up to be.” Hemingway found the pots and pans and pulled out a saucepan. Combining butter and milk, he placed it over low heat.
“Most guys make lasting friendships through BUD/S. I’m sure that you will bond with more guys along the way, especially when you get to the teams,” she said, as the butter melted. He set it off to the side and turned to the counter, dragging her in front of him so her back was against the hard planes of his bare chest.
She felt him nod his head. “We lost quite a few promising guys this week. They DOR’d and it was disappointing. It’s like they were waiting for First Phase before leaving, instead of the shame of failing in BO. A lot quit after log PT.” He pulled the sack of flour toward them. “Measure out one and a quarter cups.”
She grabbed the correct measuring cups and carefully poured out the flour. “Log PT looks brutal.”
“Not so much when we pull as a team.” He handed her the measuring spoons. “Now a tablespoon of sugar, four teaspoons of baking powder and a pinch of salt.”
“Ah, there is the lesson—teamwork. The SEAL way.”
“It pays to be a winner.” He twisted away from her and brought the saucepan of milk into her line of view. Setting it on a potholder near the bowl, he reached for the egg carton. “Crack and whisk two. Points if you can do it one handed.”
“If I get shell in the mixture, you going to drop me down for twenty?”
“Maybe,” he said as she deftly cracked the eggs into a glass bowl without getting any of the shell.
She chuckled.
“Winners get a brief break and the losers get a beat down. Yeah, it pays.” He kissed her on top of the head and her heart melted a bit more.
“Another lesson?” She whisked them vigorously with a fork.
“Maybe. I think there are just some guys who can’t stand losing. They have to excel and push forward until they drop.” He picked up the saucepan. “I’ll pour, and you whisk.”
“You one of those guys?”
He snapped the waistband of his shorts, and she smiled and nodded. “Relentless bastard,” she murmured, and he laughed.
“Enough BUD/S and me talk. We had such a whirlwind beginning to this relationship. I want to know more about you.”
Trying to deflect the emotion that rose with his reference to a relationship, she said, “A wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am payment?”
“No.”
“Don’t get your UDT shorts into a twist—as if you could.” He tickled her in the side and she almost spilled the mixture. “I’m kidding. I’m not ashamed. I enjoy your body very much, especially in those shorts.”
He ignored the barb and said, “I know you have a brother and a sister who died.” He picked up the bowl of dry ingredients. “I’ll add the dry and you mix it together, but just barely, then we’ll add the chips.”
Shea tensed for a moment and he rested his cheek on her head. She couldn’t talk about Maddy, but he didn’t press. He must have felt her body stiffen, sensing how vulnerable she was feeling right then. He touched her hand, and that gesture caused her throat to tighten. That sweet understanding melting her even more.
“What was your life like growing up?”
She did as he asked and when he reached for the chips he’d already measured out and dumped them in, she stirred them into the batter.
“Navy brat and admiral’s daughter. I think my father had no clue what to do with girls. My mother was an enigma to him as well. I think he would have liked to have all boys. As you know, my brother Jason is a Marine, my sister is…was…a Navy Logistics Officer. I’m the black sheep and he doesn’t understand.”
“Because you’re a videographer? Everyone should be accepted for who they are, Shea.” She turned to face him, his words and character catching her off guard, the huskiness in his response made her want to cry.
He stared at her a moment, then became intent on her mouth as he ran his thumb along her lower lip. “I think a black sheep is badass. She goes her own way,” he said gruffly.
Taking his face between her hands, she stretched up and kissed him softly on the mouth, her breath catching as he pulled her hips closer and took control of the kiss. It was long and lingering and oh, so sweet, and by the time he let her go, her knees were weak, even for a triathlete. Wrapping his arms around her, he rested his cheek on the top of her head. They remained like that for several moments, simply taking comfort and pleasure from each other. It felt like she was betraying her sister.
“You are an interesting man. I see you out there competing in the most physical competition on the planet. I see the warrior in you. Then you say something like that.” She didn’t want him to have depth or be real and genuine. It would be so much harder to walk away but walk she would.
After the pancakes were done, she made bacon, and they ate in companionable silence. He cleaned up while she folded and packed his clean laundry into his sea bag.
Walking into her bedroom, she opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the balcony. It was a clear night. The beauty of the stars made her breathless from the vast inky sky and pinpricks of light. Those suns and planets were far away, but oh, God, science could be so majestic.
She turned and went back inside. He was already in bed lying on his side, watching her with sleepy eyes. She slipped in next to him and without a word, he took her into his arms. She snuggled into him, his breath warm on her skin. She closed her eyes, the sensation setting off such a wealth of tenderness inside her, and the urge to cry was back.
Giving into tenderness felt like another betrayal to her sister and the mission she had to accomplish. The man who killed her had to pay with his own life. Her heart could only hold bitterness and revenge or this…this beautiful feeling that she’d never thought she would have room for. Pushing it out felt like another betrayal—this time to him.
But her sister had been her flesh and blood. Hemingway was something different…something bright and shining, and she hated that his light was illuminating all that darkness. She found his mouth as his hand slid up the back of her head,
and he deepened the kiss, molding her against him with the weight of his body.
She thought of those stars out there wheeling around, and it was as if they were suffering a kind of weird fate in the cosmos, and they each had their own orbits, like the sun and moon crossing each other’s path, coming together…
But ultimately…apart.
9
Mad Max rubbed the back of his neck as the tailor, a short, bespectacled man with a mop of salt and pepper curls moved around Max, hemming the pants and pinning the waistband. They’d moved into the second week of First Phase with one hundred and five trainees left. Monday saw sixteen men ringing out—six medical and the rest DORs. Max was tired and cranky—not the best time for him to have to stand around while some guy stuck sharp objects at him. As soon as he’d gotten off instructor/proctor duty, he’d headed over to the tailor shop.
This wedding was going to send him off the deep end. If it wasn’t a fitting in this monkey suit, there was crisis about the cake, flowers, whether the was groom getting cold feet, was his sister going to turn into the premier bridezilla…endless details he was glad his sisters wanted to take on. They lost a groomsman to appendicitis, and now there was a family meeting about it. All his sisters were there. Gina, the ringleader; Wendy, the gossip; Rhonda, the princess; Sarah, the entertainer; and Anna, the adventurer. There was a scramble to find another guy so that Rhonda’s wedding party would be an even number.
“Max, can’t you come up with someone?” Gina asked.
“Yeah, you have access to all those guys. Surely, you can come up with a warm body,” Wendy said.
“Why not Dodger? I’ve heard so much about him,” Anna said. “Hot, hunky and with a dreamy British accent.”
Max’s eyes flew right to Gina, and she shrugged with an innocent “what” look.
“Well you’ve been on assignment as much as Max has been deployed,” Sarah said.
“Hey, don’t pick on Anna because she followed her dream. You’re still a waitress instead of the actress you always wanted to be,” Rhonda said, always the blunt one without an ounce of punch pulling. She and Anna had always been tight no matter what.